Other than the general haunting. They simply exist and want their presence known. Perhaps that gives them comfort.
Clearing my throat and pushing my shoulders back, I step into one of the aisles to reshelve borrowed books that have been returned. Movement flickers in the corner of my eye, but I pretend I didn’t see it.
Some spirits or ghosts don’t want to be looked at, and they’ll use the shadows to their advantage. You’ll see a creepy face when you don’t want to, or a figure that doesn’t look right, and then you’ll never be able to unsee it.
I’ve worked here long enough to know better.
Long enough to know all about the history of the building, and how it was originally the town hall.
That’s where the leaders of the town would go to meet and decide issues of the day. It sounds innocent enough when you phrase it like that, but there have been times when the leaders of the town—mostly the older men—would decide to go after people who scared them.
They’d decide to go after women they could easily label witches. I’ve only seen one of the women once. But sure enough, I knew it was her because I’d spent that week reading about the trials. I knew her face when I saw it. She came and went, perhaps at peace with someone in this realm understanding the horror of what had happened. And knowing she was innocent.
She was the first, but not the last. Some come and go, others, like the one behind me, stay. What they crave from their hauntings, I do not know.
The heavy book in my left hand is a record of town meetings. In buildings like this one, sometimes there would be debates that turned into arguments. Some of those arguments even turned bloody. Passionate and emotional energy was expended here when this was the town hall, and that was before it was the courthouse.
I can’t tell you how much justice was actually done in these walls, but justice wasn’t the only thing done here. Corruption and lies and fear form a long-lasting layer over the original hardwood.
More of the boards creak as I cross to the opposite side of the main hall.
There are rows of bookshelves in the largest study room with my circulation desk in the center, more toward the front. The aisles are narrow so we can fit as much shelving as we need to house the library’s collection, but none of the aisles are as narrow as the one in the very back.
It’s probably against some building code to have an aisle that narrow, but nobody who’s in charge of enforcing those codes ever does anything about it. It’s where I feel the most presence. Where so many spirits hide. Tucked away with the history of this place.
Whenever the fire marshal comes around, he avoids the aisle in the back like someone tiptoed their fingers down his spine and blew between his vertebrae.
They probably did.
They’ve done it to me.
With my shoulders squared, I silently go from aisle to aisle and stack to stack. The sensation of eyes on the back of my neck gets stronger, then lets off, then gets stronger again. I remind myself to breathe deep and normal. My mind might be used to the fact that the library I spend most of my time in is haunted, but my body isn’t.
I’ve been haunted by night terrors of death before. Often waking and needing to know who it was and what exactly happened. The visions so real.
But other dreams have come, day and night, regardless of whether or not my eyes are shut. Dreams of comfort and gratefulness.
I am unsure of the spirit behind me. It’s something that’s old and wary, or maybe my age and devilish.
I don’t know for sure. I don’t know if I’ll ever know for sure about these particular ghosts.
But I sure as hell want to know. The secrets of this town inspire the stories that come to me. Every moment I get, I write the thrilling short stories and give the spirits a way for their silent screams to be heard. I’ve written seven now under a ghost pen name. No one knows it’s me and no one needs to know. It matters to me though. To hear their tales, tragic and otherwise, and share what they wish to be known.
A footstep scuffs on the floor behind my back. Out of instinct I almost forget and turn around, but I don’t. I move along the back aisle instead, to the place where Hazel touched my hand earlier today. A warmth flows through me at the thought. A short groan threatens to leave me as my eyes close.
I cannot think about her without getting hard. It’s an instant reaction. I brace myself with a hand on the shelves, close my eyes, and inhale the scent of her.
It’s been hours and hours since she was here, and the library is full of old books and older wood and stone. With the heat all the way on for the recent cold snap, all I should be able to smell is warm radiator.
But there she is. The scent of her teasing me.
My eyes open slowly as a thought hits me: Is it the ghosts playing a trick on me?
I can feel them getting closer. They don’t have to be able to read my mind to see the effect Hazel has on me.
She’s had that effect for a long time, ever since she first walked through the door of the library years ago. Her presence is calming and yet all-consuming. She’s beautiful and intelligent and of all the people in this town, she would understand, I think.
How my life changed when my parents passed, how I hid in books as a child. How I searched for them and yet found myself here. They’re gone, and I am at peace with that. What I’m left without them is a gift most do not have. Peace with the dead and an energy that welcomes spirits. They have comforted me, befriended me in some ways. And given me powers I cannot explain.
