The Haunted Library

tower

THE HAUNTED LIBRARY

In the last stall in the women’s bathroom on the lowest level of the Haunted Library, someone carves with a penknife in jagged letters:

Dead little girl sings
Lullabies through the air shafts
Everybody freaks

Two Detectives stand in the Administrator’s office like twin ramrods in black suits. The Administrator slumps at his desk.

“When did it start?” says the First Detective.

“About a week ago,” says the Administrator.

“At night?” says the Second Detective.

“Yes,” says the Administrator.

“How many witnesses?” says the First Detective.

“You need statements?” says the Administrator.

“Leave the questions to us,” says the Second Detective.

“It won’t be easy,” says the Administrator.

“Meaning?” says the First Detective.

“No two statements will agree,” says the Administrator.

“What else is new?” says the Second Detective.

The Library, a monolith of tinted glass and steel, stands on a slab of concrete 100 yards square. There are ten floors above ground and three below. Before the entrance stands a fountain with a metal sculpture at its center, an abstract rendering of the head of Otto Qwyll, inventor of the Microbook.

Some have heard the Ghost make Qwyll’s head speak.

The Detectives take statements.

“It growls like a bear,” says the Zookeeper.

“It throws furniture across the room,” says the Basketball Coach.

“It strokes my thighs,” says the Stewardess.

“It spatters blood on the walls,” says the Medical Student.

“It looks like Abraham Lincoln,” says the Civil War Buff.

“It sucks my nipples,” says the Ballerina.

“It causes atmospheric disturbances,” says the Meteorologist.

“It shoots electricity,” says the Engineer.

“It spanks me!” squeals the Cheerleader.

The Reference Librarian stands before the computer terminal, surrounded by her Staff. She reads aloud from the Oxford English Dictionary displayed on the screen.

“Incubus. A feigned evil spirit or demon (originating in personified representations of the nightmare) supposed to descend upon persons in their sleep, and especially to seek carnal intercourse with women.”

The Staff exchange worried glances.

“Oh no,” say the Staff.

The Library stays open around the clock. During the day, a constant flow of people passes in and out. At night, floodlights mounted along the perimeter of the slab render the tower visible for miles.

The Detectives are puzzled.

A group of Juvenile Delinquents huddles behind the building. They smoke cigarettes and spit foamy globs onto the cement.

“Shit, I ain’t scared of no fuckin’ spook!” says the First Delinquent.

“Yeah, you’ll change your tune when he bends your skinny ass over, tries to give you the time of day,” says the Second Delinquent.

“Ain’t you heard? Boogey Man’s a Butt Pirate,” says the Third Delinquent.

“Hell you say,” says the First Delinquent.

“Aw, I bet you like that. Come and get me, Prince of Darkness!” says the Second Delinquent.

“Man, fuck you,” says the First Delinquent.

“You hear that? I don’t speak nothin’ but gospel!” says the Second Delinquent.

“Fuck you,” says the First Delinquent.

The Microbook—a tiny computer chip encoded with the contents of any given volume—is injected into the bloodstream, where it travels to the brain and dissolves, “cyberpollinating” the recipient with its information. As Otto Qwyll once said, “Everyone wants to be smarter—but in this fast-paced, digital world of ours, who has the time?”

The Library houses three full floors of Injection Rooms where Librarians march through the halls in lab coats, syringes in hand.

Traditional (codex) books are stored on the top floor. Here the occasional Antiquarian can be found, mourning a lost world.

The League of Warriors for Gynojustice circles the fountain carrying hand-lettered placards.

“Rapist! Rapist father! Daddy the Rapist!” cry the Warriors, all equally certain that the Ghost has raped them.

The Detectives enlist the Medium, a 300-pound woman in flowing robes and tinfoil headgear. They escort her through the Library, looking for Astral Vibrations, traces of Ectoplasm, and Celestial Portals. The Administrator, deeply skeptical, shuffles behind. Four hours later, the Medium delivers her verdict.

“The Visitor is an immensely powerful Spiritual Being from a Parallel Universe. Though He means no harm, He has been sent as a Prophet against the Age of Ahrimanic Decadence now afflicting our planet. We must turn to Him now, heed His call, or else suffer a Global Cataclysm of Astronomical Proportions,” says the Medium.

“Baloney,” says the First Detective.

“On rye with mustard,” says the Second Detective.

“Just one thing left to do,” says the First Detective.

“Call in the Big Guns,” says the Second Detective.

“You’ve got it all wrong!” cries a Young Boy. “The Ghost is friendly!”

The red telephone rings. The President of the United States leans across his desk, lifts the receiver, and holds it to his ear. After a full minute of silence, he speaks.

“Alert the Pentagon,” says the President of the United States.

Ten years ago, Otto Qwyll died of a brain tumor.

The Robot Army arrives at dawn. Thirty feet tall with multicolored body armor, they march through the Library, lasers blasting. Terrified patrons scatter. Explosions rock the building, windows burst, walls crumble. The Staff scurries around with fire extinguishers.

The Robot Leader signals for calm. The shooting stops. The Leader speaks though an amplifier installed in his mask.

“All right, Poltergeist. Listen up. We’re through playing games. You’re dealing with the United States Military. Unless you surrender now, we will be forced to use extreme measures. Come out with your hands up. This is a recording,” says the Robot Leader.

“What are you doing?” screams the Administrator.

The Reporter stands at the edge of the slab holding a microphone. Behind him, the Library leaks black smoke. The Reporter glares into the camera.

“Earlier today, a team of Special Forces Robots conducted a surprise attack here at the Library. Sources tell us they were hunting for a Wraith who has taken up residence in the building during the last week, casting spells, muttering incantations, and scaring the bejesus out of sweet little old ladies. No word yet on whether the team has succeeded in bringing the Phantom to justice, but we’ll be on the scene all evening to give you the latest. As always, for the best in hard-hitting journalism, turn to Cox News, your only source for fair, objective reporting—we swear on our mother. Back to you in the studio, Brick,” says the Reporter.

The Detectives haul the Administrator back to his office, close the door, and beat the shit out of him.

The Politician, dressed in a gray suit, steps behind the podium. The Press Corps yaps like dogs. The Politician waves for silence. The Press Corps subsides.

“Good evening. First, I want to assure you that we have everything under control. Tonight, thanks to our Troops and the wise leadership of our great President, America is a safer place. No longer will we be menaced by this lurking threat from Beyond the Void. Second, you can be certain that the Evil Bugaboo will be punished to the fullest extent of the law. Finally, contrary to some rumors you might have heard, at no time has any member of the public been placed in harm’s way by our Troops. Top men planned this operation with the utmost skill, using all the intelligence at their disposal, with measures in place to ensure the public’s safety. We serve at the behest of the American People and would never undertake any action contrary to the Greater Good. We are, truly, the People’s Champion,” lies the Politician.

Huddled beneath his desk, the Administrator wails and rages. The Detectives subdue him with a tranquilizer dart and haul him away.

Later, the Administrator is charged with a long list of crimes, including Impersonating a Supernatural Entity, but is found incompetent to stand trial by reason of insanity and locked away in a nuthouse, where the Doctors make a startling discovery.

Beneath his rumpled khakis, the Administrator wears a garter belt, fishnets, and frilly lace panties.

The Evangelist stands on the rim of the fountain, flapping his battered Bible. His eyes bulge with righteousness.

“It’s a judgment on ye! The Lord hath smote ye with His wrath! ‘Vengeance is mine; I will repay, saith the Lord!’ Well, y’all done been repaid with interest! Only take up the Good Book and read how the Last Days is upon us! He hath poured out His seven vials like a thief in the night! Signs and wonders, y’all! Repent and be saved! The time draws nigh when all shall be revealed! Verily, He cometh with His sword! Fire and glory!” shrieks the Evangelist.

The sky above the Library shines blue. Pale, wispy clouds curl in the breeze. Birds chirp.

The Reference Librarian reads again from the Oxford English Dictionary.

“Hysteria. A functional disturbance of the nervous system, characterized by such disorders as anaesthesia, hyperaesthesia, convulsions, etc., and usually attended with emotional disturbances and enfeeblement or perversion of the moral and intellectual faculties.”

“Mm-hm,” says the Reference Librarian.

The Detectives declare the case closed and return to the Bureau, where they write a report that no one reads, filed in a secret location.

On a sofa on the top floor, in the farthest sunlit corner, the Shade of William Shakespeare sits with his legs crossed. He considers the events that have transpired at the Haunted Library, sadly wags his head.

Then a Little Girl climbs up beside him on the sofa. She cannot see him but carries an enormous alphabet book filled with colorful drawings. She opens the book to its first page and stares transfixed at the picture.

“A!” she cries, giggling. “Apple!”

Shakespeare smiles.