The Library: Rewrite

Part One: How It All Started by Roberta J. Cabot Ghosts in the library. A fairly common story for Halloween . Telling such stories, especially around a campfire at night, is fun. Heck, it’s almost a tradition — a ghostly figure that you see from the corner of your eye as you work on your homework in the library, eerie sounds, unexplained movements like doors closing or chairs moving et cetera. Old hat. Hackneyed, even. Thing is, I was the one who saw them, experienced them. It might even have been okay if that was all, and if they just happen occasionally, and at night. But the thing was, the weird stuff started happening in the daytime as well, and during class. And it all started when my eyes changed color… My name is Mark. And this is my Halloween story. (an official story-entry to Topshelf’s 2009 October TG Terror Contest)

*** Mark ***

College. It seemed like an adventure, really, when I was just starting out. Being in a new city, living in a new place, being around new people. Doing something new. Just like an adventure. But, after a couple of months, the novelty of college life wears off, and the daily grind sets in. You eventually come to the conclusion — it’s not an adventure.

I’m sure you know how it is. College life, if you’re serious about it, that is, is just like high school life — Trying to make good grades but teachers on your case all the time. Homework. Tests. Bullies. Except here, teachers are called professors; assignments are always called “papers;” tests are never just tests — they’re exams. And bullies — they’re just bigger and meaner. And then there are girls. Always the girls.

For a geek like me, girls have always been a mystery that I had no hope of solving. In high school, you’re more-or-less forced to interact with them, spawning all the embarrassing moments that have been clichéd to death in all the teen movies you’ve ever seen in your life. And if ever there was a poster-boy for the stereotypical awkward school geek to whom these things happen — that was me: smudged glasses obscuring my watery brown eyes, messy brown hair, funny clothes and a complete lack of social skills.

The main difference, the main advantage of being in college is that you get to pick your times and schedules yourself, so you can actually avoid having to interact with anyone you don’t want to. Avoid everything altogether and just hole up in your room, go to class and just virtually disappear. Thing is, it’s a lonely life. Even lonelier than high school. True, it’s painless. But also… lonely.

College was that way for me. Nothing but colorless academic drudgery as I dragged myself from class to class, and then going straight to my apartment, or going straight to the cafeteria for the boring fare that passes for food around here. (I even caught myself, more than once, thinking back with fondness to the mystery meat that Mrs. Kolwiki would dish up for the lunchroom. I knew I was in a bad way if I started pining for old lady cow-licky’s cooking… Mrs. cow-licky’s mystery stew… brrrrr…)

So I escaped all of this… young man’s angst… in the traditional nerd way — I buried myself in schoolwork, and escaped into the fantasy world of books and fiction.

The library therefore became my second home here, as I started spending most of my free time in the library. The nice thing about an ivy league school is that they always have great libraries. Our library looked somewhat like the Thomas Jefferson Building in DC, but one third the size. It was impressive in a dark, forbidding way. For me, it was my escape from loneliness, as I had a chance to bury myself in the worlds of Raymond Carver, Steinbeck, William Faulkner, Hemmingway, Elmore Leonard.

I would usually bring a couple of sandwiches and a caramel macchiato from the coffee place across the street (the library allows people to bring little snacks in, but not into the stacks, though, and only pre-packaged foods), finish off my assignments in my first hour there, and then spend hours perusing the hundreds of shelves that make up the stacks.

In the dim light, it’s easy to imagine that the shelves went on and on into infinity. And, indeed, having spent a good deal of time there hunting up obscure references to books that I was able to google, it really did feel that way sometimes.

The thing started on that rainy, stormy Friday, when I had nothing to do, having finished almost all of my homework, excuse me, “assignments,” for the following week. And not having anywhere to go, as usual, I idly decided to browse through the library stacks, hoping to find something nice to read and bring back to my apartment, and while the time away. True I could have just surfed the net, but I guess you could say I was drawn to the old-world charm of printed books, musty manuscripts and the tactile feel of rough paper on my fingers.

It was about a week before Halloween and, in this part of the country, Halloween heralded the coming of the cold weather, when fall starts to transition into winter. Because of which, the library was emptier than usual — most preferring to do their studying in their cozy dorms or apartments, and letting the internet do their legwork for them.

The wind had been gusting the whole day, but it only started raining when I got to the library. By the time I got settled in, the rain had started to come down in earnest. As the rain whipped back and forth outside the big library building, I could just glimpse the big elm trees through the iron-framed glass windows as they swayed eerily in the wind, branches moving in time and hitting the glass with an uneven tapping and scratching.

I finished up what was left of my assignments, turned in all of my overdue books, and started to think of what I should be borrowing next. The wind made an eerie moaning that I tried to shut out by increasing the volume on my iPod. But the battery died on me (stupid me — I haven’t been synching nor charging it for more than a week), so I put it away in my backpack. A particularly loud moan echoed in the large high-vaulted reading room, and I couldn’t help but shiver. It sounded like the moan of some old woman.

Like most things in the college, the library’s catalog was computerized, and there was a convenient terminal in the corner that listed the contents of the building in any possible sorting you wanted. Good thing it was there, as Mrs. Weatherby, the head librarian, had already gone home for the night, and I didn’t like her student-assistant, Joe, who was probably missing part of his brain or something.

I started by sorting the list by genre. There was a long list of books under “History,” and, for a change, I clicked on that. Under that were several subcategories. I read off a few at random - Ancient Mythology, Asian Civilizations, Carthaginian Traditions, History of the British Isles, Indian Folklore, et cetera et cetera. Near the bottom of the list were the entries World War One and World War Two. Going to the middle of the list, I noticed a section called “Miscellaneous.” That intrigued me somewhat (I mean, what could possibly be in “Miscellaneous”), so I clicked the button. Indeed, it was really full of miscellaneous stuff — from oddball things like “Sightings of the Loch Ness Monster” and “Lights in the Sky, Optical Illusions,” to more academic tomes like “Excerpts from the Collected Speeches of Dr. Martin Luther King.”

For a lark, I decided to go through the list of these oddball books, and there were a lot of them. I looked at my watch - It was fifteen minutes before ten. I had just enough time to pick a book and check it out of the stacks before the library closed for the night. I picked the most intriguing title, “Previously Undocumented Oral Histories of Unexplainable Events.” Apparently, it was a thesis paper of some undergrad named Marianne Archer, written years ago. I tried to get a précis or summary, but the computer popped out an error message — “file not found.” Stupid computer. I clicked on the author’s name and got the same error. Still, the title was very intriguing. I read off the book and shelf number and walked into the cavernous archives, intending to check out the book. I stepped though the doorway that led to the archives, and started walking from shelf to shelf, noting the shelf numbers as I went.

It was a long way, or it felt like a long way, to walk. I must have passed maybe ten racks, each one at least twenty feet long, before I started to wonder if I picked the right aisle. I decided to risk it and moved to a different aisle, and I was still nowhere close. I started to worry, so I went back to my original path. Or I thought I did. The rack numbers were of a different series. I reversed directions and found that the numbers were still wrong. I mentally kicked myself for getting lost. I looked up and down the different aisles, looking for the door that I went through, thinking to use it as sort of my landmark, but I couldn’t find it. I wasn’t sure, but the light was becoming dimmer as I got farther and farther into the archives. Sort of like how, when you’re walking the street at night, it becomes darker as you get further away from the streetlight, and things seemed to start closing in on you.

“What a big library,” I said out loud, just so I could hear a voice, even if it was mine. But my voice sounded odd in the big hall. Instead of it echoing, as you would expect any sound would in a big room with a high-ceilinged roof, my voice sounded curiously flat, like I was speaking into a pillow — not exactly, but sort of. It wasn’t muffled or anything like that — it was just… flat.

There was a brightly-lit open doorway on the far side of the big room, and I started walking towards it, the shelves blocking the light from time to time as I threaded my way around them. I got a general feeling of malaise, and started noting the odd sounds that I was starting to become aware of — like the sound from the air-conditioning ducts, the almost-undetectable hum from the fluorescent lights, and little creaks and cracks that any place full of wooden shelves laden with books would make. They didn’t usually bother me, but there weren’t any other people around at the moment, and I was starting to freak. I started whistling nervously, like a kid trying to be brave and dispel the scary noises of the night. Since my whistling was always out-of-tune, I would usually immediately stop myself if I caught myself trying to whistle, out of sheer embarrassment. But this time, I was starting to get seriously creeped out so I didn’t stop.

The light was really getting dimmer, or maybe ‘gloomier’ would be a better word to use, seeing as almost everything started developing a brooding quality as it got harder to see — like twilight in October. Which was funny since I could have sworn I was walking towards the open doorway that led (I hoped) to the brightly lighted hallway outside of the stacks. A particularly loud moan from the wind outside made me drop my stuff. I chided myself for my clumsiness, and stooped to pick them up. As I did, I heard someone go, “tsk, tsk…” I felt the goosebumps come out all over my arms.

“Hello?” I called out. “Anyone there? Hello?” I was getting worried now. In my mind, I imagined someone saying something like, “no one here but us ghosts,” and I laughed nervously. As I thought it, I heard the almost undetectable sound of a girl laughing, or maybe giggling. “Hee-hee-hee…” said the ghostly voice.

I started walking rapidly in the direction I thought was going towards the door leading to the outside. I was wearing penny loafers at the time, old fashioned, I know, and, as I walked, my heels made that tapping sound that they do when walking on polished marble floors. And, and as my fear started to grow, the metronome-like sound of my heels started to speed up and I started walking faster towards my escape. Thing was, my tapping had acquired an echo, so instead of “tap tap tap,” it was “tap-tap, tap-tap, tap-tap…” I stopped, and my shoe-tapping stopped, but the odd echoing taps went on for a bit more, and only stopped after maybe a few seconds. I looked back. Was someone following me? I glimpsed a shadowy figure from the corner of my eye, maybe a girl, skitter around a shelf. Or did I just imagine it?

My imagination started going into overdrive and I started imagining noises, too. Or were they real sounds? A creeking sound like the kind you hear a door would make, ghostly whispering in the far corners, a rustling sound — like someone agitatedly leafing through a newspaper. I would be sweating right now, but the place suddenly got cold.

At that point I was already in near panic, and I actually started to run. “Help!” I cried, and saw, from the corner of my eye, the door I’d been chasing. I made a quick left turn, losing my footing on the shiny marble floor, and my stuff went flying. Books fell from the shelf I hit, and I rolled away from the heavy, falling books. I saw the door slowly closing so I scrabbled for my stuff, and sprinted for the door. A loud crack reverberated in the room as lightning illuminated the place momentarily, casting weird shadows in odd corners of the room.

I continued on, sliding and running. “Nooo!” I cried as I saw the door starting to inch closed. I ran full tilt and careened off the wall just adjacent to the door.

As I did, the door swung open, and the night-shift guard peered in.

“Jeeezus, you scared me,” the guard said. “I was checking everything and locking up coz I thought there was no one here anymore.”

I was so relieved, I was actually on the verge of tears. “I scared you?” I shouted.

“Hey, kid — you okay? You look white as a sheet.”

I nodded my head rapidly. “I’m okay,” I huffed.

He looked dubious but he didn’t challenge me. “What’re you doing here this late? Good thing I passed by when I did, otherwise you’d have been locked up in here until Monday. And if you don’t mind me saying so, kid, it’s pretty scary being here all alone.”

“Late?” I asked, worried. The campus police didn’t like people walking the campus streets late at night. “What time is it? Like ten thirty?”

He looked at me funny. “Kid, it’s about three in the morning.”

I looked back at him, not believing.

“You’re kidding me. It’s three AM?”

He showed me his wristwatch. Yes, it was, in fact, 3AM on his watch.

“I can’t believe it. You mean I’ve been in here for five hours?”

“I guess.”

I started getting goosebumps again. “Ohmigod!”

“Kid, quit being jumpy. Now do you wanna move it, or do you want me to lock you up in here?”

I hurried out the door, and breathed a sigh of relief when I found myself back in familiar, well-lighted surroundings. I went to the big table where I had dumped the books I was reading, but it seems the librarian had taken them all back because the table was empty.

“Now, get out, kid,” the night watchman said, “so I can close the place up for the night.”

I nodded. I checked the outside pocket of my backpack, feeling around for my little black umbrella, but I couldn’t find it. Looks like I’m gonna be walking in the rain.

I looked out through the plate glass of the library’s main door, and was relieved that there didn’t seem to be any more rain, although the wind seemed to still be going strong.

Another bright bolt of lightning speared the night, and, as the flashbulb stab of the lightning momentarily bathed the inside of the room, the ghostly image of a girl with white hair and luminous blue eyes flickered against the glass.

“Yahhh!” I screamed and fell backwards.

“What! What is it?” the night watchman said. He bent over to help me get up.

“A girl!” I cried. “There was a girl by the window!”

The guard walked to the window and peered out.

“Must be your imagination, kid. No one’s out there.”

“No, really! I know what I saw! A girl with white hair and blue eyes. She was looking at me.”

The guard looked at me funny. “Describe the girl again.”

“Pretty girl with big blue eyes. Long, blonde, almost-white hair. A black dress with a cape or shawl or something like that.”

The guard stared at me. After what seemed a long time, he pulled out his walkie talkie. “Fred,” he said. “Marie’s back. Better shut the doors.”

The guard took me by the elbow.

“Hey!” I cried, as he dragged me towards the main doors.

He pushed me out. “Go home, kid,” he said. “The library’s closed.” Despite the gruff voice, I could hear an undertone of fear.

I found myself outside, wind whipping through the trees. The night watchman unceremoniously slammed the glass door and turned the key in the lock. He made a shooing motion and walked back inside.

I wanted to pound on the door and make the guard come back to get some kind of satisfaction for the insult. But I didn’t, half fearing that he would indeed come back and beat me or something, and also not wanting to go back in and face what I just went through again.

I sighed in both frustration and relief, turned around and started walking back to my apartment. The nice thing about having rich parents was if I ever needed anything, materially speaking, they’d usually give it. So they rented an apartment, actually a house, just for me, and I didn’t need to share with roommates or get a dorm room. But what I really needed - attention, love, et cetera — well, if I can find it for sale, I suppose my folks could buy it for me.

Still, having my own apartment was pretty cool, but since it wasn’t on the college grounds, it was a bit of a walk from the apartment to the library -, at least an hour’s walk. I could have ridden to the apartment in maybe ten minutes if I brought my little scooter (courtesy of my folks again), but since that time I took a bad spill on the Honda, I was afraid to ride it. The fact that I was all alone here among strangers, with no one to help me, made me worried about getting hurt. At least these hour-long walks gave me some good exercise, I rationalized.

I sighed again, turned up the collar of my green pea jacket and started walking back. I noticed the little café across from the library. It was closed, of course, given the late hour. Too bad - I could have used a little hot caffeine pick-me-up right about now. I muttered to myself, a little irritated that I went through all that and not have a book to bring back to justify going through all the trouble, not to mention being scared out of my wits.

The wind continued to moan and whistle through the tree branches, and sudden gusts of cold air got me scared again. But I said to myself that I was acting like a little girl. Still, the wind continued. The rustling of the trees seemed to have increased, and as they swayed and bent, blocking the light from the streetlamps from time to time, the normally-welcoming path was turned into a scary no-man’s land of shadows, sounds and inexplicable shadow-shapes that I couldn’t describe.

Again, my shoes made tapping sounds on the cement of the sidewalk. I decided to walk on the asphalt of the street itself, so my shoes would stop making sounds. I congratulated myself for my cleverness, and it restored my confidence a bit. But after maybe thirty minutes of silent walking (except for the sounds of the trees and the wind, of course), I heard the tapping again.

I looked down at my feet. The asphalt was probably laid down a long time ago, and therefore was more compact. My shoes were therefore able to make noises on it. Instead of looking forward, I kept my eyes down on my feet. I listened to the sounds they made. The regular movement and sound of my feet were oddly comforting, and I felt my confidence improve some more. But I seemed to notice that the sounds that they were making and their movements weren’t in synch. I stopped and, like in the library, the sound echo continued on for a few moments after I stopped walking, as if someone also making footstep-sounds were following me.

Fearing just that, I looked back from where I came from. I saw the trees and their branches overhanging the little university street. The light from the streetlamps made them look like a dark-green tunnel or cave, the end of it being the now-gothic-looking library. Were I not too freaked out, I would probably have thought the picture that the street, the lights and the trees made was beautiful. But not now.

I squinted a little, trying to make out the library in the distance, and as I did, I noticed the street lamps winking off one by one, starting from the farthest ones, and then coming closer. I inadvertently made a small noise in my throat, fear making my blood run ice-cold. I turned around, intending to make a run for my apartment, and as I did, I found myself nose-to-nose with that girl in the library window.

“Aaah!” I screamed, and fell backwards. I sat up, looked up again, and the girl was gone. I looked over my shoulder and I saw the darkness of the streetlamps gaining on me. I jumped up and started running for my house.

I screamed in terror, running flat out, not caring if I lost my footing in the wet and slippery asphalt street. The moaning of the trees made a counterpoint to my screaming, and I ran like a college track star.

As I ran, I had this feeling that that girl was running after me, chasing me down. I doubled my efforts, blocked out everything except the need to get home and escape this awful ghostly presence.

I saw the street where my apartment was on, and turned right. After a bit, I saw my little three-room bungalow-style apartment. I ran up the porch steps, reached into my pants’ front pocket, fished out my keys with shaking fingers, and opened the door.

I jumped through and slammed the door. As I tried to catch my breath, I flicked the lights on. The familiar messy living room comforted me, and I breathed a sigh of relief. “Thank god,” I said. I looked through one of the windows and I saw the streetlights still going out one by one, the wave of darkness getting close.

In a matter of seconds, the darkness reached the corner where I turned. The switched-off streetlights ended there. The entire street corner where University Drive intersected Elm, my street, was surrounded in darkness save for one lone streetlight that was still on, and it cast a round pool of light. In that pool of light, I saw the girl. Her white-blonde hair caught the electric light of the streetlamp, and reflected it in bright, almost silver waves. She was wearing a short black party dress, sexy legs on display, with a plunging neckline and high heels. She had on a black shawl or cape or something, and, even at this distance, I could feel she was smiling. Perhaps not a predatory kind of smile, but a gentler kind. Still, the entire thing was frightening, despite the smile. “Ohmigod,” I whispered to myself again. I threw the two deadbolts on my door. When I went back to the window, she had disappeared. I looked around outside, trying to find the girl, but couldn’t. I went to the other window, hoping to get a better look at the street, and I saw her there, standing just outside, peering in and looking at me.

“Hi,” she whispered. “Glad to finally meet you.” She smiled again, a gentle and welcoming kind of smile, but at the corners of her mouth, I could just glimpse two very prominent canines.

“Stay away!” I screamed, and ran to my bedroom. Like a kid, I hid underneath my blankets and shivered. I reached out and felt around for my phone. When I finally got it, I took the phone and, from underneath the blanket, I tried to dial 911. There was no response as the line was totally dead. “No!” I cried quietly. I grabbed my knees and shivered, wanting for all this to end, and for that girl to not come in.

I stayed there for the rest of the night, scared to death, anticipating something bad to happen. But nothing did. I prayed for the dawn to come soon. Incredibly, after an hour or so, I fell asleep.

I woke up in the morning, none the worse from all the things that happened to me last night.

I peeked over the blanket I still had over my head, and cheery morning sunshine greeted me.

Out of reflex, I reached out to my bedside table and got my glasses. I put them on and slowly looked around my room, noting my little backpack thrown haphazardly on the chair by my study desk. Everything else looked like they normally did — messy, yes, but totally normal. A smile of relief played around my mouth.

“A nightmare,” I said. “That’s got to be it.” I threw aside the blanket and stood up, stretching my sleepy bones and feeling good. “Nightmare,” I repeated. “Good grief.” I unconsciously adopted my mom’s favorite phrase.

I didn’t remember everything from last night, but I did remember most of it: getting lost in the library, the guard finding me and eventually throwing me out, the dying streetlights. And the girl. Seeing her in the window of the library and then in mine. Of her standing underneath a streetlamp, and actually seeing her up close in the street.

In the morning sunshine, I could recall the events of last night more calmly and dispassionately. But chills still ran up and down my spine when I remembered my panic in the library archives. Maybe I shouldn’t say “events” — they were all just part of a nightmare, after all. It was all my imagination. But what brought it on, I could not say.

I stretched again and made my sleepy way to the bathroom. My laundry had started to pile up and I was almost out of clean clothes. Since it was a Saturday, it was the scheduled weekly visit of our housekeeper, Olivia, to clean up the place. When I moved to my new place a few months ago, Olivia volunteered to make the weekly commute to help clean my new place. I said no, but Mom had insisted. Truth be told, I didn’t argue very hard. Yes, I was spoiled. But if these are the only things I get from my folks, I am going to take advantage of them for as long as I can.

I went into the bathroom, pushed down my pajama bottoms, and whizzed what felt like buckets. I flushed and went to the sink to brush my teeth. I reached into the medicine cabinet, got the toothpaste tube and my pink toothbrush, and started to brush. I looked at my reflection as I did the usual.

“Up, down, up, down, side-side-side-side-side,” I said, in time with my brush strokes. This was part of my morning habit, the recitation an ingrained practice that dated from my kindergarten days, when Mrs. Simmons taught us the proper way to brush our teeth (as well as the proper way to recite our alphabet, and to count from one to ten). A childish habit, but something I cannot seem to stop.

“Up, down, up, down, side-side-side-side-side,” I repeated, and then spit into the sink and rinsed my mouth. As I reached for my safety razor, I looked at my face and felt for my inevitable six o’clock shadow. Curiously, I couldn’t feel any stubble, so I put my razor away.

And then I realized I had blue eyes.

I stared at myself. What is this? Panic started to set in. I didn’t know what to think or do. I knew I had brown-colored eyes, sort of a half-faded shade between brown and gray. Now I have piercing blue eyes, like bright liquid pools of water. They were so striking, they immediately caught one’s attention. I took off my glasses and leaned closer to the mirror, trying to see any detail that would give me a clue to what happened. I noticed that there were little specks of green in my new eyes, and that the surrounding eyelashes were longer and more lush than I can remember they ever being. The shape was also slightly changed — my eyes seemed bigger, yet had somewhat of an almond shape. They also had a somewhat half-lidded quality to them, like I was still sleepy. They gave me a sultry, sensuous look that I definitely didn’t have before. My eyebrows had also changed — instead of the bushy brows I always had, I was now sporting a couple of well-shaped half-crescents. They were still thick but they were now expertly plucked and shaped. I could only think of my mom’s salon-maintained brows. What was I doing with those kinds of eyebrows?

I tried to gently poke one of my eyes, thinking that maybe someone had put in contact lenses while I was sleeping. Why would anyone do that, not to mention how, was a question for later. But when I gently poked my left eye, I went, “Ouch!” Definitely not a contact lens. It sufficiently hurt that I didn’t want to do repeat it with my other eye.

What is this?

I was starting to feel faint because of the hyperventilation. I deliberately tried to control my runaway emotions, deliberately breathing slower. What could this mean? This was so weird, I couldn’t help but think there was some connection to last night. Was last night not a nightmare then?

I tried to be methodical about this, if not logical. First things first: What are the things that are real? My eyes changing color. That was real. I looked at my face. Was anything else changed? Nothing else was different, apparently, except around the eyes. Same old face. No stubble though. I ran my hand over my cheeks and chin. I never noticed how soft a clean-shaven face could be.

I put my glasses back on and unbuttoned my pajama top to take inventory. Nope, nothing changed here. I pushed down my pajama bottoms. Nope, nothing changed there either. And yet, I couldn’t help but feel something was amiss. As I pulled my pajama bottoms up and buttoned my top, I realized I didn’t put pajamas on last night. I had on the jacket, tee shirt and jeans I wore to the library when I went to bed. How did I end up wearing pajamas? But then again, it was a nightmare, after all. It was probably that that was messing me up.

And then another realization — I pulled open the medicine cabinet and snatched my toothbrush from the shelf inside. Since when did I use a pink toothbrush?

Someone started knocking on the door. That would probably be Olivia. I went to the front and peeked through the peephole. Yup, it was Olivia.

After I opened the door, she just stood there and looked at me, a bundle of cleaning stuff in her arms. I was sure that she noticed my changed eyes, but after a few seconds, she nodded, as if to herself, bent down to pick a big bag of clothes that was on the ground bedside her. She brushed passed me and bustled in with the bundles in tow, just like the usual. “Hey, Mark,” she said. “Cute jimmy-jams.” She giggled.

“Good morning, Olivia,” I said, and gave the customary hug. Olivia was a breath of familiarity and normalcy. I felt a little calmer now. I noticed another bag of clothes on the ground.

I was about to pick it up but Olivia called back. “Leave that. That’s not mine.”

I could have sworn the khaki pants that were peeking out of the top of the bag were mine. “Are you sure?”

“Yes, I’m sure,” Olivia said, sounding a bit irritated. “Now close the door and come help me.”

“But someone might come along and…”

“Those things are not your concern,” she said, and sub-vocalized “not anymore.” I wasn’t sure, but I think that was what she said.

I shrugged. “If you say so,” I said, and closed the door. If she didn’t care, why should I worry about it. I followed her into the kitchen.

“I got all your clean clothes,” she said. “Should tide you over until next week.” She dumped the cleaning stuff near the kitchenette and pushed the bag of clothes into my arms. “Now, put those away in your closet,” she said.

We went straight to my room and she started picking up my dirty clothes. She picked up a tee shirt and jeans from the foot of the bed - the clothes I was wearing last night. Did I take them off and put on the pajamas? I haven’t worn pajamas since I was twelve, and I only brought these from home because mom insisted, but I didn’t intend to wear them at all. What was I doing with them on?

“What am I going to do with you?” Olivia said, bringing me out of my reverie. “Your room is like a pigsty. And your mom coming over to visit you next week, too. Tsk, tsk…”

I looked up from putting the clean socks in my sock drawer. That was what the voice I heard in the library say. “Tsk, tsk…” the voice had said.

She felt around my pants, and came up with my wallet. “I wish you’d stop leaving your things in the dirty laundry,” she said. “Come here.” She dropped my stuff in my outstretched hand. “Your wallet, keys, comb, license, ID, and assorted change.” I put my stuff on top of my dresser. I opened my driver’s license. It was exactly like before, except that, under eye color, it said BLU. It should have said BRN. The picture was also slightly different — it looked like my old picture except around the eyes.

I went to Olivia.

“Olivia?” I said. “Do I look different?”

“Huh?” she said as she continued to clean up.

“Different. From the last time you saw me.”

She straightened up and looked at me.

“Ummm, I don’t think so,” she said. “Still the cute little guy I’ve been picking up after since he was eight.” She pinched my cheek in affection.

I know she really loved me, and treated me somewhat like a son. And, truth be told, in times like these, I loved her more than I did my mom.

“But you do need a haircut,” she said, “and pretty soon, too. Your hair’s getting pretty long already, dear.”

“It is?” My hand went to my hair. It did seem longer. And softer, too.

“Now stop all of these attention-getting tactics and finish putting your clothes away,” she said. “And you need to take a shower before Nancy and Kristy come back from their night-shift. You know how long they take in the bathroom.”

“Who?”

“Nancy and Kristina — your roommates? Really, Mark.”

“Roommates?” I have roommates? What…

“Mark? Are you all right?”

She clearly thought I had roommates. But mom and dad got me an apartment specifically so I wouldn’t need to share... Rather than rock the boat, I decided to go along and wait until everything became clearer.

The rest of my morning ablutions went normally, except that the shower felt… a little hotter and stronger. It’s like my skin became overly-sensitive all of a sudden. But it did feel nice and soft as I lathered up and washed.

As I shampooed, I noticed that my hair did feel longer than it usually was, as well as thicker and softer. I turned the water off and grabbed a towel. I briskly rubbed my hair dry and started drying myself. “Hey!” The towel felt rougher than normal, like Olivia had starched the towel. It was almost like sandpaper. I gingerly patted myself dry instead, and then put on deodorant.

Since Olivia was around, I put on a bathrobe and went to my dresser. Olivia had finished putting away my clean clothes and had substantially cleaned up the room. I picked out socks, underwear, a pair of jeans and a long-sleeved oxford shirt. I went back into the bath and put on the underwear and pants. The pants felt a little tight, especially around the hips, but almost all of my jeans felt tighter and stiffer if they were newly-washed. I ignored it, picked up my glasses from the counter and went back into my room.

I started to finish dressing, putting on the shirt, and sliding the socks on. I couldn’t get the socks under the pants, so, making sure that Olivia was in the kitchen, I took off the pants, slid the tube socks on, and put the pants back on again. Again, it was a little difficult to get the pants over my hips.

At the last moment, I decided to put on an undershirt under the oxford, and tucked them into the pants. I searched for my shoes but I couldn’t find them. I looked in my closet and found my old white sneakers buried underneath some junk. I hardly wore them anymore since they had either shrunk or my feet had grown. But rather than go barefoot, I put them on. Truth be told, they felt okay now. I bent over to tie my shoelaces.

Olivia came in. “Don’t you want to sit down for that?” she said. I looked at her, my face beside my shin. “You might fall, tying your shoes like that.”

I didn’t understand until I noticed the way I was tying my shoes — I had my legs straight and I was bent over at the waist. And my cheek was touching my shin… Wait…

I was almost done so I just finished it off. I straightened again. I never knew I could do that.

My hair had fallen backwards when I was tying my shoes, so I reached for my comb on the dresser. I ran it through my hair, combing straight back as I didn’t like having bangs.

I went to my desk and my backpack, and spilled everything onto my desk. Nothing was missing, it seemed. My iPod was there, battery still flat, so I plugged it into my computer to recharge and resynch. All my books and notebooks were all there as well as my notepad and assorted pens. But underneath all my junk, there was a big, hardbound book.

It was that big book I was searching for in the library last night. “Previously Undocumented Oral Histories of Unexplainable Events — a dissertation submitted by Marianne Archer in fulfillment of the requirements of the Bachelor of Arts Program of the College of Parapsychology.” How did this get in my backpack? I thought back. It could be, when I fell down in the library and I hurriedly stuffed all of the things that spilled out of the bag back in, I inadvertently put one of the books that fell from the shelf in with my stuff. Still. Why this particular book? I found it hard to believe in this incredible coincidence. What could this mean?

I opened the big book. There was a computer-printed form on the first page. On it was a student-summary sheet, with some details of Marianne Archer — like her batch number, her student ID number, details of her camera club membership and university ballet troupe membership, the name of her thesis adviser, et cetera et cetera. It also included a précis of the thesis (I bleeped over that, intending to read it later), and a little black-and-white low-resolution computer-printed picture of the author. The picture was that of the girl I saw.

I dropped the book, and it made a loud thud as it hit the apartment’s imitation parquet floor.

“Mark?”

“Nothing, Olivia!” I called back. “Just dropped a book.”

“Okay.”

I gingerly picked up the book and, gathering my courage, opened it to the same page. I looked at the picture again. It definitely was the same girl, but the girl here was smiling. Far from being scary, she looked quite pretty. Since it was in black and white, the picture didn’t get the crystal-blue of her eyes, but the luminosity and the brightness were clearly captured. Instead of making her scary, the eyes made her look intelligent and friendly - my mom would have said she had “expressive eyes.” At least she didn’t have pointed teeth in the picture. Just below the picture she had signed her name as well as block-printed it. Marie Archer… Marie… The night watchman said that “Marie was back.” I was definitely feeling the shivers.

I turned the book to the Table of Contents. Seems she had documented a lot of stories, folklore really, of the early settlers and the natives of the area. The chapters all had interesting, if a bit hokey, titles. And there were a lot of them. When I got to the end of the table, near the bottom was a title encircled in red marker — “The legend of the soul stealer.” It sounded hokey. Ridiculous, even. But the red circle and the events of last night, assuming they were the real thing, gave me goosebumps on top of the goosebumps I already had.

I closed the book, and put it and my other stuff back in my pack, maybe to return it to the library later, and tried to focus on more normal things. I tried putting wallet, comb and keys in my pocket, but because they had shrunk, I couldn’t seem to get anything into my pants’ pockets. I couldn’t think of any alternatives so I just dumped the stuff in my backpack’s outer pocket, and I put my wallet in my shirt’s breast pocket.

I went to the kitchen. “Olivia? Can you fix something to eat? I’m really hungry.” I wasn’t really that hungry, but anything to break the panic and fear…

“Of course, honey. Pancakes and bacon all right?”

“That sounds great. But I’ve got no groceries.”

She laughed. “So what else is new? That’s all right — I came prepared. Give me five minutes.”

Olivia had pulled back the curtains in the living area and kitchen, bathing the place in bright morning sunshine. The place felt wonderfully warm and bright. In the months that I’ve been here, the place never felt this cheery.

I sat quietly in the morning sun that bathed the little dining area. I had just started tucking into a couple of large pancakes, with a plate of bacon and a glass of orange juice on the side, when two girls came bustling in.

“We’re home!” the tall brunette hottie in blue scrubs yodeled, not to be confused with the tall blonde hottie wearing a white nurse’s tunic and matching white nurse’s trousers.

I almost choked in surprise when they both gave me a kiss on the cheek before going over to Olivia.

“Hi, Olivia,” the brunette said, and they both gave my housekeeper hugs.

“Good morning, girls,” Olivia said. “How’s everything?”

I was looking at them, mouth agape, wondering who these two were.

The brunette looked back. “Markie, what’s wrong? It’s like you’ve seen a ghost.” I shook my head. “Well, then, close your mouth — that’s gross.”

“How would you girls like some breakfast,” Olivia said.

“That would be great, Olivia,” the blonde said. “Thank you.” She plopped herself on the chair beside me. “But just a small pancake for me. I have to watch my figure. We can’t all be thin and sexy like Markie here.” She patted my stomach for emphasis.

“Yeah, Mark,” the brunette said, sitting down across from me. “You eat like a lumberjack but you manage to keep so slim.” She gestured at my heaping plate. “What’s your secret?”

I shrugged nervously, and she giggled.

“Here you go, Kristina,” Olivia said, and put a pancake in front of the blonde. It was roughly half the size of one of mine.

“And here’s one for you, too, Nancy.” Olivia put a similar one in front of the brunette.

“Oooh!” The brunette enthused. “Thank you, Olivia. I love you.”

Olivia giggled.

“You know, Markie,” the blonde, Kristina, said, “We should have Olivia come over more often.”

“Or better yet, have her stay!” Nancy giggled.

“I appreciate the thought, girls,” Olivia said, “but I have to go back and take care of the house for Mrs. Bowman.”

“We’re just kidding, Olivia.”

“By the way,” Kristy said, “is Mrs. Bowman still coming for a visit next weekend?”

“Last I heard, yes. You know how much she misses Mark.”

“Cool! Oooh, I can’t wait - it’ll be fun!” The blonde rubbed her hands in anticipation.

Now why would these girls, who apparently were my roommates (two hot chicks, ohmigod!), be excited at the thought of my mother coming over for a visit? Better yet, why would she be coming over for a visit? She misses me? But then again, in this topsy-turvy world of mysterious books and roommates, who could tell what’s real anymore.

“You’re looking fabulous, dearie,” Nancy said, looking me up and down.

“Eh?”

“Very… umm.. academic.”

I giggled. “Academic?” I asked. “What do you mean by that?”

“Well, you’re always in those tee shirts and jeans. It’s good you’re sprucing yourself up a bit.”

“It’s just a long-sleeved shirt.”

“Well, you look better. Still a bit nerdish,” she giggled, “but in a very cute, preppy kind of way.”

Kristy nodded. “Yes, it does suit you. Here.” She took out a little comb and travel brush from a pocket of her tunic and started combing my hair.

That startled me a bit, but I sat quietly as she finished.

“There!” she said, and turned my chair around to make me face the mirror by the front door. Even at a distance, I could see the change. My hair was combed straight, untangling my hair and making it shine in the morning light. I never knew I had highlights in my hair. I should comb it more often, make it shine like this.

Olivia was right — I was due for a haircut at the barbers as my hair was already touching my collar. In any case, it looked okay. Kristy had combed the hair forward over my forehead, and then combed one side back. The effect was that I had cute bangs almost covering one eye. I swiped it back with my hand, but it just went back down again.

“Uh-uh,” Kristy said. “No touching my work or art. You can go back to your usual messy style some other time.”

Olivia came in with a pot of coffee and four mugs. “Well, Mark, honey,” she said. “You’re looking tons better. That hair — I don’t know, but it sort of emphasizes your blue eyes more. Especially the bangs. Definitely lots better than your usual… umm look,” she giggled.

She sat down with us and poured us all coffee. “So what’s new with you guys?”

Kristina, or Kristy as she seemed to prefer, and Nancy regaled Olivia with the minutinae of life as student nurses, and I talked a little bit about my classes in Fine Arts. I didn’t pay much attention to the conversation, though, as I was still caught by my image in the mirror, and kept on stealing glances at myself. Olivia had said ‘blue eyes…’

Have I always had blue eyes? I started to doubt myself. I tried to recall things from before, and everything I remembered said I had brown eyes. But it wouldn’t do to worry Olivia and my newly-acquired roommates, so I buried my rising panic.

But I couldn’t reconcile things. I needed to know what was happening. My real fear was that I was going crazy. I decided to go back to the library, and try and find out what went wrong.

“Thanks for the breakfast, Olivia,” I said, during a lull in the conversation. “I’m gonna go out for a while.”

“You are?” she said, sounding a bit disappointed. “Don’t tell me — you’re going to the library again. Mark I’m worried about you. You should enjoy life more.” She shook her head. “Ahh, no lectures today. Just be careful on that motorcycle of yours. We don’t want a repeat of last time.”

“Okay,” I said, standing up.

“There’s one good thing that came out of that accident, though,” Nancy said.

“Yup,” Kristy said. “At least we got to meet Markie in the ER. Not the best of circumstances, I know, but look at us now! Best friends and roomies!”

“Wait,” Nancy said, and went back to what I presumed was her room. That room wasn’t there before, but I just chalked that up to another part of this growing mystery.

She came back with a nice, high-tech, efficient-looking motorcycle helmet and a leather jacket.

“Kristy and I bought these for you. And we’re not gonna let you ride around in that bike of yours if you aren’t wearing these.”

She handed both of them to me. The tag on the helmet said it was a Shoei Multitec flip up helmet. I wasn’t enough of a motorhead to judge the quality of the helmet, but I did know that Shoei helmets were one of the popular and expensive brands. The jacket was the classic motorcycle jacket, with a flap that went over the middle and an off-center zip. I noticed a price tag. Nancy forgot to take the tag off.

“Three hundred ninety-nine dollars! That’s too much! Nancy, I can’t accept this.”

Nancy gave me a hug. “It’s all right, Mark. Kristy and I split the cost. They’re a gift from both of us. Please take it. You’d make us very happy if you did.”

I looked at the helmet. I always had this thing for gadgets and tech stuff.

“Yay!” Kristy said, noticing my look of interest. “Try them on! Try them on!”

I slid the jacket on and it fit very well. I would say that the fit was quite snug. I zipped it up and zipped the flap that went over the main zipper. The thing was, the flap zipped asymmetrically on the left, which ingrained behavior told me it should zip on the right.

I looked at the girls and they both had sheepish looks on their faces.

“Sorry about that, Mark,” Nancy said. “They ran out of men’s models for that size. But it was on sale just for that day. So we could get the discounted price, we decided on getting the women’s model, and we can change it for the men’s model as soon as stocks become available.”

“Is that okay, Mark?” Kristy asked, worried.

Looking at their expectant faces, how could I say no? “No problem, Kristy. Besides, I don’t think anyone can tell it’s for a girl, If I don’t zip it up.”

“Thank you, Markie.” She gave me a sisterly kiss.

“So, see you guys later?”

“Try and come home by lunchtime, we’re going out to watch a movie later, and treat Olivia out for a change. ‘Kay?”

“Sure. No chick flicks though.”

Kristy gave me a razzberry. “You’re no fun. Okay — you get to pick the movie. Right now, Nancy and me need forty winks.”

They both gave me hugs, and I waved bye-bye to Olivia. I walked out to the little shed attached to the side of the house to bring out my little scooter-slash-moped.

When I asked my folks for some kind of transportation while in college, I thought that my folks would splurge for a car. Instead, they just agreed to get me a scooter or moped. Per the specs allowed by most states, the best I could hope for was a 50cc jobbie. Since I couldn’t really get a muscle bike, I got the fanciest, best-looking scooter I could find. What I ended up with was a Honda Ruckus scooter. I loved that little bike, but after my accident, I just hadn’t had the desire to ride it anymore.

But this time, when I got my bike out, it wasn’t my beloved Honda, but an Aprilia RS50 Rossi replica moped. It looked like the 1999-model picture Olivia caught me looking at on the net. Despite being more than ten years old, it seemed very well maintained. Though I suppose it’s technically a moped (“moped” was part of the name, after all), it had more in common with the Indianapolis Speedway Grand Prix bikes than it did its more sedate Vespa-style cousins.

All I could say was “Wow!” This was one part of the mystery I won’t be feeling bad about.

I rolled it out onto the street, maneuvering it around the little four-year-old convertible Mini Cooper parked in front of the house, which was parked in front of Olivia’s old but well-maintained BMW E87. I assumed that the girls drove the Mini.

I placed my backpack on the back-end seat, strapped it down with the elastic netting, put on my new helmet, sat in the cockpit, put in the key, and pressed the starter button. Being a 50cc, it was a quite muted roar, but as I revved up, it seemed pretty zippy despite the modest roar. I waved to Olivia who was standing by the doorway, zoomed down Elm and hung a left on University Drive on my way to the Library. In the morning sunshine, I wasn’t scared. Much.

*** Olivia ***

I watched Mark zoom away, my heart in my throat. I think I will never get used to my Mark driving around that fast. But I wondered if driving the bike very fast was part of the rewrite.

I wiped my hands on my apron, and turned around to go back in. I saw Nancy and Kristy at the doorway, anxiously watching Mark zoom away. They were obviously more worried about Mark riding around in that bike than I was.

“Stop worrying, girls!” I said. “She’ll be okay. I mean, HE! Damnit, I need to be more careful.”

“But, mistress, Markie…”

“I understand. Your purpose is to protect her... him. But he needs to understand all of this on his own. That is what is required. So we have to let him discover things in his own way and in his own time. Now, get back inside,” I said kindly. “I’m sure you’re pretty tired after your all-night shift at the university hospital.”

After I said that, the two yawned.

“I guess it’ll feel real good to get a bit of shuteye,” the blonde, Kristy said, and stretched. She had a special role in all of this. More than did Nancy. But in the end, Mark will need both of them.

I closed the front door. “Now, scoot! Get some sleep. I’ll wake you later, all right?”

“All right, mistress,” Nancy said. Like normal, sleepy girls, they started taking off their office clothes, maybe to slip into something more appropriate for sleeping. They went into their individual rooms - rooms that didn’t exist until today.

“Sleep tight, girls,” I called.

I sat in the living area’s couch and looked around the little house. The changes weren’t that many, but were drastic. I didn’t know what else to do. If it’ll be one whole week before I went back, I therefore needed to change as much as I could. Her clothes, especially… I mean his clothes, and make his transition a little easier. Thank goodness I had the alternate set of clothes with me. I had the feeling that it would start today. After all, Halloween was coming.

It was obvious that they had met last night. The change in his eyes and, to a lesser extent, his body. And these were just the beginning. I wondered what were the next changes Marianne will make happen today, and, of course, tonight. I giggled at what Mark will make of the changes. I also wondered if he can keep from going crazy while all of these changes were happening. I have high hopes, though. Look at how he’s handled things up to now: He had a lot of scary things happen to him last night, and when he woke up, he was confronted with a changed face, and was introduced to new roommates that hadn’t existed before last night. And yet he seemed remarkably well-composed. And he didn’t bat an eye, well, not much anyway, when his bike was suddenly changed to something else. (That wasn’t necessary, but I thought it would cheer him up a bit.) And though he clearly hasn’t caught on yet, I’m sure that, soon, he will start to notice that his clothes have been changed to girl clothes. I wonder how he’ll react to that.

I guess my biggest worry was that he didn’t confide in me — he didn’t tell me anything, and kept everything to himself. I had hoped he would, as it would have given me an excuse to tell him everything. But, either I’m not as close to him as I thought I was, or he’s stronger than any of us thought or gave him credit for. Or maybe he’s just stubborn. His mother definitely is.

Yes, I was a little disappointed. I guess we have to go with the original plan.

Anyway, at least we’ll have more chances to get him some more girl stuff later, maybe after the movie. I would love to give him a makeover, maybe even get his ears pierced, but I have to leave those to the fantome, Marianne. Ahh well, c’est la vie.

My celphone started to play the music from the old television show, Bewitched. That always made me smile, thinking how the others would find it ironically funny that I would have THAT as my celphone’s ringtone.

I wondered who was calling (the number was blocked), but since I was sure the others have felt the change by now, it will most probably be someone from the clan — maybe even c'est ma soeur, Mark’s mere, mother.

“Bonjour,” I said, “This is Olivia LePortier speaking. Ah, Abigail!” I was right, it was Mark’s mother. “I was expecting you to call. Oui, il a commence. Oh, was I speaking en francais? Oh, mon dieu. Je suis desole. I apologize, Abbey. I did not notice. Anyway, non, nothing is wrong. But, oui, it has indeed started. Your son is taking it well… So far.”

I listened to my sister. “Non, you shouldn’t come over now. Leave it for next weekend. We need to let things take their course. Yes, I will get as many of his clothes now, and replace them when we come back next weekend. And I will have the two mannequin, excuse me, the two girls, change his toiletries over the week.”

I listened again. “All right, mon amour, I will talk to you later. And, YES, I will be more careful and speak English at all times.” I giggled and turned off the phone. I proceeded with cleaning up the rest of the house, and get all the boy clothes I could get into the laundry bags.

*** Mark ***

I found the front of my new leather jacket flapping in the wind a bit irritating so I pulled over, got off the bike and took off my helmet so I could see the jacket better. I had to shake out my hair as the helmet had matted it down. I then studied the jacket. I first zipped up the main zipper and then held up the flap against the front and then zipped up the slightly-asymmetrical zipper on the left side. It felt a little off as I was expecting the zip to be on the right, but then this was a girl’s jacket. Hope Nancy or Kristy gets it changed for a guy’s jacket soon.

As I was about to put my helmet back on, some guy whistled at me. I wondered what that was for. I shrugged it off and roared off to the library.

In less than ten minutes I pulled up at the café just across from the library. But I forgot - being a Saturday, the library opened at ten. I decided to hang around the café for a while until the library opened. I got off and wheeled my new, at least to me, RS50 to the parking area. It took me a moment to figure out where the utility compartment was. As soon as I found it, I took out my motorcycle chain. But instead of the black covered- Kryptonite motorcycle lock from my Honda, I brought out a pink Mammoth chain — so much better than my old Kryptonite. But why pink?

I sighed and proceeded to lock the back wheel to a convenient lamp-post. I took out my backpack from under the netting, and went into the café to order my favorite iced caramel macchiato.

“Hey, Markie,” the cute girl that I always catch manning the counter was there. “You want the usual?” Without waiting for my answer, she turned to the barrista beside her. “Joey, the usual tall caramel macchiato for cute little Markie, please.” She giggled.

“Comin’ right up,” the guy, Joey, said. “Hey, Mark. Go get your usual table outside. We’ll bring your coffee to you as soon as it’s ready, okay?”

“Umm, thanks.”

“That’ll be two dollars, eighty please.” I handed her three dollars and she gave me my change. “Thank you kindly, sir,” she giggled again. “Your order will be ready in a few minutes.”

I smiled bemusedly, and went outside. I wondered what that guy, Joey, meant about a regular table. The tables outside were mostly occupied except the ones nearest the street. I sat down by one, put my pack on one of the empty chairs and dumped my new helmet on the table.

I took out the big book from my backpack. It was my intention to return the book. Not because I was feeling guilty for bringing home a book I didn’t check out, but because I didn’t want anything to do with it. I would have thrown it out altogether, but I was afraid that if I did, something might happen. Looking at it now made me think of last night again.

I looked across the street to the big library building, and in the morning sunshine, it wasn’t at all scary. In fact it was quite picturesque. On the left side was the liberal arts building, which echoed the neo-classical lines of the library, and on the right was an empty lot overgrown with weeds. In the middle of the lot was what looked like the remnants of an old brick building, but with the weeds and creeping ivy, you could barely see the walls.

My reverie was broken by the girl from the counter bringing my caramel coffee.

“Here you go, Markie,” the girl said. “One tall caramel macchiato for our favorite customer.”

I looked at the little nameplate on her uniform. “Thank you, Laurie,” I said.

“No problemo, Markie,” she said. “You know, you didn’t answer me yesterday. So, what do you say?”

I didn’t know what she was referring to. “Ummm…”

“Oh, come on,” she pouted. “You know you want, to. How about tomorrow?”

“Well… I guess, okay?”

“Great!” she said. “It’s the last day of the state fair tomorrow. How about we meet there? Maybe ten o’clock? “

“Uh, okay.” Wait. Did I just agree to a date?

“Okay, then.” She leaned down and kissed me. “I’ll let you get back to your reading. I’m going back to work, then. Seeya later, cutie. If you want anything else, I’ll just be at the counter.”

I watched her go back in. My first real date. At least I think it’s a real date. But I haven’t even talked to her before now.

But that was for tomorrow, not today. First things first. Right now, I had to bring the book back to the library. I looked at my watch. Still over an hour before they open. I popped a straw into my caramel coffee, took a sip and decided to open the book.

I went to the student-summary page again. I saw Marianne’s slightly-grainy computer-printed picture. She was smiling her pretty smile. She wore a simple blouse, and had her hair tied into a high ponytail. I looked through the little biographical information in the sheet. So she’s a camera buff, and is part of the ballet troupe. Hmmm. By her ID number, she was in the university more than eighteen years ago. Maybe I can track her down. School records and such.

I read the précis for the thesis, and apparently, it was an effort to faithfully document as many of the legends that the early settlers and the Indian natives in the area had about four hundred years ago that she could. Marianne had talked about the precautions and the meticulousness of her methods so that her accounts were as faithful as possible.

I then turned to the table of contents.

Although I could not face to read the last story, I tried to read some of the others.

The first legend listed was about an area that the natives used to call “Popuessing,” or The Lair of the Dragon, about a creature that walked on two legs with hooves, and flew. It seemed we had our own version of the Jersey Devil. Many disappearances and unsolved murders in the area over the next hundred years or so have been attributed to this creature. In these cases, there were several telltale clues left, such as desanguinated corpses, and the overpowering smell of lilacs in the area.

Another one of the stories was related to the legend of a lake demon, “N'ha-A-Itk,” that was supposed to lurk in the nearby river system, and the legend was part of the reason why most of the local native-American residents don’t like to swim in the surrounding lakes and rivers. The roots of the legend were connected to the story of a murdered 16th century Indian wise man, Kan-He-Kan, and the revenge of the gods upon his murderer.

Another one, this time a story from the early colonists that came from Europe, talked about a famous 16th century physician, Jonathan Whalley, who was rumored to have raped and killed several slave wenches, as well as a few Indian maidens. It was said that after he and his cronies had their way with these women, they would perform ritual sacrifices late at night, and the women’s blood-curdling screams would echo in the night. It took the rape and murder of a local white girl to get the townsfolk to take action on the good doctor, and he was lynched in short order. As a sort of recompense, after the doctor’s death, his family bequeathed his substantial land holdings to the town, and it was the same land that the college currently stood on. Marianne put several notes that these were all unprovable, except for the fact that there were records documenting the death of twenty-six slave girls, twelve Indian girls, and one colonial white girl — Mary Deacon, the daughter of the town’s sherrif, all within a one-year period.

I shivered at these stories, and was glad that I was wearing my new leather jacket.

The stories were written in a very thought-provoking though factual manner, sort of like Peter Straub’s style of writing, with a lot of notations as to the sources of the stories. Marianne apparently got a lot of the background interviews from the few remaining Indian pure-bloods and the direct descendants of the original colonists of the area. So it seemed that the stories were as accurate and as close to the original stories as Marianne could make it.

After going through several of the stories, I couldn’t take anymore. I closed the book, and looked across to the library. I saw a security guard through the glass door as he unlocked it.

I put the book in my pack, picked up my helmet and stood up. Several others at the café also did. Apparently, there were a lot of us waiting for the library to open. I even recognized some of them as fellow library users. Some of the people smiled at me, most of them guys. I smiled back a little puzzled, wondering why they were noticing me this time. Could it be my outfit?

As I walked down the pedestrian crossing, I felt my hair brush the back of the jacket. I swept it out of my collar a little irritatedly. It seems I really did need a haircut, and soon.

The security guard smiled and nodded at me as I walked through the door. I smiled back, and walked directly to the counter. He never did smile at me before.

“Good morning, Mrs. Weatherby,” I said as I got to the counter.

Mrs. Weatherby, the nice old lady who was the head librarian, nodded at me pleasantly.

“Good morning, dear. What can I do for you?”

I put my helmet on the counter and pulled out the book from my backpack.

“Ummm…”

“Yes, dear, what is it?”

“Ummm… Ma’am, I’m sorry but I mistakenly brought home one of the library books last night. I’m real sorry. Anyway, here’s the book. I’ll pay any penalty needed.”

She smiled delightedly. “Oh, my goodness! What a conscientious child you are. I wish there were more of you around. May I see the book, then?”

I proferred the big book.

She picked it up, looked at the spine, and noted down the index number. She turned to the monitor on the counter and typed on the keyboard. After a short while, she turned back to me with a puzzled look.

“I’m sorry, dear. But there doesn’t seem to be a record of this book anywhere in our files. Although it clearly is one of our books.”

“That’s weird,” I said. “But, on second thought, I couldn’t find any information about it in the computer last night, too, except for the actual catalog entry, that is.”

“Yes, it is weird, ummm… what did you say your name was, dear?”

“Mrs. Weatherby, don’t you recognize me? It’s me, Mark!”

She looked at me closely, but didn’t seem to believe me.

I pulled out my wallet from my shirt pocket and fished out my library card. I gave it to Mrs. Weatherby, and she looked at it, then at me.

“Well, it IS you. I’m terribly sorry, Mark, for not recognizing you. I suppose it’s your attire. And your new haircut. It suits you by the way. But those blue eyes of yours — I would recognize those anywhere.”

Blue eyes?

She leaned over and gave me a hug. I always thought Mrs. Weatherby liked me, but not that much. Another item to add to my list.

Now, let’s see,” Mrs. Weatherby, said, going back to the book. “By the catalog number, this particular book should be in the history section, at the far end of the archives.” She went back to the computer and punched in a few keys. “But it doesn’t come up on the catalog. I’m sorry, Mark. You say you saw the catalog entry last night?”

I nodded.

“Well, that’s disappeared, too, apparently."

I’m sure Mrs. Weatherby saw my puzzled look. “How about this,” she said. “Let me scan the cover page and note down the index number. And then, if you can do me a favor and put this on the shelf where you got it, I’ll have it on the library’s list by Monday, and you can check it out then.”

“What if I can’t find where I got it from?”

“Then you can keep the book,” she giggled. I looked at her. “Just joking, Mark. But until I find the catalog entry or know where it goes, I guess I’ll have to ask you to hang on to it.”

“Why don’t you keep it here at the counter until you do?”

Mrs. Weatherby stiffened. “Ummm, I’d rather not. It’s liable to get lost or someone else may pick it up by mistake or something.”

That reason sounds a little thin. I think she knows something she’s not telling. But I just nodded and went to the stacks after she had scanned the book.

Before passing through the door into the archives, I took a deep breath. This is it, I told myself. I closed my eyes and crossed the threshold.

I stood for a moment on the other side and slowly opened my eyes. Nothing seemed different. And with the sunlight streaming through the windows, the shelves of the archives were bathed in light. I could spot at least a dozen people browsing the books. It actually felt very cozy in here, how I thought the library should be. I couldn’t help but grin in relief.

“Ahem!” someone behind me cleared his throat. “Excuse me, babe. Can you move aside? I need to get by.”

I belatedly realized I was blocking the doorway. I sheepishly moved aside and let the guy through. He seemed like a typical college guy, probably here researching something for a class.

As he walked passed me, he glanced back and looked me up and down. He irritatedly mumbled what sounded like “bimbo airhead,” and moved on into the archives in his grumpy way.

I went in as well and started walking in the direction I remembered from last night, noting down the bookshelf numbers. However, as I got further into the archives, I couldn’t find the shelf. After what felt like hours (although it was probably like fifteen minutes max) of going back and forth and sometimes even tracing back my steps, I was starting to get impatient. Actually, I was starting to get a little bit scared, too. I irritatedly swept my hair off my back for the umpteenth time, but, somewhere in the middle, I finally found the appropriate shelf, the miscellaneous shelf. But it was… not as I remembered.

The shelf had five levels, and instead of all five being full to the brim with books like the other shelves, each only had about a dozen or so books. It was about nine-tenths empty. I couldn’t believe it. In a library practically groaning with the amount of books it had, this shelf looked so out of place… so weird. How could it be so empty? And if it really was this empty, at the very least, Mrs. Weatherby would have noticed and done something about it. Besides, last night, it was chock-full of books!

But, keeping the reason for the visit in mind, I pulled the book out of my backpack and put it on the shelf at eye-level. I stood it in the middle. It was thick enough that I was able to stand it on its edge.

And it looked ridiculous — one book standing alone on an empty shelf.

Be that as it may, I left it there and went back to the main hall. “Mission accomplished,” I said to Mrs. Weatherby. She smiled at me and nodded.

I went to the New Editions section and happily perused the new sci-fi books. As a frequent borrower with a perfect no-overdue-books record, I had the privilege of checking out as many books as I wanted. Or so Mrs. Weatherby told me. I suspected it wasn’t a real privilege given to borrowers and it was just something Mrs. Weatherby allowed me. Nevertheless, I took full advantage.

I picked out “Behind the Sun,” by Sue Neilsen, “The Gateway,” by Glenn Thater, “Pollen and the Ring of Harmony,” by Francis Perry, plus some others. I also got a few classics — “I Shall Fear No Evil,” By Robert Heinlein, “The Demolished Man,” by Alfred Bester, and “The Difference Engine,” which Wiliam Gibson co-wrote with Bruce Sterling.

I struggled to the front with the pile of books, and breathlessly dumped my pack and the books on the counter. Mrs. Weatherly cheerfully checked them all out.

“Going to do a lot of reading, I see,” she joked. “Do you really think you can read all of these?”

I smiled at her. “Well, no harm in trying,” I said. I looked at my big watch. Oh, no! It was almost twelve. Best hurry back. After Mrs. Weatherby finished logging them all in the computer, I just realized that they won’t all fit in my itty-bitty pack. I swept my hair from my back in consternation and scratched my head, trying to figure out what to do.

“I can carry those for you,” a guy at the counter said. He was hanging by the counter, waiting to return some books.

“Ummm… Okay, thanks.”

“No problem, babe,” the guy said. “Mrs. Weatherby, could you please log in these books I’m returning? I’ll be right back.”

Without ceremony, he picked up my dozen or so books and waited for me. Flustered, I picked up my backpack and helmet, waved goodbye to Mrs. Weatherby, and was accompanied out of the library.

It’s amazing what you can learn in a short two-minute walk. As he helped carry my books, I learned he was a Junior, and was studying computer engineering, and lived in the main dorm in campus with his roommate who was studying English lit. He liked playing soccer and was into neo-classical music. All the while, I nervously nodded, feigning interest in what he was saying. Was he cracked or something? Or maybe he’s gay?

When we got to my bike, I unchained it, stowed my security lock, and put my backpack and my pile of books securely under the netting. All the while, he kept on chatting.

“Thanks, awfully,” I said to him. “But I have to go now. I have a lunch thing with my roommates.”

“Do you think I can see you again sometime?” This guy was definitely cracked… or gay.

I didn’t want to be rude and snub him given that he just helped me with my books. “I’m here at the library lots of days,” I said. “Maybe we’ll meet each other here again?”

The guy took it with good grace, nodded and moved back as I put on my helmet and wheeled the bike onto the street. I waved at Laurie through the café’s window and started my bike up.

“Well, bye,” I said, and zoomed away.

“Wait!” he called. “I didn’t even get your name!” But I pretended not to hear and zoomed back to the apartment.

I was starting to get a feel of the RS50, and I was starting to enjoy riding it. I loved my Honda, but it just doesn’t compare with the Aprilia. I was zooming around and zig-zagging all over University Drive. I took the turn into Elm at 50mph, and I made the rear tire squeal. It wasn’t that fast, but plenty fast for me. I was grinning like a fool as I pulled up in front of the house.

As I came to a stop, I noticed Kristy and Nancy on the porch. Kristy was standing, with her hands over her mouth, and Nancy was looking at me with a look that was a mix of fear and relief.

I took off my helmet and shook my matted-down hair (I really need a haircut). “Hi, girls!” I said, breathless with exhilaration at my exciting ride.

Kristy ran over and gave me a big hug. She actually lifted me off my feet. I felt her trembling.

“Are you okay?” she asked frantically.

I was a little surprised at her reaction. She looked at me. “Mark! Are you okay!” She shook me.

“I’m fine, I’m fine! Jeez, Kristy. Calm down, willya? I’m okay. Why wouldn’t I be?”

She set me down on my feet. “You should be more careful when you’re on your bike, okay? Remember the last time?”

“I was just doing twenty that time, remember? And it was me who was hit.”

I looked at Kristy. She was actually crying. “Kristy! What is it?”

She hugged me again. “I’m just glad that you’re okay…”

Nancy went over and put her arms around both of us.

“Girls, girls!” Olivia said. “Calm down! Mark’s all right. Now put him down and give him room.”

Kristy and Nancy let me go. They both had chagrined, sheepish looks.

“Sorry, Markie,” Kristy said, and wiped her eyes.

I gave her a little squeeze. “You guys,” I said and giggled. “C’mon, I’m hungry. Olivia? Lunch?”

Olivia gave me a merry little smile. “Sure. Let’s go in.”

Nancy got my helmet and pile of books and Kristy got my backpack. I held onto both of their hands and pulled them inside the house.

We all sat down to a first-rate meal of beef stroganoff pasta, salad, and a jiffy cheesecake that Olivia brought from the bakeshop near home. Olivia opened her usual bottle of red wine. Kristy and Nancy asked for glasses, and Olivia poured for them. I also asked for a glass, not expecting anything, but Olivia set down another glass and poured for me. Mom never allowed me to drink before, so Olivia doing this was a surprise.

I never really liked the taste of wine, but it went well with the pasta. We enjoyed the meal, and I ate a little more than was healthy. It was my first home-cooked meal in a while, so no one can blame me for overindulging a bit.

There was very little table-talk, except a few giggles directed my way.

“What?” I said.

Kristy giggled again. “Maybe you should take a few moments to breathe, you know. The food’s still gonna be here.”

I blushed crimson, and everyone laughed.

“Oh, Markie,” Kristy said, “I’m just joking.” She gave me a little hug and a kiss on the cheek.

As we moved on to cheesecake, Nancy offered to make coffee. We sipped Nancy’s delicious French Roast between bites of the cheesecake, and started making plans for the afternoon.

“Shopping!” Kristy squealed.

I frowned at that.

“Don’t be that way,” Kristy said. “Shopping’s fun!”

“Yeah, Markie,” Nancy said. “Why don’t you give it a try. I promise we’ll make it fun.”

“Be a gentleman, Mark. Your girls are asking you to go with them to shop.”

Nancy and Kristy looked at me, and batted their eyes comically. I burst out laughing, and agreed eventually.

After an hour, we were all in Olivia’s BMW. Nancy sat in front and Kristy snuggled with me in the back seat. I could actually get used to this. The thing was, she was so tall, her chin was bumping the top of my head.

Olivia drove towards the nearest mall in her typical efficient way, and we were soon parked in the open parking lot. Olivia led us into the mall, and we went through a bunch of stores, mostly the semi up-scale ones further inside instead of the outlying stores that were more my speed — Olivia brought us to stores like Abercrombie & Fitch, Neiman Marcus, Nordstrom and Lord & Taylor, plus a little side trip to Macy’s and JC Penney for stuff like underwear, tanktops, socks et cetera.

Lots of people kept on looking at us, some of them I even recognized as my classmates. Who could blame them — Mark the geek walking with a pair of gorgeous babes. I mean, who wouldn’t.

The way these girls worked our little shopping trip was that they’d drag me around with them as they picked clothes for themselves, and then we’d go to the men’s or sometimes the boys’ section (apparently most standard sizes that fit me were in the boys’ section), and they’d pick ones for me to try on. My contribution was limited to my trying them on and then for me to say yes or no.

Olivia trailed us with a shopping cart, and provided opinions about the stuff the girls would get. Kristy or Nancy would just drop in the stuff I said yes to, or sometimes if they had stuff for themselves, they would just drop them in as well. I wondered who would pay for all of these as my monthly allowance, though comparatively generous than most, would not cover it. Olivia just said she’ll text my mom and take care of it.

As we browsed, or more appropriately, as Kristy and Nancy browsed and I tried stuff on, Olivia would disappear into another section of the store from time to time. I assumed that she was also shopping for her own stuff, too.

As we started accumulating more and more stuff, Kristy and Nancy convinced Olivia so that we could browse in some other more “hip” stores, like Pacific Sunwear, Urban Outfitters and Hot Topic. Still “snooty” enough for Olivia but good enough for more… contemporary clothes.

While we were in Urban Outfitters, Nancy bumped into a platinum blonde, and she asked for advice about the shirt she was holding. The blonde was obviously not a salesgirl, given the vintage but hip black blouse and skirt she was wearing. After a while, they were done, and Nancy walked to us carrying the long-sleeved button-down shirt. I followed the blonde with my eyes as she walked out the door. As she crossed the threshold, she turned and looked at me. It was Marianne! It was the ghost-girl!

I was of two minds, to run after her, or to hide. But as I made the decision to run after her, I cried out and doubled over as shooting pains speared through my hips, my groin and my lower back.

“Mark!” Kristy exclaimed.

It was like someone was sawing through my hipbones, and the pain made me fall to my knees. But the pain quickly disappeared as fast as it came. I was able to straighten up after a while, and wiped away my inadvertent tears. I held on to Kristy as the pain abated. All I can compare it with was a very powerful and sharp charley horse, but one that happened to my hips and back.

Nancy had run over. “Mark! Are you all right?”

“I’m fine,” I said.

As I slowly tried to straighten out, I looked to the door, and Marianne was gone…

I turned to Nancy. “Who were you talking to just now?”

“The blonde? Don’t you know her? She said she knew you, and said that I should get you this shirt. I thought it looked real good, and was bringing it for you to try on.”

“Did you catch her name?”

“She said her name was Marie. What? Don’t you know her?”

I shook my head no. But I was right, though — it WAS the ghost-girl.

“That’s strange. Why would she say she knew you?”

“Let’s get out of here,” I said, and couldn’t stop a small quaver of fear from creeping into my voice.

“What’s wrong, Mark?”

I casted around for a good alibi. “Ummm… nothing’s wrong. It’s just that I want to sit down somewhere… and to try another store.” I was willing to say anything to convince them to leave.

“Ahhh, now you’re getting into the spirit.”

Nancy waved over Olivia and we proceeded to the checkout counter.

As we fell in line to pay, Olivia asked me what happened.

“I don’t know. I guess it was a cramp or something. It’s gone now.”

“Don’t tell me it’s your time of the month,” Kristy said. After a beat, all three of them started laughing.

I smiled sourly. “Ha-ha,” I said sarcastically. “That’s so funny I forgot to laugh…”

Kristy gave me a kiss. “I’m sorry, Markie. We were just joking.”

After a little rest at the food court, we went to one last store. The last store we went to for the afternoon was Kenneth Cole, and bought a bunch of shoes. And here I was happy with my sneakers and my penny loafers. Apparently, I never knew that I “needed” lots more shoes. I now owned a new pair of formal leather shoes, a couple of casual pairs, an all-terrain, a pair of low-boots, high-tops, flip-flops and two new pairs of sneaks. Nine pairs. Well…

All throughout the shopping, I had this feeling that the stuff we were getting were a little… effeminate. Perhaps that’s too strong a word, but they were all definitely less masculine than I would have liked. But who was I to question their fashion sense — me who had the fashion sense of the back of a spoon.

After all the shopping, we went to Olivia’s car and crammed all of the stuff we bought into the boot. It was a tight fit. Olivia slammed it shut and we went to the cineplex to pick out a movie to watch.

I wanted to watch “Black Dynamite.” I didn’t know the movie, but any movie with a tag line that went, “Cuz there ain’t no hope for dudes who deal dope” has GOT to be funny. But everyone else wanted to watch “New York, I Love You.”

“You guys said no chick flicks!” I protested.

I was answered with moist razzberries.

Anyway, I guess I didn’t mind the movie much. At least Natalie Portman was there. And Julie Christie was still a babe despite being sixty-eight years old. And Maggie Q, too. I’ve always thought Maggie Q was hot. Now, if Zhao Wei was there, too…

Of course, Kristy and Olivia were there for Bradley Cooper, Orlando Bloom, Hayden Christensen, Ethan Hawke and Shia LaBeouf. I could guess what the producers were doing, loading their movie with these guys. I can sort of understand the appeal of an Orlando Bloom and all the rest, but I never did get Shia LaBeouf. I guess I just wasn’t a chick.

With Kristy, Nancy and Olivia there, the movie was fun. I never thought I’d enjoy myself. What was troubling was that some of the moviegoers, not that many to be sure, kept staring at us. Even some of the people that sat in front of us kept turning around to look back at us. It was not too surprising as I was sitting with two incredible looking babes. One guy in front really bothered me, as he kept on looking back. I guess I never realized that I had started to feel propriety feelings toward my girls.

After the nth time to be shushed by the people sitting around us, the girls decided to go and get some popcorn and drinks, But even while they were gone, the guy kept on looking back. Just a regular college guy by the look of him. Nothing weird about him, really, except for the fact that he was in here watching a chick flick all by himself.

Olivia leaned over. “Someone’s got a fan,” she giggled.

“Shhh! He might hear you.”

“Who might hear what,” Nancy asked. She handed Olivia and me boxes of popcorn, and she and Kristy settled back into their seats.

“Who might hear what,” Nancy asked again as she sipped from a Diet Pepsi.

I pointed to the guy in front. “That guy’s been staring at me since we got here.” Nancy looked and glared at the guy. He noticed Nancy’s glare and snapped forward. At least that was the end of his staring

The movie was okay, I guess. But I wouldn’t have gone and watched it alone. And without the girls, I probably wouldn’t have enjoyed it as much.

As the ending credits rolled, one of the moviegoers decided to stand up and leave, ahead of the credits. Some of the others followed her example and stood up as well. The house lights went up slowly. The girl that had first stood up was spotlighted in one of the lights. She turned and faced towards us. I had noticed her, and the light sort of made her figure translucent. I could see the next row of seats further down right through her torso. I suddenly got the shivers. I looked at her face, and it was Marianne. She smiled at me and waved her hand.

“Hey, look,” Nancy said innocently. “It’s Marie, from the store.”

I stood up, and started making my way to her. Despite being scared spitless, I needed to get to her. I was sure all of this weirdness was all because of her.

I think she saw me trying to get to her because she started to move. But instead of trying to appear normal like she’s done so far, this time she glided away down to the side exit, stage right. She moved over rows of seats and the people seated in them, like she was made of smoke.

The people she glided over screamed, and tried their best to get away. The other patrons in the movie house looked over to see what the fuss was all about, and saw the ghost-girl. In a short while, everyone was running away, trying to escape the theater.

I fought against the panic-stricken mob, trying to reach the ghost. “Wait!” I shouted.

The ghost-girl was standing in the middle of the aisle leading to the side exit. She had stopped, and seemed to be waiting for me. I had stopped running, and was slowly walking towards her. As I approached, she pirouetted, like a little toy ballerina on a stick, and faced me.

She was as lovely as I remembered, but this time she was translucent. She smiled at me, a merry, happy smile, like she was glad to see me.

I could feel the theater grow ice-cold. I shivered. The noise around me faded away. I tried to think of something to say. “What’s your name,” I asked.

“You know my name.” Her voice was faint, but I could hear her clearly. The quality of the sound was like it was coming from deep inside a well, with a reverberating kind of echo. And her ghostly voice wasn’t in synch with the movement of her mouth.

“Is it Marianne? Marianne Archer?”

“Why do you ask me things you already know the answers to?”

“Why are you here?”

“To talk to you, of course.”

“To talk to me about what?

“About what is coming. What you are. What you will be. What you need to do.”

What did she mean by that?

“Tell me.”

“Not here. Tonight at the library.”

“Why?”

“They don’t know about you yet. Let’s keep it that way.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Votre femme de charge. Ask her.”

“What?”

She turned to walk away.

“Wait!” I said. “I have more questions to ask!”

She turned back to me.

“The apartment, my bike, my new roommates. The book! Are you the one doing it? Why?”

She drifted forward to me, and laid a ghostly finger on my lips.

“Shhh, my dearest. Votre femme de charge. She will know.”

I watched her turn again, and walk through the door, like mist or smoke. I approached the door, and put my hand against it. Damn.

Kristy and Nancy rushed up to me. Kristy gave me a bonecrushing hug.

“Mark!” Nancy said. “Are you all right?”

“I’m fine, Nancy.”

“Did you see the ghost? The people are panicking ‘cause someone said they saw a ghost.”

“Yes. Don’t tell me you didn’t see her.”

“We were busy trying to chase after you.”

“Let’s get back to the house. This place is giving me the creeps.”

As we walked away, I took a last glance at the door where the girl disappeared through.

Back at the apartment, it was on the tip of my tongue to talk about it, but everytime I got close to doing so, Olivia seemed to know it, and had a deft way of deflecting the discussion to more mundane, humdrum things. The girls kept on sneaking looks at Olivia, and it was so obvious that they were following her lead. After several false starts at trying to talk about the moviehouse thing, we found ourselves sorting through the stuff we bought.

We had put our stuff in separate piles. The stuff the girls bought for themselves combined weren’t even one-fourth of what we bought for me, and that’s not counting the shoes. I told Olivia that Mom will see the credit card bill, and I’d be a dead duck come the end of the month.

Olivia showed me a text message from mom on her iPhone.

“Tell Mark that anything my darling wants to buy is okay, so long as it’s this one time. Tell him it’s mom’s and dad’s belated birthday gift, and an apology for missing it last month.”

I had to read that twice. Mom was never like that. And they always forget my birthday. What makes this one any different?

Anyway, Kristy and Nancy modeled their purchases, and I was constantly blushing as they strutted their stuff. Seventeen years of not seeing girls naked doesn’t prepare you for this. Well, they weren’t really naked.

I excused myself less I showed just how this was all affecting me, and went to my room. Kristy and Nancy giggled at that. (How obvious was I, anyway?) Olivia stopped me and told me to get my new things and put them away. I dutifully picked up my pile and proceeded to hang them all up in my closet.

Getting my closet in order gave me time to think about earlier. I didn’t understand it at all. She said she came to talk to me. And that something was coming. What was coming? What was I? What did I need to do? And who were they? I have to find out. I guess I’m going to the library again.

She had also said something I couldn’t understand. It sounded French, though. Back home, Olivia sometimes forgets herself and lapses back to her native French. So I knew how it sounded.

I went to my computer, and did a search on the net. I typed what Marie said phonetically, and was able to piece together that little phrase (assuming that it was really in French). Marie had said to ask “votre femme de charge,” - “your housekeeper…”

I looked out the window, and it was already pretty dark out. I checked my watch. It was already six o’clock, and around these parts, six o’clock means that the sun is already gone. It was getting pretty late. I had best get a move on, and get to the library. Thinking about it gave me shivers, but I needed to do it. But before that, I guess I had to have a talk with Olivia.

Author’s Postscript: I hope you liked this extremely long piece, and, yes, I know, I know - it’s not complete. But the time specified for the TG Terror contest was extremely short, and I wouldn’t have made the deadline if I tried to finish it. So I had to submit it incomplete. I apologize for the cliffhanger. I do promise to finish it. (I don’t know the rules for these contest things, and if that’s even allowed) But I suspect I now have THREE stories to complete… darn… Anyway, any feedback would be appreciated. And, who knows, maybe in the future, I can make up more of these “library stories.” Given it took me almost three weeks of writing, using all the spare time I had to write this one uncompleted piece, it might be difficult to write another, but it depends on you guys. I’m also committed to finishing my other stories - “Danny” and “Witching Hour,” so it might take a while before I can come back to the scary world of the library. It might actually be Halloween again before I can get around to writing another, or even completing this one. Any ideas on how to manage this would be great. So I hope you guys drop me a line.

- Bobbie

click here to read my old Working Girl Blogs, click here to read all of my blogs, click here to read my stories in BCTS, and click here to see my profile & know more about me.

The Library: Rewrite

Part Two: Biker Chick by Roberta J. Cabot I used to be a boy scout. Yeah, yeah, you can shut up now. The only reason I mention this is because of the ghost stories that we told around the campfire. No, we didn’t roast weenies or marshmallows, but we DID tell stories. Stories about ghosts in the dark — scary-fun. But there’s no fun if you actually SEE a ghost. I saw a ghost. A French-speaking ghost, mind you. Pretty classy for a ghost, huh? Wonder if I’ll see her again tonight. Can you believe it? I have an appointment tonight. Well, at least she’s pretty hot. My name is Mark. And this is the continuation of my Halloween story. (an official story-entry to Topshelf’s 2011 October TG Terror Contest)

*** Mark ***

I decided to take a quick shower. A little water therapy might just do the trick, and get me out of this funk. I closed my door, took my clothes off and dumped my stuff on the bed as usual. I went into the en-suite bathroom, got in the tub and pulled the shower curtain around me. I turned the shower on and got myself wet prior to soaping myself up. The usual.

But when I reached for my usual bar of soap — I couldn’t find it. Where’s my soap? I felt around the little shelf suction-cupped against the bath’s tile wall, and it wasn’t there. What was there was a brand-new bar still in its box, and a new bottle of Johnson’s Baby Shampoo. Now even my shampoo’s missing.

Could it be, in this new configuration of my apartment, I was sharing my bathroom with my new room-mates? Could that be why there were unfamiliar things on the shower shelf? Maybe it’s the girls’ stuff…

Well, I thought, given I was already wet, I had no choice but to go on with my shower. I reached for the box of soap. Now, who ever heard of putting a soap bar still in a box in the bathroom? I picked up the yellow box and read the name printed on it with my newly-improved twenty-twenty vision — "Heno de Pravia," it said in curliqued letters. I took out the soap, throwing the cardboard box into the little trashcan by the sink. The soap smelled strongly of jasmine. And I do mean strongly. Phew!

Well, in for a pound and all that. I started soaping up a little face towel and started to rub myself with it. “Ow!” What’s with the towel? It felt like it was starched or something. I turned it over, thinking I was using the rough side of the terrycloth. “Ow!” Geez, both sides…

I reluctantly put the little washcloth aside and soaped up directly with the soap bar. The slightly oily feel of it made me want to finish up right away, and I soaped up rapidly. Instead of rinsing right away, I put shampoo in my hair using the yellow-colored baby shampoo bottle, and lathered up. It was my usual routine, shampooing before rinsing. This way, I just needed to rinse the entire me just the one time. The shampoo bubbled up a lot. I think it was because of my hair, though I don't know how. And it felt softer and finer, too. Hmmm.

I rinsed myself thoroughly, but the slightly-oily feeling on my skin made me want to rinse some more. After a bit, I decided to quit even though I felt a bit of residue left. Guess I had to tough it out. I got a towel and, remembering the washcloth and my shower from this morning, I gingerly patted myself dry instead. The oiliness left on my skin made it feel softer. Maybe that was what the soap was meant to do. After I was dry enough, I stepped out of the tub and fished out the soap box from the trash. I read the printed stuff on it and, yes, indeed, there were “moisturisers” and other things in the soap. Guess I just need to get used to it. Especially the strong, jasmine scent. I told myself to go by the 7-Eleven later and buy new soap and shampoo.

I got my weird, pink toothbrush and brushed my teeth. “Up, down, up, down, side-side-side-side-side,” I said while brushing. My usual shtick. Maybe I should include a new toothbrush as well.

Afterwards, I wrapped my terrycloth robe around me and padded into my room. I looked around and found the clothes I was wearing, except for the jacket, had been whisked away by Olivia, no doubt lumped together with the weekly wash by now. So I went to my closet, intending to pick something like my usual. But when I opened it, I was greeted by the new clothes I had just hung up, and nothing else. I could have sworn I still had some of my old clothes still hanging in there before... Not wanting to wear the brand-new clothes yet, I went to my cabinet and picked out a plain, white crew-neck t-shirt, white wooly socks and underwear. But the only underpants that were in the cabinet were men’s style bikini underwear. Damnit, where are my y-fronts? After futilely digging through the clothes in all the drawers, I had no choice and picked a plain-white pair of the new Jockey’s.

I put on the shirt and underwear, noting how soft they were. Also how tight-fitting… my, ummm, junk, was clearly outlined. But even though they were tight, they felt soft and very comfortable. I examined the shirt closer and, yep, this was one of the new ones, too...

I sat on the edge of my bed and put on the socks, finding it easier than normal to bring my foot up and fold my leg across my lap to put the socks on. The hot shower must’ve loosened me up.

In my stockinged feet, I went back to my closet, and picked out some pants. I eventually decided on a new faded-blue pair and took them down from the hanger. As I was doing so, Kristy barged into my room.

“Hey, Markie, can I borrow your iPod? I was gonna work on some stuff and wanted to listen to some… well, hey, there.”

She looked me up and down in my freshly-showered, t-shirt-underwear-and-socks-wearing glory. She had the look of a big Doberman contemplating the idea of snacking on a big juicy hamburger.

“Kristy!” I exclaimed, holding the pants against me to hide my jockey’s. “Don’t you ever knock?”

Kristy giggled and knocked on my door. Grrr.

Hearing the knock, Nancy came in. “Hey, Markie. What’s up?” Great — just what I needed.

Nancy smiled a big mischievous smile. “Well… why wasn’t I invited to the party, hmmm?” Both Kristy and Nancy couldn’t stop giggling.

I tried to sound mad, but couldn’t hide the panic in my voice, nor the blushing of my face.

“Guys!”

Olivia took that moment to come in.

“Mark,” she said as she came in. “I’m just making a final check, to see if you have other clothes that need to be in the wash.” She saw me by my closet, covering myself with my pants.

“Well,” she huffed sternly (although she couldn’t stop a little smile from creeping into her expression), “I don’t suppose your mother would be proud of you just now, showing yourself to young impressionable ladies in this way. Shame, Mark! Shame!”

“Olivia!” I wailed in despair and consternation. After a bit, they all burst out laughing.

“Will you guys leave me alone to get dressed in peace?” My voice had risen to an almost screeching glass-breaking level. “Out!”

Giggling, the two girls left, but Olivia proceeded into my room. She picked up a few odds and ends here and there, went into my cabinet’s drawers and took out several items of clothing that as far as I knew were perfectly clean. She went into the bathroom and got the towel I just used.

As she brushed by me with the bundle of clothes, she smiled at me merrily. I stuck my tongue out at her, and she giggled.

But after the door closed behind her and I was alone once more, I felt it again. The sounds and images from last night. Could I face what I had to face last night again. My resolve felt like snow melting in the sun. But no - maybe I inherited my dad's hardheadedness because I wanted to get to the bottom of this - I could not leave it alone.

After a short wave of shivering, no doubt imagination-induced instead of a cold draft of air whispering past me, I shook my head. "No," I whispered to myself. I will find out what this is all about. I turned back to get dressed, and to go to the library.

I finally ended up wearing a pair of faded blue-jeans that were very close-cut but were a bit stretchy so they fit, a new Oxford shirt which I tucked into my pants and rolled the sleeves up, and a pair of biker-style low boots. Though I could remember getting several pairs of jeans and shoes, I couldn't remember picking out this particular pair of boots nor this pair of jeans. Truth be told, I don't think I would have picked a pair this close-fitting. In fact, they actually tucked into the low boots as I couldn't wear them any other way.

I went out to say goodbye to Olivia.

The sun had already long set when I bussed Olivia on the cheek and said goodbye. The back seat of her BMW was piled inordinately high with my dirty laundry (I didn't know I had that many dirty clothes, actually). And as she pulled away from the curb and tooled down Elm, Kristy, Nancy and I waved goodbye. And when she hung a right at University Drive, I turned around, went in the house, and came back out wearing my new leather jacket, and motorcycle helmet in my hand.

My two room mates saw me and my getup, and wolf-whistled.

"Hey, tough girl," Kristy said and giggled.

"So," Nancy said, "where you goin', biker chick?"

I pshawed the jokes away, swept my hair out of my collar (do I really need a haircut?) and went to the shed to wheel out my bike. It was pretty dark by then so I had to wheel it out by feel.

As I got the bike onto the pavement, the street lights clicked on. "I'm going to the library," I said.

"This late? Whatever for!"

I sat down on my Aprilia and put on my helmet. "Ummm, I need to borrow a book," I lied.

"But you just brought home a bunch of books this morning!"

"I, umm, forgot one. So I'm off to the library. Seeya later, girls!" I zipped up, started the bike and quickly zoomed away so they couldn't ask any more questions. I belatedly turned on the bike's headlight and drove towards the library, noting the rapidly disappearing sunlight.

The feel of the night air was somehow different tonight. Used to be, I'd find the slight tinge of coolness in the air very nice and bracing. But tonight, it was a bit, I don't know, foreboding. Nervously, I looked around and couldn't help noticing most of the people were walking in the opposite direction, away from the campus and the library, going home to their dorms or apartments, no doubt, although there were still a few going my way.

I noticed that some of the people walking were clearly couples, holding hands and talking intimately. There were larger groups, many of them talking boisterously, friends going out to dinner maybe, or to a friend's place. That made me vaguely sad, wishing I had friends to be with on a Saturday night, too. Yet here I am, alone, about to confront a ghost...

That made me think. I looked up at the street lamps, and they seemed to be totally normal. No signs of any of them mysteriously shutting off.

When I got to the library, I parked near the lamppost by the coffee shop across from the library, and chained my bike to the post.

The kids standing around by the front of the library and near the coffee place had clearly just come from the library, judging by the books and other stuff they were carrying. They were looking at me as I locked the bike and took off my helmet. None of them were talking much and weren't acting too friendly, except for this bunch of geeky four-eyes sitting around one of the coffee house's street tables, drinking lattes and machiattos, relaxing after a hard day of hitting the books. I sniggered at that thought, but then I realized I was no different. Now, why would I have thought so meanly of them?

The... ummm, geeks, were looking at me, and when they saw me looking back, they pulled themselves up. Two of them swiped at their stringy hair while one of them actually brought out a comb. The guy nearest me waved shyly and smiled. I wondered at their reaction since I didn't know them. They were acting like they were coming on to me or something. Internally, I shrugged. Probably all in my head. I waved back. What the hell, right?

I saw Laurie and Joey though the coffeehouse window as they served some customers. I waved at them and made my way across the street.

As I walked across the street, I noticed that the rest of the kids were all looking at me. Eerily silent and devoid of expression, they started to slowly walk towards me. It creeped me out so I picked up my pace. As I did so, so did they. I hurried some more. You know how, when you need to run but don't want to, you end up sort of shuffling, but quickly? I did that. Thing was, they did, too.

I found myself sprinting for the library doors with the silent mob of college kids chasing me. For whatever reason, I was able to stay ahead, and, in retrospect months later, I realized that was impossible - I wasn't the fastest sprinter in campus, and it was just a four-lane blacktop. I suppose the adrenaline was stretching my sense of time because, instead of a scant few seconds, it felt like that dash across the road took minutes.

I felt it when the people chasing me got to within touching distance, but I refused to look back. I knew I would falter if I did, and it would be curtains for me. But I felt a cold, light touch on the back of my neck, and I knew one of them touched me.

I screamed and reached back to bat away the arm. I put my arms up to stop the others from touching me. I looked up at the closed library doors. I prayed it wasn't locked, and even as I felt my arms being touched and grasped at, I saw the doors swing open.

Like a cannonball, I flew through the doors. I slipped on the linoleum floor and slid halfway down the reception area. I fetched against Mrs. Weatherby's counter.

Rubbing the top of my head, I sat up, leaning my back against the counter. I looked back at the doors and it was closed. Through the glass, I saw the kids - perfectly normal college kids. Except for their expressionless faces. They were all looking at me. The hair on the nape of my neck wouldn't go down.

I wondered why they weren't coming in. The doors weren't locked. I knew that because, with my new twenty-twenty vision, I could see the left-side door slightly ajar. But they weren't coming in. They were standing by the doors, standing almost against the glass, but they weren't coming in. I looked at the windows - the ones that scared me last night with their flickering shadows and eerie ghostly shapes. Now there were no shadows. They were covered up by a sea of faces looking in.

I was close to whimpering from fear. The decision to come here was born of a misplaced sense of bravery that, in the absence of warmth, sunshine and friendly voices, had disappeared, like mist blown away by a cold breeze. Why did I come?

I forced myself to stand and look around the rest of the library, and it was empty. So who opened the door for me? I didn't know whether to be relieved by that, or to be more scared.

The high-vaulted ceiling gave the room an echoing kind of feeling. The fluorescents, hanging down from the ceiling by their cords gave the individual tables sufficient light, but they did not illuminate the ceiling, and there seemed to be maevolent laughter coming from the inky blackness above.

The phrase, "this is a mistake," kept on repeating in my head. I wanted to get out of here, but I didn't know what to do.

There wasn't any choice, really - I could only leave by going through the front doors. I looked at the eerie people outside. They were standing completely still, all of them looking at me. How could I hope to get past them?

A sudden crack of thunder and its accompanying flash of lightning crashed through the room, momentarily overloading my hearing and eyesight. But in a few moments, the after-images faded and I could see and hear again.

I looked back at the doors, and there weren't any people there anymore. I looked at the windows and the sea of faces looking through them had also disappeared. What...

In the murky stillness of the library, I heard a voice.

"Bonsoir, ma chere," the ghostly voice said.

I looked at the empty study tables. They weren't all empty anymore. In the middle, sitting in a pool of white fluorescent light was a girl with blond hair. She was looking at me.

Author’s Postscript: I apologize for the extreme shortness of this, but the deadline was upon me. As usual, the time specified for the TG Terror contest was still too short for me. I guess I just can't write on demand. So here is a short second installment of my story, again still incomplete. Sorry for yet another cliffhanger. I do promise to finish it. Anyway, feedback would be appreciated, though I would appreciate it if grammar corrections would be sent via PM or email instead of a public post, okay?

- Bobbie

click here to read my old Working Girl Blogs, click here to read all of my blogs, click here to read my stories in BCTS, and click here to see my profile & know more about me.

	The Library: Rewrite
	Part Part 3: Basement by Roberta J. Cabot So. Here I was. Alone in the library with my sexy, French-speaking ghost. I wanted to get out of there, but I wanted to find out what this was all about, too. I wanted to know. I NEEDED to know. Even if I had to ask the ghost. My name is Mark. And this is the continuation of my Halloween story.

*** Mark ***

I looked at the girl. She was looking at me as well. I shivered uncontrollably. Lightning cracked again, and I heard the rain start to fall.

I never felt so scared in my life. Well, that's not exactly correct. There was last night.

But the rain was falling down gently, so, though the silence in the library was preserved save for the gentle murmur of the raindrops, it changed the foreboding nature of the silence into a cozier kind of silence like the kind I remember from my childhood - of cool, gentle, rainy spring afternoons spent on the living room couch, with mom next to me, and both of us reading - hers some women's magazine, perhaps Vogue or Cosmopolitan, me with a book by Daniel Pinkwater or something, and Olivia puttering around, usually dusting furniture, while we waited for dad.

I wanted to run away, to run home, but I guess I had that patented Bowman persistence running in me. Although Olivia might call it orneriness instead. Each step towards the girl was something I had to consciously think of (I wasn't ready to admit that it was Marianne Archer yet). When I was at the foot of the table, I stopped.

"Hey," I said. I couldn't look her in the face. I looked everywhere but her face.

"Bonjour á nouveau, mon amour. Merci de revenir. Mais je savais que tu reviendrais."

I couldn't understand it much, but I read a few books with some french-speaking characters so I could puzzle it out a bit. "Yeah, I'm back. I didn't really want to come back, though."

"Naturellement. Mais je suis encore heureux que vous soyez venus."

"Stop that!" I said. "I don't speak French."

She huffed, and stood up. "Vous n'avez pas? C'est ce que vous pensez."

She was mad. "D'accord. Être comme ça." But her chair didn't push back like you would have expected it to, maybe to even actually fall back - she seemed pretty mad and stood very fast. It's like she was made of smoke. I snuck a look down and saw the lower part of her thighs sticking through the chair's seat.

She glared at me, and I shivered again. Imagine being stared down by a ghost.

"Why are you here?" I asked. "What are you doing to me?"

"Moi? Non, it is not me. I am here to help you."

"Help me? You're helping me?"

"Bien sûr... Of course..."

"But what about everything that's happened? I don't understand."

"Mère a tout commencé."

"Huh? Who started everything? My mother? Or your mother?"

"Ma mère, votre mère... she is the same."

"She is the same? You mean..."

"Oui. We are sisters, my love. We are sisters..."

I noticed that the lights in the library had gone down. They didn't click off like from a regular light switch, but like from a dimmer switch. After a few moments, all that was left was the light over our table. We were inside our own little cone of light, with everything else hidden in darkness. And the comforting sound of gentle rain was replaced by the harsh sound of wind and hale.

"Marianne," I said. Seems I had accepted that she was Marianne Archer... "Marianne, what's happening?"

"I am sorry, ma soeur. They know you are here now. I cannot hold them back much longer."

I could feel, just beyond our cone of light, were the zombies outside the library. Whatever it was that was stopping them from coming in was gone now. And they were inside now. I could almost see their outlines. They were just standing there. I could hear their breathing, but no one was speaking. From time to time, one of them would be jostled by the others and would inadvertently stumble forward a bit and would break through the cone of light. The zombie would make a small, sharp intake of breath, like how you would when hot water hits your hand, and would jerk himself backward out of the light and back into the gloom. There must be a lot of them for some of them to be jostled forward like that.

I desperately wanted to close my eyes but I thought it would be dangerous if I did.

"We must hurry," Marianne. said in her ghostly but clear voice. "I must show you. Follow me."

I wanted to ask where but she had started moving aready. Though she was going through the motions of walking, her gait wasn't that of a normal person walking. She was gliding. She didn't care what was in her way, and she'd just glide through tables and chairs.

As soon as she started gliding, the light over the table where she was going would click on. As soon as it did, the zombies that were illuminated hissed, and jumped out of the light. That quick glimpse showed me that we were surrounded. The library must be almost jam-packed with zombified kids.

As soon as the newly-illuminated area was clear, I shuffled to the new area. As I did, the light over the table behind me slowly faded out, and I could just glimpse it being occupied by the zombies.

So that's how the ghost and I made our way to the doorway to the stacks. It was a bit hairy in a few spots where the tables were farther apart than the others - they were so far apart that the "corridor" of light between the fluorescent pools was so narrow, I had to shuffle sideways so I wouldn't touch the zombies. "Please, oh, please, oh, please..." I mumbled as I shuffled between the silent students.

Eventually, we were at the doors going to the stacks. The doors were like swinging saloon doors, but though they weren't locked, they weren't swung open either. But Marianne had already glided through. Knowing that the light would start fading out almost immediately after Marianne had gone, I yelled a rebel yell and ran to the doors.

I hit the doors with the heels of my hands, making them swing open. As I passed the threshold, I had to skid to a stop.

Instead of the stacks, there was a stairway going down. "What?..."

I looked around and Marianne wasn't around. I peered down the stairway and still couldn't find her. "Marianne!" I cried. "Where are you!?"

I looked back - the doors were swung open permanently so the light shone through. They haven't faded away. Yet.

By that light, I walked down the stairs. I walked down gingerly. The wooden stairs creaked spookily as I stepped on each board, but I held the panic away and walked down carefully. When I stepped off the stairs, I looked around. Instead of a basement, it was just a big empty space. It felt like a big, empty underground parking lot.

I looked back up the stairs, and Marianne was there, standing silhouetted in the light from the hallway.

What now, I thought...

Author’s Postscript: I thought I'd knock together a chapter of the story, just in time for Halloween.

- Bobbie

click here to read my old Working Girl Blogs, click here to read all of my blogs, click here to read my stories in BCTS, and click here to see my profile & know more about me.

The Library: Rewrite

Part Four: Broken Brick Wall by Roberta J. Cabot Being chased by a bunch of zombified students was not my idea of a restful Saturday night at the movies. To be fair, though, I didn't think the kids were expecting to spend their Saturday being zombies, either. Given that Marie was helping me get away from them, I'm sure she wasn't responsible for the kids. But who was? In just two days, the it's as if the details of my life were slowly being rewritten. Like a book undergoing a redraft. But the changes weren't bad. I had friends now, two of them gorgeous babes who apparently were my best friends, and I now seem to be closer to mother. Sure, there were things that weren't exactly stuff I was hoping for, or actually want - things like changes to my body, or that I am now plagued by a French-speaking ghost and a bunch of zombies. I have to understand what this is all about, because everything is starting to become too crazy. My name is Mark. And this is the continuation of my Halloween story.

*** Mark ***

After Marie, the ghost, led me to a basement level underneath the library to escape the zombies upstairs, I finally caught my breath.

"Vous êtes en sécurité ici," Marie said. "Pour le moment."

I wondered what she meant by that. I mean, why would this place be safer than upstairs? This basement, or whatever it is, was huge, and since it was empty, it made the cavernous place feel even more huge. More huge? What is the right phrase... I mean "énorme."

"Que voulez-vous dire?" I asked. "Quel est cet endroit? Et qu'est-il arrivé aux gens là-haut dans la bibliothèque?"

She shrugged. "Je ne sais pas," she said.

"Mais ils se comportent comme des zombies!"

Marie giggled as she walked down the stairs. And that got me a little iritated. Well, at least being angry was better than being scared.

"Qu'est-ce que c'est?" I asked. She continued to giggle as she made her ghostly way to me.

"Quoi?"

As she stood beside me, her giggling was starting to really bug me.

"Quoi! Es-tu en train de te moquer de moi!"

"Are you hearing yourself, mon amour?" she asked me.

"Que voulez-vous dire?" I asked, and then it suddenly dawned on me.

"Oh, mon dieu!" I exclaimed. "I am speaking en français!"

"Effectivement," Marie agreed.

"Tell me what is happening!" I cried. I had to consciously force myself to speak in English. What came out was indeed English, but with a decidedly french accent. It wasn't as if I forgot English - I mean, I still know it, and have not forgotten anything - but my way of enunciating, my cadence: those things seem to require a deliberate effort now, to make me sound American instead of it just being instinctual. It was like English was now relegated to a second language for me. But my sudden fluency in French was not the thing that was most troubling. What was troubling was that French now seemed to my first language, as in, it was what I seemed to be the most comfortable with now. As I thought of it, I realized that my thoughts - my inner dialogue - seems to be in French now.

The ghostly girl felt sorry for me, and tried to give me a hug, but her ghostly arms just passed through me.

"Oh, ma soeur bien-aimée," she said sorrowfully. Her ghostly voice was faint but was quite clear and distinct.

"You have said that before," I said, but with my new accent. " How can I be your sister anyway?"

Marie sighed and started to speak, but I couldn't hear anything.

"Qu'est-ce que vous avez dit? I cannot hear you?"

Marie's hands went to her throat, and her expression turned into fear.

I saw her mouth move and I could see she said, "Ils savent!" - "they know..."

"Who?" I asked. "Who knows? And what do they know?"

Marie looked at me. She tried to reach for my hand, but it was as if here hand and arm was made of smoke. She looked at me with irritation and impatience and, instead, waved at me to follow.

She glided to the farther end of the cavernous basement, as you would your friendly neighborhood creepy ghost, and I jogged to follow. All the time she was speaking, but I could not hear anything. As we reached the far wall, The little light that we had coming from the swinging doors had become less and less, since it was a good twenty feet from the foot of the stairs.

I fetched against the wall. Feeling the alternating roughness and smoothness of the wall, I knew the wall it was in red brick, with several portions of the wall having collapsed because of the crumbling mortar. This place was old! Maybe ten years or more. And incredibly scary as well.

Nevertheless, I spied a light switch on the part of the wall near me. Instinctively, I flicked it on without thinking, like you would a wall switch when you're in a dark room, and I was rewarded with maybe several dozen ancient lightbulbs turning on, their yellow light casting enough illumination to show that the basement was indeed enormous, with floor space being about twice that of a football pitch, ummm, I mean a soccer field. Mon Dieu, what is happening to me?

I saw Marie floating near the brick wall maybe six metres, I mean twenty feet, away from me. Merde! This is very frustrating!

She was trying to feel the wall, searching for something. But she was un fantôme, so she could not touch anything. However, she was still able to find what she was looking for and waved for me to come closer.

I nodded and approached her. In the dim light of the old lightbulbs, I was able to make out the part of the wall she was pointing at, where a few bricks in the crumbling wall were sticking out. She was telling me something but I couldn't make it out. But by her gestures, I was able to understand what she wanted. So I reached out, grasped the first brick and pulled it out. I did the same thing with the second brick, but this second one seemed stuck. Planting my feet firmly, I grunted and pulled it out of the wall.

"Aiie!" I exclaimed as I fell backwards on le joufflu. Rubbing it, I stood up. "That hurt like un fils de pute," I said to myself, and looked at the hole made by the bricks I pulled out of the wall. Now what? I looked to Marie, and she was frantically gesturing at the wall.

I didn't really understand what she was trying to say, but I think she wanted me to look through the hole made by the two bricks. It seemed that there was a hollow area behind the wall. I took my mobile and switched on la app de lampe de poche.

In my mobile's light, I looked through the large hole and, inside, I saw a couple of notebooks covered in centimètres of dust. Those must be it.

I thought about how to get to them but there was no other choice - I had to enlarge the hole. I put my fingers in and tried to pull out the adjacent bricks. Again, I planted my feet firmly and pulled again. Nothing budged the first eight times but in la neuvième fois, I felt something give. On la dixième fois, I was successful - too successful, actually, since that section of the wall collapsed.

And I fell on le derriere. Again.

Marie found it hilarious and she laughed herself silly. Although, without any sound, it was like la pantomime. There was one good thing here. I wasn't as scared of Marie. In fact, I thought she was nice. Aside from being un fantôme, of course.

The hole was big enough for me to reach in and pick through les décombres, I mean the debris, and got the two notebooks.

I used my sleeve to wipe the accumulation of years of dust and they turned out to be diaries. I was about to open the first one but then I noticed the flickering of la lumière de la bibliothèque à l'étage. Oh, excusez-moi, I mean the light from the library upstairs.

I looked back to the stairway I came down from, and the zombified kids were there in the doorway. They were starting to mill around., like they were becoming restless. Some of them were reaching out, as if testing if they could get through, but something was preventing them, and would pull back their arms quickly.

"Marie," I said, "le zombies - they will be coming down. They will catch us - catch me. I do not know who or what is doing this, and for what purpose. And why me. And Why I am talking this way, why I am changing, who are my new friends. Why? Why, why, why! Dieu, tout cela peut lentement vous rendre fou..."

I looked up, and Marie was looking at me compassionately. She gestured for me to follow her further down, deeper into the basement. She was moving, or gliding quite fast, so I had to jog just to keep up with her.

At the end of the basement, there was a steel door, like an old-fashioned coal cellar door. Maybe there was an old heater here when this basement was still in use. Marie gestured to that door, and I grasped the door handle.

As I was about to turn it and push the door open, I paused. I could not see them yet - they were still too far, and the basement was very dark to begin with - but I could hear their shuffling, and they were definitely in the basement already, and were on their way.

I turned back to the door and pushed it open. After half a dozen tries, I was rewarded with a small shower of dirt. It would have been more but the dirt and soil was caked and packed down, not to mention the rain had made the mud sticky. This door was never opened in a while, and there was at least deux pouces... two inches of dirt on the ground that I had to push against.

I took out my mobile and switched on le flashlight app again. In my mobile's LED light, it was indeed a coal cellar basement door which led to the outside. I could actually see les étoiles when I looked up.

Slipping a little bit in the small layer of mud, I stepped out. I then carefully closed the door. La lumiere showed steps, and I carefully climbed it, trying not to slip in la boue... the mud.

*** Mark ***

When I climbed out, I found myself across the street from la bibliothèque, I mean the library. I was surrounded by the crumbling old ruins that most kids in the university have seen hundreds of times and ignored.

I peeked over the remnants of the ruined brick wall that I have seen so many times but hardly paid attention to, and I saw the library in its full eerie splendour but, tonight, it was even more eerie.

The streetlights around the library were fading in and out, and the security lights and floodlights of the building were likewise flickering. But more than that...

Mon dieu...

Around the building, ghostly spectres like a dozen Will-o'-the-wisps, were flying around and through the building, and the library was bathed in their ghostly light. That and the flickering street lights made the gothic building even more scary. And even this far away, I could hear ghostly cackling.

But there were no cars anymore - no people. But it wasn't that late yet.

I looked at my wristwatch and saw that it was almost four AM... Not again!

Four AM - the witching hour - and it's almost over.

I looked back at the cellar door where I came from, and I saw Marie, floating nearby. She was making gestures in the air, like a conjurer would, and then pointed to a nearby tree.

The small tree suddenly fell and effectively blocked the doorway.

She then floated down and came to me. She held a finger over her lips and shushed me.

Of all the ridiculous...

And then she pointed to the ghostly apparitions that were presently cavorting around the building across the street. Ahhh. I kept quiet then, and tried not to be noticed.

I stayed behind the crumbling brick wall and watched the spirits. It was like a fête... I mean a party, for ghosts. But that was one party I did not want be at.

I then heard muffled pounding - it was the zombies trying to get past the cellar door. But they could not get through anymore.

Slowly, though, the pounding faded, and as I looked, the ghostly spectres disappeared one by one, and the cackling faded away.

I looked at my watch and saw that it was already 4:03AM. The witching hour was over now.

I sat on the broken wall and sighed in relief.

"Is it over?" I asked her.

"Pour ce soir," she said in her ghostly voice. She could speak again.

"For the moment?" I asked.

"Au moins."

She gestured at the dusty diaries in my hand and looked at me.

"I will read them," I said. She nodded.

"When will I see you again?" I asked.

She waved at me. "Soon," she said, and faded away.

I sighed. I stood up and looked to la bibliothèque. I mean the library. I suppose it was safe now. I could feel it. Rather than go back through the basement, I walked across the grass and to the other side of the street.

As I got there, there was a steady stream of kids coming out of the building, thankfully not acting like zombies anymore. They did look a little bewildered, wondering why they were still in the library at this late hour. I giggled. If they only knew what they were doing before.

Across the intersection, I walked to the cafe, and I found my little Aprilia that was still chained to the lamp post. I unchained it, Took my helmet out from under the netting, lifted the seat and deposited the two diaries in the compartment, sat down and started it up.

Its engine sounded loud in the still, quiet night, so I did not rev it too much. I swept my blond hair from underneath my leather jacket so it laid out on the back of the jacket instead of under it, put on my helmet on and pulled away from the curb. That did not feel right.

Turning down University Drive, I made for my apartment. I wondered what Kristy and Nancy are doing now.

Author’s Postscript: I apologize for typos and grammar. I will clean it up later - I didn't have much time to proofread and still make the 8PM schedule.

- Bobbie

click here to read my old Working Girl Blogs, click here to read all of my blogs, click here to read my stories in BCTS, and click here to see my profile & know more about me.

The Library: Rewrite

Part Five: In Marianne's Own Words by Roberta J. Cabot Yet another scary night. At least it was all over now. For the moment, at least. That basement, and the ruins across the street from the library - they were ancient. Much older than the library. I can only assume that the reason that basement, or whatever it was, was cleared out was because the university. Maybe they're thinking of using it for something, maybe an annex or a storage area for the library. But then, why was it inaccessible to everyone? In fact, it wasn't there when it was daytime. And I suppose the whole purpose of Marie bringing me there was just to retrieve those diaries. I was burning to read them. Maybe I can do that when I got back to the apartment.But then I remembered I had a date, with Laurie the coffee girl. A date... Mon dieu. It is embarassing to admit it, but this would be my first date. In any case, it was my dearest wish that Marie does not show up while I was on my date. Dates and fantôme - they do not go well together... My name is Mark. And this is the continuation of my Halloween story.

*** Mark ***

I rode my replica Aprilia RS50 Rossi moped as fast as I could, hurrying back to my appartement. I looked at my watch and I saw it was already four-thirty in the morning. I do not want to get there while the girls were just getting ready for the work - for some reason I knew that they would wake up at around five so that they could be ready to leave by six AM.

But in less than dix minutes, I was back.

I did, however, switch off my motor and coasted to the curb for the last few mètres - that way, I would not wake up the girls.

I went into the house on my tippy-toes, went to ma chambre and quickly changed into mon pyjamas.

I stood in front of my mirror and, as I was looking at myself, I was shocked to see that I was now a blonde.

- - - - -

Pretty soon, I could hear my two friends stirring. After a moment, I heard their shower. Someone knocked on my bedroom door and, without waiting for me to repsond, Kristy came in.

"Markie?" she said, clad in nothing but a bra and panties, with a towel thrown casually over a shoulder. "Cute jammies," she giggled. "Can I use your shower? Nancy beat me to ours..."

I looked at her. I will never get over how beautiful Kristy was. Her and Nancy. I mutely pointed to my en suite bathroom.

"Thank you kindly, young sir," Kristy said in her native Southern accent, which she knew I liked (how I knew that, I do not know). She proceeded to the shower.

After a minute, I heard the shower start.

That meant I was alone - the two girls were taking their showers. So I decided to make them some breakfast. I knew I was no cook in any shape or form but, for some reason, I felt like cooking something this morning.

In the little kitchen, I looked through the cupboards, and I found some canned peaches, some eggs, apples and dry chinese sausages in a packet. But nothing more appropriate for breakfast.

And there was no fresh bread. All there were was three-fourths of a loaf of stale bread from last week. "Oh, ben ça alors," I exclaimed in frustration. It seemed that Olivia had forgotten the bread. I guess I, or one of the girls will need to go to 7-Eleven sometime today.

I decided to make pain perdu, ummm, I mean french toast. After all, what else can one do with stale bread? Besides, unlike in France, where they consider this more like dessert, nous américains like le french toast for breakfast.

I opened le frigidaire and got a carton of milk, poured some into a bowl, cracked some eggs into it, added un peu de sucre et de cannelle, I mean sugar and cinnamon, and started beating le eggs.

I then noticed my words... I was mixing Français with Américain! I must stop doing that! Damn!

I then soaked the stale bread in the mixture, put some butter in a skillet and started frying them. In another skillet, I got some of the chinese sausages, cut them in half, added some chopped scallions and garlic, and fried them.

I then cored some apples, quartered them, dipped them liberally in sugar, and put them in the oven.

Pretty soon, Nancy, fresh and clean from her shower and wearing her usual blue scrubs and a cardigan came in.

"Whoah!" she reacted. "You're awake!"

"I thought I would cook you two some breakfast for a change," I said. "Go and take your seat." I put the carton of milk, the jug of orange juce, some marmalade, a squeeze-bottle of honey I found near the bread bin, and started some coffee.

Nancy set three plates and appropriate cutlery in three place settings and sat. "So, blondie, what's for breakfast?"

Blondie. She said that like she has always known me to be a blonde...

"Did someone say breakfast?" Kristy came in, squeaky clean and wearing her usual white nurse's tunic and trousers.

"Good morning, gorgeous," she said, and bussed me on the cheek. She gave Nancy a quick hug and sat.

"I thought I would make you the french toast and some sausages."

The girls giggled. "The french toast," Nancy giggled. "Your accent is so sexy, Markie, I can listen to it all day."

I gave her le razzberry (heehee) and dished up my food.

"Mmmm!" Kristy said. "This is pretty good!"

"Put some butter on the toast," I suggested, "and then some honey."

They followed my suggestion, and then I put little cubes of peaches on top of the honey.

"Mmm!"

I poured them some coffee as they went through the toast and sausages like buzz-saws. So I dished up some more toast for them. And they finished those in nothing flat as well.

In mere minutes, they had finished everrything, and were eyeing my toast as I took a bite. They were looking at my food like bulldogs contemplating a steak.

"No!" I said, giggling. "This is mine! You cannot have any!"

"Awww..."

My little kitchen timer dinged and I got up to bring out my roasted apples. I let them cool down for a minute and put the entire non-stick pan on the dinner table.

The thin layer of carameled sugar gave the apple slices a crunchy texture, and they enjoyed those as well.

"So," I said, drinking a tall glass of milk, "what time do you think you will be back from your shifts in the hospital?"

"It's a Sunday today, so it'll just be a half-shift," Kristy replied. "We should be back by two or so. Do you want to do something?"

"Actually," I said, a bit hesitantly, "I have a date today. I might not be in until late."

"Oooh!" Nancy squealed. "So who's the lucky guy?" But Kristy elbowed her. "Ummm, I mean 'lucky girl?'"

I wondered what that was about. "Laurie?" I replied. "She works in my favorite café?"

"Hmmm..." Kristy said. "Where is this café?"

"It is that cute café and pâtisserie across that street from the library? She is one of the barristas there."

"Hmmm... are you sure about this? I mean, a barrista - you can do better."

Nancy was shocked. She hit Kristy on the shoulder. "Kris!" she scolded. "How can you say that? That's got nothing to do with anything!"

"What! Markie can do better."

"If you don't know what you said wrong, then I'm not talking to you for the rest of the day." She then turned to me. "So, Markie. Is she nice? Is she cute?" It was a transparent attempt at changing the subject, but I appreciated it.

"Yes," I said. "Very much. I like her."

"Where are you going for your date?"

"Laurie said she wanted to go to the State Fair. It is the last day today, so it would be her last chance. But..."

"But what, dear?"

"It is embarassing to admit it, but this is my first real date... and, to be honest, I am a little nervous." I laughed a bit at my sophomoric little admission.

Nancy came around and gave me a kiss. "Don't be. Just be yourself - be your natural, charming and cute self, and it'll all be fine." She kissed me again. "But, more than that, have fun!"

"I'll try. Thank you, Nancy."

- - - - -

It was nearing 6AM, so the two hurried to their little auto, and roared away towards the university hospital just as the sun was peaking out over the horizon.

I waved from the curb and watched them go down Elm and hang a right on University Drive, and in seconds, they were out of sight.

As they were driving away, I had seen through the rear windscreen Nancy yelling at Kristy as she drove. I guess Nancy got really irritated by what Kristy said. Oh, well. C'est la vie.

For a minute or so, I stood at the curb, just on the off-chance that they might come back. But when I was sure that the girls have gone, I went to my moto in the shed. I got the diaries from underneath the seat and brought them to the house.

But, as I was about to step through the door, I had some second thoughts - I decided to knock les deux journaux against each other to shake the dirt and dust from them. I coughed a little bit with the dust, but I shook out most of the dirt.

I brought them into the kitchen, got several paper towels and wetted them a little bit, and used them to wipe down the outside covers of the two notebooks.

I poured myself une tasse de café, sat down and took a deep breath.

"All right, dear child," I said to myself. "Be brave."

I opened the first one and started reading.

*** Mark and Marie ***

I read the cover page, and it said, in French, "My Personal Journal, Marianne Archer - June 1989."

Wow.

I felt my hand tremble a bit. This was Marie's handwriting. Oh, my god. The ghost.

I took a sip of my coffee, took another breath, and opened to the first page, and read her words. It was all in French, but it was a sign how much I have accepted my new changes that I wasn't jumping out of my skin anymore everytime I caught myself speaking or thinking in French, or looking at my new newly blonde hair.

The trick, I found, was to not to think about it.

I started to read.

- - - - -
So, dear diary. Let me introduce myself: my name is Marianne Nicolette LePortier Archer, the only child of Abigail and Matthew. I am new to America, and am just about to start university.

I must call mama and papa, and tell them what has happened.

Author’s Postscript: Again, sorry for typos and grammar. I will clean it up later - as usual, I am scrambling to finish by my 8PM eastern deadline, so I didn't have any time to proofread.

- Bobbie

click here to read my old Working Girl Blogs, click here to read all of my blogs, click here to read my stories in BCTS, and click here to see my profile & know more about me.