He stands a few feet away, hands in his pockets, wearing a suit vest that fits his slender frame perfectly. His short, brown beard is neatly trimmed, and his hazel eyes stare at me hard as though he’s studying me. I’ve never actually spoken to him, but I’m well aware of the dark rumors that surround him.
“What are you doing in here?” he asks, his deep, smooth voice breaking through the room’s comforting hush.
“The library’s closed,” I tell him like he doesn’t already know that for himself.
“I’m aware. It’s after hours. You’re not supposed to be in here either.”
I swallow hard, wondering if he’s going to report me. That would just be the perfect start to the semester. I’ve already been nervous about attending my first class of his tomorrow. He’s the only professor who teaches world literature, and I’ve really been looking forward to taking it. But I’ll admit he’s the reason I hesitated signing up for it a few weeks ago.
Or maybe he won’t report me at all. Maybe I’ll be the next one to go missing.
Okay, that’s not fair.
There’s no proof to the rumors that he had something to do with the student who disappeared about five years ago. However, with him staring me down the way he is, I see why he’sone of the most intimidating professors on campus, even though he’s also one of the youngest. I doubt he’s even hit forty.
He tilts his head, eyes narrowing. “You’re Mr. Ellis, right?”
My heart sinks as I nod.
“You’re in my class this semester.”
It’s not a question, but I nod again anyway.
Several tense, silent seconds pass, and I swear I could hear a pin drop. Or the bead of sweat that’s traveling down my spine. The look in his eyes is calculating, like he’s trying to figure out my secrets.
I’m positive he has more of those than I do.
Finally, he says, “Make sure you turn the lights off when you leave.”
He can probably hear the small puff of air that blows past my lips as relief courses through me. I didn’t even realize I was holding my breath, but now I understand the cliché.
“Yes, sir.”
“See you tomorrow, Mr. Ellis,” he says before he turns away.
“See you tomorrow, Professor.”
He slips back out the door, and it clicks shut behind him, leaving the room feeling different now.
No longer as empty as it was.
The next morning, the campusdoesn’t feel haunted anymore. Old Main is more awake than I am, and I can feel its alert, watchful eyes.
Maybe that’s because I barely slept, and when I did, I dreamed about last night—the hollow echo of footsteps, the way Professor Kendall’s own watchful eyes stared in my direction as though he’d been expecting me.
Now I’m sitting in the same room again, but daylight has stripped it of all its mystery and foreboding. The windows glow with the soft light of early fall, dust floating lazily in the beams from the sun. Even still, the walls feel too close, like the building remembers.
I sit in the same seat I did last night as students file in, their voices low, the hum of conversation filling the air. It all jumbles into white noise, my focus elsewhere.
Every time the door opens, my pulse ticks a little faster.
I sense his presence before I see him.
Professor Kendall passes my row on his way to the front of the room with the same unhurried grace he had last night, wearing a suit vest similar to the one I last saw him in. No stack of notes, no laptop, just a slim leather folder in his hand. The room quiets the moment he stands behind the podium. There’s something about him that pulls the sound out of a place.
Setting the folder down on the podium, he looks out over the class, his expression unreadable. His eyes linger on me for half a second, just long enough that I feel it more than see it.
“Welcome to World Literature,” he says the moment he looks away. His voice is that same calm, smooth tone that could make even a reprimand sound elegant. “This course is about obsession. Not the romantic kind or the Hollywood kind, but the kind that drives people to create, destroy, and rebuild the world around them. You’ll find that most great works of literature are written by people who were, in some way, consumed.”
