Work Text:
Day 1: I think the library might be haunted.
You look at the drying ink on the page, wondering if the three hours of sleep you got last night is getting to you.
It’s easy for your mind to wander in the library. Especially on nights like these, when no one wanders in for hours, when every slight noise echoes across the giant bookcases, when the dark corners seem full of monsters. It’s human instinct to grow wary, the deep-seated monkey-brain part of you on edge.
But this has been more than that. It's why you’ve decided to write stuff down, to catalog all the weird occurrences.
March 11th:
- Books in the YA section have been reorganized methodically to the dewey decimal system. Supervisor complimented me on my thorough work, and I know I did not do that good of a job.
- Air conditioner that has not worked for months sputtered to life this morning after I complained about the summer heat. No one has been able to figure out what happened.
You look at your list, those doubtful thoughts once again creeping into your mind. These really could be explained away as happenstance, pure coincidence, or another fault of your sluggish, sleep-deprived mind.
But you must push on. They may jot happen everyday, but these oddities have stuck out to you the past couple weeks. You’re hoping that by writing them down you’ll either see a pattern that ascribes logic to all of this, or see that there’s no connection at all and be assured it's just your own overreaction.
The rest of your shift goes relatively normally, nothing too odd occurring. You allow yourself to sink into the normal routine of sorting books, helping patrons and cleaning. It’s a nice rhythm and it’s hard not to feel peaceful in it.
Even with an extra pair of eyes watching you.
—
You must really love this new artist. With the library closed down for the night you don’t stop your humming, nor the shimmying of your shoulders and hips. You even walk with a slight bounce, headbanging to the heaviest parts. It’s enough of a distraction that you completely miss a book falling from your cart, nearly left behind as you trot into the new section. Luckily, Gene is able to grab it just as quickly and slot into the cart, right next to the other books of the same genre. You continue to bop, muttering some half-lyrics under your breath as you sort books.
Ah, they’re always so cute when they dance.
For an avid reader who died in a library, you'd think Gene would never be lacking in entertainment. And yet after ninety odd years, even Gene had to admit reading could be snore.
But then you showed up.
You, the vibrant, young librarian, just bursting with passion. Who took the extra time to recommend a series based on people’s tastes, who always volunteered to be the reader at kids reading circle, enthusiastically acting out each part. Who remembered each familiar face and what they had just finished and what they were hoping to read next.
If we had met when I was alive, would they remember me, too?
Just the thought of talking to you has Gene in a tailspin, hands throne over their translucent face as if they still blushed like before.
No way.
You were so you and they were so themselves. Even if they were alive, Gene would never have the courage to come up to you. Not with that radiant smile, or your laugh…
At first Gene and contented themselves just to watch you. Convince themselves you were the first new face in a while, all your coworkers being people in their 60’s who had worked at the library for 30+ years. That hearing you banter over the phone was like watching a sitcom, getting a snapshot into an idealized life.
But then you had a particularly bad day, nothing going to plan. Someone had screamed at you, your coffee had spilled the minute you stepped into the building, and your hair was acting strange. You had hidden in a storage closet and cried, and Gene felt their dead heart breaking all over again.
That was the day they started helping, in their own way. It was win-win, really. You had most of your inconveniences done away with, and Gene got to feel like they were actually interacting with you. Like you guys were friends.
Maybe more, one day.
Gene sighs, breath unneeded but the emotion too heavy not to. The watch as you bop down another aisle, doing a quick air-guitar in between the aisles.
It seems I might be in over my head.
—
Day 5: WHAT THE FUCK IS GOING ON?!!!
After a whole week’s worth of observations, your fears have been confirmed, not assuaged.
Something weird is happening. Umbrella’s don’t just pop up when the weather takes an unexpected turn and you forget yours at home. Fridges don;’ just close when you forgetfully leave them open. But the most damning thing of all is-
Some kid spilled apple juice all over one of the tables today. Luckily no books were harmed, but I went to go get some paper towels while the mom rushed her kid to the bathroom. When I was back, the table was clean. No bystanders, no thrown out paper towels, nothing.
I work alone today.
Something is happening, even if it's not necessarily a bad thing. More of just an odd thing, in a guardian angel sort of way.
You’re not sure where to go from here. You had hoped this journal would lead you somewhere, some kind of resolution. But this half-answer gave you nothing but confusion. And maybe a little gratitude.
Maybe…you should just leave it alone. Let your angel do their magic, and take the extra generosity when you can.
You’re closing up for the day, headphones left in their case as you put away leftover books and move the carts around. Your ears are pricked for another person, a small part of you still convinced that there must be someone else hiding. The front entrance has already been locked, you’re in a bottle here.
Nothing, not a peep. Not even a kid who lost track of time reading and hasn’t realized the library was closed. It’s quiet, too quiet.
With all the closing tasks done, all your stuff shoved into your bag, you’re just about ready to go home. It’s a bit anticlimactic, and you start wondering if this ghost theory came from a need to spice up your life a bit.
Still, you can’t help the feeling…
Right before you turn off the lights, bag slung over your shoulder, you turn to the looming library.
“Um, I don’t know if anyone’s actually there, but I just wanted to say…uh…thank you. For helping me out. If that’s what you're doing, anyway. I guess I don’t know it’s for my benefit but…I appreciate it.”
Silence lingers, echoes off long stacks of books. No response.
You sigh, wondering what you were thinking in the first place. You flick off the lights, turn towards the door and start moving for your car keys.
“You’re welcome.”
Your body bag hits the ground with a thump as you nearly jump 2 feet in the air, heart kicked into overdrive. Eyes darting around, your blood pumps fast across your chest, neurons firing.
“Holy shit.” You hold out a hand like calming a wild predator, even though there’s still only empty space all around you.
That was real, you heard that. It had to be.
“H-hello?” Anyone there?
Like a Dickensian dream, the kind that has you rubbing your eyes and questioning your sanity, a half-see through apparition peaks its head from behind a bookshelf. If it weren’t for the faded apparation proving your initial ideas correct, the fact that they’re hovering 3 feet off the ground would have.
Oh my god, I was right.
“Hello.” A gentle voice whispers, the transatlantic accent already apparent. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you.” They tug at their long sleeves, eyes darting all over the place. The dumb expression of shock on your face probably isn’t helping.
“It’s no problem! I wasn’t scared…just surprised.” You rub the back of your neck, the beating of your heart slowing down just a bit. Of all the ghosts to meet in your lifetime, this one seemed pretty nice. “Um, I’m ____, Nice to meet you.” Taking a step forward, you hold out your hand, then pull it back, wondering if a bow would make more sense. Then you stop and think “That’s stupid”, and hold out your hand again.
God, even around dead people I am so awkward.
But it’s enough to make the ghost giggle, peeking out from behind the bookshelf. They hover over, laced shoes just barely touching the ground, and take your hand in a handshake
Touching their skin feels like touching a pile of feathers; A tickling of sensations that only last for a second, a vague imprint before it’s only air behind. It’s interesting, and less unnerving than you thought it would be.
“I’m Gene. It’s a pleasure to meet you, ___. Officially.”
You nod along, brain still reeling from the revelations currently occurring.
Though their silhouette is partially transparent you can see the hints of color of their clothing. Some faded brown slacks, tucked into high socks and shoes. Their button up is loose and striped, not as pressed or finely cut as for a suit, but more for everyday. All in all it looks like an oufti you could see being worn by a hipster of today, or a particular dedicated historian.
“It’s a pleasure to meet you too. I think I already know the answer, but, are you the one who's been helping me?”
Gene’s face goes dark, no blood flowing through their veins but their blush still apparent. They tuck a stray lock of hair behind their ear, twirling it nervously.
“Yes…that was me. I never meant to spook you, it’s just…” Gene yanks at the wayward hair, eyes still pointed to the ground. “...seemed right, to help around. I have been sort of free-loading here in the afterlife.”
You nod along, silently cheering that your mad hypothesis was correct after all.
“Well, thank you, again. It’s actually been really nice, someone having my back all this time.” You scratch the back of your neck. “How long have you been here, anyway?”
“About, 90-ish years, now? I can’t remember the exact day, just that it was a Sunday, and I had come here on my day off. I loved this place.” Gene looks all around at the library. It’s a mix of nostalgia and melancholy, a quiet resignation.
“And…it’s just been you? No other ghosts around?”
“Nope.” Gene sighs a nonexistent breath, rubbing the bridge of their nose. “Just me. Guess I’m only one to be foolish enough to die in a library. By a copy of Moby Dick, no less.”
“Oh.”
There’s a twisting in your gut, a primal sadness at the fact. The library was large, larger than most, but even you felt stifled after working a particularly long shift. There were some windows added in recent decades, but the old construction of the building meant little light often crept in. The tall bookcases didn’t help, making the place seem more cramped and constricting than it was. It was nice in bursts, but nine whole decades?
And they still found the time to help me out.
You had been planning on heading home and crashing, maybe vegging out in front of the TV before dragging yourself to bed. It feels too anticlimactic now, given how this night is going.
What to do? You don’t want to ask too many prying questions, even though you’re dying to know more about the afterlife. Feels a little too personal, even tasteless. Then again, you can’t just leave. Not after they made the effort to introduce themselves, and have been your guardian angel these past few weeks.
“What books do you like?”
Gene looks slightly taken aback, their brow furrowing.
“Uhm, a little bit of everything, I suppose. I’ve read just about everything here. But I guess if I had to choose….” That blush returns, coloring their cheeks a slightly darker hue. “...Mystery. I’m partial to Mystery novels..”
“Mystery, huh?” You tap your chin, thinking about the last shipment of books you got. “Any particular favorites?”
Gene’s see-through eyes somehow light up, their mouth quirking into a grin.
“Agatha Christie, oh for sure Agatha Christie. I actually-” Gene stutters over their words, suddenly sheepish, “-I was reading one of her books when it…” They look upward at the tall bookshelves, rubbing a non-existent bump on the back of their head, “...when it happened.” Gene shrugs their shoulders. “Guess I was too lost in thought.”
Well, at least they have good humor about it, it seems.
“Oh, she’s really good! I’ve only read the Murder of Roger Ackeroyd, but I remember loving it when I did.” The library training kicks in, the familiar Christie Christie Christie you had to shelve and the countless kids reading her for English class haunting you. “We have a pretty decent mystery collection, their on the-”
“Third row down, shelves 28-30?”
Gene’s hand point the same way, not even looking in the direction.
“Oh, yeah, sorry. Force of habit.”
Gene’s cheeks darken again in a blush, waving their hands back and forth. “I-it’s no problem! I know this place a little too well, by now I've read about every mystery book it’s ever had. I think I’m stuck with that knowledge forever.”
You’re about to say something, maybe ask them more about the books, when the clock chimes.
It’s an old clock, installed up at the front back in the 70’s. It still chimes at every hour, little less useful now that everyone carries clocks in their pocket.
“My Apologies!” Gene blusters, floating form jerking a bit upright. “I’m keeping you so late, you’d probably be home by now if not for me.” Gene’s hands tug at their sleeves, which probably would be threadbare at this point if not for the fact they are incorporeal.
“It’s no problem! I don't live that far anyway. Besides, what kind of person would I be if I didn’t thank my savior properly?”
Gene averts their eyes, a small smile on their face. The bask in the praise, sinking into it like a warm blanket.
Cute.
The thought surprises even you, the apple of your cheeks feeling hot.
“Do you like movies?”
Gene eyebrow furrows, a small dimple on the side of their cheek. It’s a sign of their thinking, a small detail you’re slowly starting to pick up again.
“I enjoy them. I saw a couple when I was alive. Those and the few they put on here, sometimes.”
Ahh, and those are few and far between. Most of them are stuffy documentaries or animated children's movies. Not that those are bad, per say, but it seems alongside everything else, Gene has been deprived of most other genres while trapped in the library.
An idea blossoms in your mind, locking the front door behind you and setting down your backpack.
“Gene, I think I found a way to pay back those kind deeds.”
“You don’t need to do that-”
“Nope, I’m gonna.” There’s almost a skip to your step as you hurry to the employee office, specifically the larger closet in the very back. It’s filled with all the stuff needed for those rare movie nights; blankets, pillows, foldable chairs for stability. You shove all of those into a big laundry basket, then gently fold the projector screen and tuck the projector on top of the soft pile.
Gene is in the same spot as before, puzzled as you bring out more and more things.
“And, of course.” You shake an old box of microwave popcorn. “No movie night is complete without this.” You ripe open the bag with some fanfare, popping it into the staff microwave before running back out.
“Movie night?” Gene tilts their head, reminding you too much of a puppy.
“Yeah!” You lay out the first blanket, setting some chairs up at all corners, then draping another blanket on top. “A wonderful modern soiree, The movie night is a classic occasion that everyone has to experience once in their life. Or, afterlife.”
The lights in the library are still slightly dimmed, only two flickering from when you were closing up. But they don’t seem as spooky as they did before, much more cozy.
Gene peaks their head in as you fluff up more pillows and blankets, using other chairs as supportive backs so the two of you can sit up.
You sit back on your legs, admiring your cozy masterpiece.
“Ta-da!”
Gene leans further in, feeling up the soft fleece and cotton. Their thumbs run circles over the fabric. It makes you wonder the last time they even laid in a bed, let alone wrapped themselves in the blanket.
“And I have just the movie too! You’re gonna love it.”
You prop the projector up on a seat covered in a thin sheet, shuffling out of the fort to hang up the projector on a nearby wall. By the time you’re turned around, you see Gene has curled themselves into the blanket fort, knees tucked into their chest, sitting on top of the blankets. You grab the now hot popcorn from the microwave, pour it into the large communal bowl, snag the nearby remote and join them, turning the device on and connecting it to your phone.
“Here, I got this just for ya.” You hand Gene a fleece blanket, a boldly decorated Lion King Merch blanket someone’s mom has donated too many years ago.
Gene takes it like it’s hot, holding it daintily in their hands.
“Oh, thank you.”
They lay it over their lap, smoothing out the wrinkles. Their back is ramrod straight.
“First rule of blanket fort, coziness comes first.” You quickie burrito yourself in blankets, settling the bowl in between you two.
Gene takes your hint, shoulders unlocking, knees untucking and splaying out in front of them. They daintily rest their nonexistent weight on the back of the pillow.
A familiar streaming site pops up on the director and your quick to search for your movie of choice.
“ Knives out ? I think I may have heard of this one.”
“Oh yeah, it was a huge hit. Really good mystery movie.”
You click play, hands shuffling through the bowl of popcorn and stuffing your mouth. You hold up the bowl for Gene.
Gene looks at the bowl, brows still crossed.
Wait a minute.
You struggle to swallow the handful of popcorn.
“Sorry…can you eat? I just realized, uh-”
A translucent hand shifts around the popcorn, moving it just like a corporeal one would. Gene lifts it up, just as surprised as you are that they can hold it.
“I don’t need to eat. But I guess I never tried to before. Never too many options.”
Gene daintily pops a popcorn into their mouth, mouth chewing in slow motion. 9 decades later, they're almost out of practice.
A dramatic swallow, and…
“Apparently I can.”
“Hell yeah.”
—
3/4th’s into the movie, your long shift finally hits you. It’s slow and gradual at first, Gene only noticing once your head hits their shoulder, a soft tap, half-of a sensation.
You’re still snuggled up into your blanket, the warmth of your body seeping into their half-one. Gene never realized how cold they were until they touched your hand earlier tonight. They had forgotten just how hot human bodies were.
But you don’t flinch away or shy from the cold breeze, snuggling deeper into the soft sensation, the weird texture of touching something half-way in this dimension.
If they still had a heart, Gene’s would surely be thumping wildly. So long they had wondered what it would be like, talking to you, doing things with you, touching you.
A stray hair falls onto your forehead. Gene brushes it away, goosebumps rolling down your neck. You look so cute like this, relaxed and in your element.
Maybe there could be something after all.