The next day I went to the library after lazing around in my apartment until four in the afternoon. I don’t regularly have days like that but I couldn’t seem to get up the gumption to get the day started. At first I wrote it off as subconsciously wanting some recovery time. But as the day progressed and I found myself thinking more and more about getting out it felt as if invisible ropes were holding me back. Once I concentrated my will enough I was able to cut through and get on the move.
The sky clouded over and the threat of rain was carried on the wind with that scent which is well known to those of us living in the flatter regions of the world. On days like that you could swear that you actually tasted the ozone. I wouldn’t have notice this much, except for the times when I was moving casually on the crutches toward the library and later when I did the same going into the bookstore and later yet when I left the bookstore moving as fast as the steel things would allow me.
I had a list of all the books I had found on my last trip to the bookstore before the accident and I intended to acquire as many of these as I could for research. If any of them proved to be exceptionally useful they might make it onto a list of books to purchase once I was able to draw a paycheck again. But that would have to wait for me to start work again which was a little less than a week and a half away. In the meantime I would throw myself into the investigation of just what was going on around me with as much free use of the resources as I could manage.
The first thing I did was to locate the section in which the books I was looking for might be found. But before proceeding there I got onto the library’s digital catalogue and looked up the specific volumes in question. This library only had two of the volumes I’d looked at in the bookstore. One of them I had marked as being of fair interest. It was the book Ghosts Are Here by Parker Levenson. The other was not really one I wanted but it might be able to provide something useful. The one I really wanted, the one by the skeptic, Trent Blacker, was available from another branch but there was a long list of holds for that one. I wouldn’t be able to get at it for months.
I saw on the paper that I had made a note about checking his website. I made a mental note reinforcing the written one and planned to take a closer look at what he had to say. I put a star next to the title on the paper so I would remember to take another look at it in case I was able to make it to the bookstore later that day, which I would.
After writing down a few other titles I got up and headed toward the section I needed. It was a much larger section than the one at the bookstore which I was glad to see. It also had a few more reputable books than the bookstore, featuring less stuff that was self-published or published by small publishing houses. And there was some older stuff too which is the kind of thing I really dig.
One ancient leather bound volume entitled, A Treasury of True Ghosts, caught my attention and I pulled it down from the shelf. I also located the one by Levenson I had thought was of some value from my research time in the bookstore and four others that appeared somewhat interesting. My small stack was beginning to get unwieldy and I needed to get them over to a table without spilling them so I stopped adding news ones and took what I had. The crutches made this especially difficult. I had to make a few trips.
There were several empty tables available so I took one that afforded some privacy. I set the books down and laid the crutches leaning against the side of the table and took my seat. The first book I opened was the old leather one. Remarkably I discovered that it was published within the city I called home.
“You’re a beautiful one, aren’t you,” I said as I handled it, inspecting its binding and overall quality. It was published in nineteen forty-nine and had that great old book smell. The pages were yellowed with age and I could see the places where fingers had gripped its pages, leaving behind their skin’s oils. It was a work of printed art.
It contained several accounts of people encountering the deceased spirits of soldiers who died in World War II or who had died in farming accidents or of mysterious causes. After my personal experience with the little girl in my apartment the night before, I found myself believing a lot more of the narratives I was reading.
There were even a few grainy photographs reproduced in the book. Two of them were a side by side comparison. The first showed a picture of a soldier standing stock still and all serious for the photographer. The second one was a photograph of a farmyard in the early morning. In the background was a barn with one of its doors open and standing recessed in the doorway was what appeared to be a soldier looking outside which, though taken from farther away and a little less clear, bore a striking resemblance to the other photograph. The caption under the two pictures gave the soldier’s name and the fact that the second picture was taken five days after the soldier’s body was delivered home for burial.
I believed it, I realized, without any difficulty or doubt. There was no question in my mind about a hoax or anything like that. I knew it was real. The old photos were enough. What’s more there were several other stories like that one in the book. There were stories about hotels and houses and battlefields. These tales sat fitting snug upon my sense of truth like a comfortable glove. This caused me to write down some of the information on the book so I could refer to it later.
I had determined to forego taking any of the books home in case anything like what happened in the hotel with my copy of the Bradbury book happened again. I didn’t want to have to present a lame version of the good old “the dog ate my homework” story to the library staff and end up having to pay for something I was trying to use for free. I made myself positive that whatever stood dead set against me was not going to win. I had to force myself to close the copy of Treasury and move on to some of the other ones I’d taken from the shelves.
I spent about another hour absorbed in the books and taking more notes. Finally I stretched and yawned popping my back. I closed the last book and jotted some final notes. I picked the crutches off from the side of the table and lifted myself up. I left the books on the table to be re-shelved by the helpful library staff. I had bigger fish to fry.
I had chosen to go back to the bookstore, but not for books. Twice now I’d tried to reach Katie. I knew she hadn’t been avoiding me. She’d been the one to initiate the conversation. She’d been the one to write down her phone number for me. She was clearly interested and I wasn’t about to discourage her. But I was disturbed at the fact that I’d missed her twice in the same day; I knew it was entirely possible, but I didn’t like it.