The Library in the Bookshelf.

The stillness in the air is only interrupted by the loud ticking clock that stood in the corner of my room. I clutched my scarf tighter, pulling the fabric closer for some warmth. Slowly blowing off the steam rising from my coffee, I pulled back the curtains and sat down. The outside was bathed in fog. If I didn’t know better, I would have thought it was snowing. Everything looked so white and grey. Except for the tiny black and white dots moving around through the lawns occasionally, the place seems deserted. Even though my eyes are on the grounds, my mind was still reeling from the shock of what had happened in the past couple of weeks. Peter being missing, the Angel, me losing all my memories of Peter and something inexplicable that had finally reminded me of Peter. I ran my fingers across the scar on my throat. Crescent-shaped, right in the hollow of my collar bone, it stayed a reminder for something I could not even recollect. No matter how hard I try, I cannot find an explanation for how it had come to be or what had caused it. Ghosts, Demons and Angels I had accepted all these into my life so fast. Yet now I wonder what else is out there, like something that gave me this scar.

I slowly shake my thoughts and gulp a mouthful of piping hot coffee, scalding my tongue. I force myself to look at the task on hand. Correcting answer sheets is not a glamorous job; it is a thankless job. Unless one considers the muffled curses and swear words that the students probably make after seeing the marks I have given them. Claire was hilarious; in all her answers, she has found some new subtext to Shakespeare. Creativity is not a bad thing; if this were Hogwarts, she’d be in Ravenclaw. Sadly this is not Hogwarts, and my job is not to give “ten points to Ravenclaw for Creativity and confidence in the face of not having read the book even once”. Claire will have to fail, perhaps that will help her remember that she actually has to read the books and not make up the story based on the title. This was an English examination, not a story writing competition. My wandering mind was not helping the process. A little break seemed like a good idea.

I looked at the bookshelf that I wanted to reshelve. Peter told me that the Angel had waved her hands and rearranged the bookshelf after my whole room was messed up by whatever had happened earlier. My books were all out of order. As I walked over, I grabbed my sweater from the chair where it lay draped on the back and pulled it on. The cold was starting to get to me. I reached the bookshelf and started removing the books one by one. I like stacking them by authors and not by genre. I have a habit where I read all of the authors’ books if I finish reading even one. I have almost emptied the top shelf now, as I pull the last few books out, my sweater catches on to the jagged edges of the stand. I tug with all my might, the bookshelf seems to shake, and before I could even scream, it came tumbling towards me. I moved before it could crash on to me, thereby crushing me under it. But my hand still stuck with the shelf went under it with a sickening crunch. Slowly I pulled out my hand, to see a blue-black mark blooming from where the bookshelf had fallen. I wiggled my fingers and turned my arm, and nothing seemed broken. Gingerly I got up dusted myself off and went back to my coffee.

As I sat there sipping coffee with a little more caution, now that I had effectively scalded my tongue and bruised my hand, Peter glided into the room. He looks pale as ever, and his face has an expression of terror. What could have possibly rattled a ghost? I can’t help but think.
“You look like you’ve seen a ghost”, I joke as Peter comes closer. I smile at him despite my newly obtained injuries; Peter would take my mind off things. Talking to Peter after a rough day at school always calmed me down.
“Yes, I may as well have”, Peter says his face dead serious.
“You have seen a ghost?” I gawked. All this time of being a ghost, Peter had never seen another ghost. We had encountered a Demon and an angel, but never another spirit. Somehow this seemed worse. The timing of it is rather suspicious. My mind goes blank at this. It seems crucial, but I can’t remember.

“Well, I think it is a ghost, or it is a demon or a wraith or something we haven’t met yet “, Peter says, listing all the things that he knew were not human. He looks around the room, his eyes falling on the fallen bookshelf. “What happened here?” he asks. “I was reshelving the books, it accidentally fell over, I should have been a sandwich, but I got lucky to get off with just this”, I said, holding up my bruised hand. Peter’s face contorted with fear. He came closer to me his face inches from mine, “These accidents have been happening a lot don’t you think, conveniently when I am away. These are not coincidences, yesterday you slipped down the stairs, today a bookshelf fell on you?” he questions, then as an afterthought he says, “We have to call Hope”.

“I don’t think so, the last time I called her she erased my memories. These were accidents, nothing more. Why are you getting so worked up?” I retaliate all my good spirits, quickly evaporating. “I don’t think they are accidents, and I think something is trying to kill you”, Peter muttered.
“Why do you think that? You think what happened to me were not accidents?” I whispered as the reality set in on me. I remembered the snake I had spotted in the garden the other day. Yes, something was not right. There were no snakes at Silver Oaks, and I was blind to what was happening around me. The realisation that I don’t even know what was trying to kill me weighed me down. Everything seemed bleak all of a sudden, and I was a fool. I sat back in my chair, my coffee long forgotten.

“We should call Hope”, Peter insists. Yes, we should. I know we should.
“Why, what’s she gonna do?” I hear myself say. “Wipe off my memory again?”, I turn to Peter whose pale, translucent features had gone somewhat rigid at this. “I am sorry, that was me.”, Peter murmurs his eyes on the floor. A fraught silence followed the admission. I knew. I knew Peter made the decision, it felt like a betrayal, and I am not in the forgiving mood. Perhaps my silence affects Peter. He looked miserable. Good, let him suffer for a while.

“She warned me this might happen”, Peter finally says breaking silence between us. My brows furrowed in confusion, who was Peter talking about, I wonder. Hope. I realise, the same time I force myself to ask, “What? When? When were you planning on telling me?”. My voice has risen a few octaves than usual. Whatever pity I had for Peter had dissipated. Betrayal after betrayal. Something dark stirred inside me. If I could grab Peter, I would violently hurl him across the room. Alas, Peter being a ghost, was ungrabbable.

“I wasn’t trying to hide it. I wasn’t trying to do anything, and I couldn’t bring myself to tell you these things, it didn’t seem right. I… I didn’t want to scare you. It was right after … everything that happened. ” Peter’s voice was so low I could barely hear him. He looked pathetic, a pale form (shivering?), looking at me with hope for reconciliation. Sometimes I feel a bit cruel, but this time my cruelty felt justified. “You mean after you made me forget everything after I wandered around like a fool?”, I ask, I might have as well stabbed him. His shoulders slump, his chin droops, but he doesn’t respond. He doesn’t have to. Even a ghost can look shamefaced. I don’t want to be near him. He didn’t respect me enough to tell me the truth.

“You promised Pete. You promised, no more lies, no more secrets.”, I whisper, turning away and trying hard not to let Peter see that my eyes had filled up. I will not give him the satisfaction. “I didn’t lie”, comes his reply, “I didn’t want to scare you, I thought Hope had taken care of it. I didn’t lie to you Charlie, you know I never would”, he says floating to face me. “You weren’t exactly honest. I don’t have enough coffee in my blood for this argument.”, I mutter under my breath, not looking at Peter. Even though I had two cups of coffee, it didn’t seem enough. After all, what was the appropriate amount of coffee when you discover your ghost friend/roommate knew someone was trying to kill you but never mentioned it to you? This, after you have found that he and an angel had conspired to take your memories to forget even the existence of the ghost? I’d wager sixteen cups at the very least.

“I am going for a walk”, I say to no one in particular. I raise myself from my chair. My aching arm is protesting with each labouring step. But I don’t care, I cannot stay here any longer, my arm will probably feel even worse afterwards, but I couldn’t care less right now. Peter doesn’t stop me. He doesn’t follow me either. Good. I set off into the corridor with the Library in mind.

“Running off somewhere, Charlie?”, comes a velvety voice from the shadows. I turn around to see Dave (the bloody demon, last person I want to see now) stepping out from behind a pillar. He casually leans against the post. “Ghost boyfriend cheat on you?”, he demands unkindly. “He’s not my boyfriend”, I snap at him. Dave raises an eyebrow but says nothing. “Why are you here? We didn’t summon you.” I ask suddenly hoping Peter hasn’t done this. “No, you didn’t. I don’t have to be summoned; I can check up on friends from time to time”, Dave dodges the question. “Friends? What friends? We are not friends”, I answer furiously. “Now, now, you don’t mean that. You are hurting my feelings”, Dave exclaims one arm going to his heart to prove his point.

“Good”, I bite out, then I say nothing. If Dave was insistent on not telling me, I might as well leave. This is a game two can play. As I start to walk away, he starts talking again. “Fine. I came here to warn you, your life is in danger. You are in danger. Something far more powerful than me is trying to kill you. Don’t ask me why. Just survive, get help from above, if you must”. I hold my breath and turned back to him.

“What? Why does everyone keep telling me this? Who is trying to kill me? ” I snarled at him. He sighs resignedly. “Those accidents weren’t accidents. The water on the stairs, the random tree that almost crushed you to death, the snake in the garden and the bookshelf, none of that were accidents. I don’t know how you survived. It’s almost a miracle….. “, he trails off his eyes unfocused. For once I am silent, I have no clever comeback or sharp retort. Something tells me this is not the time for those. “But who could it be?”, I ask my voice barely audible even to me.

“Maybe someone is protecting you. But you will have a better time surviving if you eliminate the danger”, Dave continues as if I hadn’t spoken. This time stunned as I am, I manage a response. “Kill the person trying to kill me?”, I ask to be sure I understood him right. “Well…. don’t say that in so many words.” Dave protests as though saying it somehow made it worse. “What can’t say the word kill?”, I retort, only to be met with silence. Dave looks troubled. Anger wasn’t getting me anywhere. I had to try another way. After all, honey catches more flies than vinegar, or so the saying goes.
“Why are you really here?” I ask again, in what I hoped was a defeated tone. “Well I am not here to play with ants, am I? I came here to warn you. Did you listen to anything I said?”, he says sarcasm dripping off every word. And the sarcastic demon that I could just as quickly hate was back. He leaned back on the pillar and slid down without another word. Realising I looked ridiculous I sat next to him on the stone steps. “Why are you helping me?” I had to ask.

“Because I have to keep you alive. And as I understand, it is in your best interest to stay alive.”, Dave responds still beating about the bush. “Why? Why do you care?” I push. I have to know something was gnawing at me. “I am doing it for Peter, alright?”, comes his exasperated answer. I don’t know what I was expecting. But it was not this. Yet there is something in his expression, a caginess that makes me want to ask more. “Why? You are a demon. Nothing comes free with you. So what do you want?” I ask him again. This time he looks at me, his eyes have a distant fire in them. “I was like Peter once. I wandered for years without anyone seeing me. And someone offered me a way out. I foolishly took it, not realising had I waited some more I could have had peace. I became this.”, he gestures to himself as he spoke, “I want revenge”, he continued “Obviously I can’t do it. But if someone from above were to do it…. “, he trails off again, keeping his eyes trained on the grounds.

“Also, for real, your life is in danger. Keep doing to whatever it is you do at night. I hope you see the next sunrise”, he said, turning to me. Fantastic. Then as an afterthought, he says, “Meet me in the library three hours after sundown and bring a book from your bookshelf”. “Which one?”, I ask, turning to him but he’s melted off into the shadows. I am left alone sitting on those steps watching the grounds.