Prospero's Ghost

Part VI: McMaster University - Present Day

McMaster University - Present Day

Alan Lester moved the mouse, manipulating the icon on the screen and clicking the button to start the next print job. He looked at his watch as the Espresso Book Machine started spitting out printed pages into the collector tray. Titles bookstore had been closed for a couple of hours and he was just over half done the order. All the drama at the library had delayed the transfer of the file, making him pull a late shift to get the copies needed for the students.

He sighed. That poor kid. He couldn't even begin to imagine what the parents must be going through. Didn't want to. Right now his own son would be out of the tub, a nightly pre-bedtime bath before heading off to visit the sandman. It was the best part of the day for Alan. Stretched out on the bed, his young son curled up under the covers, sharing a story or two. He couldn't imagine not ever doing that again.

The printer stopped and the carriage hummed to life, ready for the next step in the printing process.

Alan checked his watch again. With over half the order of the book already waiting in receiving, maybe he would get out a couple more copies and then call it a night. It wouldn't be the entire order, but he could easily come in early and print off the rest. Students never came into the store first thing in the morning anyway.

He was just about to write a note to Patricia Irving, explaining the missing texts, when he heard the distinct sound of shuffling through the book stacks. He frowned, paused in his movement, listened for the sound again. When nothing came, he shrugged it off. He knew he was in the store alone. Had been for hours.

He picked up the pen again, and heard the noise, this time closer.

"Hello?" he called out, turning from the machine, pen still in hand.

No reply. No noise.

He chuckled at his own ridiculous behavior. He really had to stop reading those horror novels before bed. He stopped when the noise came again.

This time, he didn't call out, but moved, walking slowly towards the sound.

Alan turned the corner, struck by the sight of an older man, slim and gangly looking in his grey trousers and dark tweed blazer.

"Excuse me sir, how did you get in here?" Alan asked, surprised at the steadiness of his own voice despite the rapid thudding of his heart.

The man turned, revealing a haughty facial expression dominated by dark blazing eyes behind silver rimmed glasses.

"He that dies, pays all debts," he said in an even voice.

Alan frowned. "Sir?" he asked. "Do you know where you are?”

"In the company of the Bard," came the reply.

The bookstore employee looked at the sign above the closest bookshelf and realized they were indeed standing in the Shakespeare section of the store.

He thought about it. While the store was cleared out by the closing staff, it was entirely possible for them to have missed one person, quietly loitering in an out of the way section such as this. Hidden away among the stacks, the poor man could have been locked in all night

"We've been closed for quite some time, sir. Is there someone I can call to come and get you?”

"Hell is empty and all the devils are here.”

Alan frowned again. It was obvious the man was quoting Shakespeare, but he couldn't remember which one of the plays the words came from. Despite his theatre background, the Bard had never been his strong suit.

Deep in thought, he didn't notice the older man's approach until he was close enough to touch. Alan started, dropping his pen on the floor, suddenly frozen with the chill of the air around him.

The man bent down with a rickety grace. Where he would have brushed the younger man's legs, there was only a cool breeze. He was speaking as he rose up.

"You taught me language; and my profit on't is I know how to curse . . .”

Alan, wide eyed and shocked, groped blindly for the source of the pain in his neck. His hand rested on his pen, thrust into his throat by a man that seemed like he had barely enough strength to stand. He tried to pull it out, but the flow of blood was too swift, and he felt the power and will drain from his own body. He slid to the floor, his last sight and sound coming from the old man, his figure shimmering with his last words.

". . . the red plague rid you for learning me your language.”

# # #

Patricia Irving yawned as she pushed the big blue cart laden with texts down the deserted hallway. Despite the fact that she wasn't a morning person, she had to admit to herself that this was the best part of her day. The university was largely deserted at eight am, only the occasional groggy student shuffling to class met her in the hall.

She reached for the Tim Horton's cup on the cart, taking a careful sip as she walked. Usually that was all she needed – a coffee and a cigarette to face the day. This morning was different, however, having just finished her fourth cigarette and was now on her third extra large double double. Her husband would have a fit if he knew, but luckily she had left him to watch Nancy and drove herself into work that morning. What he didn't know wouldn't kill him.

She cringed at her involuntary choice of words. Poor Nancy. Normally her sister was someone who had a flair for melodrama, but last night her inconsolable fear and grief was genuine after finding that unfortunate Phillips boy. Patricia loved books, especially a good thriller, but after having heard the details of an incident so close to home in all their chilling glory, she was looking forward to shelving the business books rattling on her cart.

The elevator's final stop boomed, echoing into the high ceilings of the auxiliary bookstore commonly referred to as The Tank. It was a large space in the sub basement of one of the Arts buildings, once a water reservoir before the bookstore took possession of it in the late seventies. Cold and sterile, it had become Patricia’s second home since she became textbook buyer in the early eighties. It was humid in the summer and cold in the winter, murals of sea life painted on the walls making it no less gloomy. Dust bunnies conspired in every corner and the fluorescent lights hummed overhead constantly. Still she loved it at this time of the day. Quiet and deserted, with only half the lights lit.

She left the lights as they were, knowing the cashier would turn them all on when she came down in a half an hour and another sales day would begin. Until then it would be her and the books, exactly the way she liked it.

Patricia flicked on the radio as she put her purse and coffee down on the text desk at the back of the store. Coffee alone wasn't going to keep her awake this morning after a night of soothing her excitable sister. The station sputtered through static before the tinny refrain of a song came through the speakers. It was the oldies station and Patricia smiled and hummed along as the music took her back to her youth.

In this manner, the business books came off the cart in no time. Accessing the computer, Patricia punched in the ISBN of the smaller paperback stacked on the bottom shelf of the cart. She frowned when she realized it was a Print On Demand book ordered for a course and half that order was missing.

After a futile search for a note of explanation, Patricia stood, trying to recall if she saw something on the floor in receiving. She sighed, remembering nothing and silently kicked herself for not making a stop at the EBM desk before picking up the cart and heading to the tank. The books were already being asked for by students eager to begin their studies, so Patricia pushed the cart to the appropriate shelf, making a mental note to send those students who didn't get a copy fast enough to Alan Lester. Let the store’s Book Manager take the complaints.

As she maneuvered the cart between the high metal shelves filled with texts, the air seemed to chill. Patricia shivered, frowning as she pushed. It was only early October and while there was an autumn nip in the air that morning, it shouldn't be this cold, even in the sub basement.

Methodically, she began to stack the books on the appropriate shelf, trying to convince herself that the air wasn't getting colder with every text. When the last copy was in her hands, she looked down, her frown deepening as she read the cover. It was a folio edition of the works of Shakespeare.

From 1861.

The frown slid from her face as a picture of the original cover popped into her head. A book, worn and withered, grasped in the gnarled fingers of old hands, shoved into her face over forty years before. She remembered the day quite clearly, one of her first as a part time general books employee at the bookstore. She was as green as they come then, full of a passion for books. She never dreamed that she would make a career out of her part time job, and while she didn't regret her decision to stay, that one day had almost pushed her to the door. That wretched old man.

And that book.

The lights flickered, and the chill in the air grew as Patricia Irving stood frozen to the spot, still holding the book.

She never noticed the pale hand reach out for her shoulder.

"Morning, Pat," the cashier said, jumping a little and giggling when the older woman started. "Sorry, I didn't mean to scare you.”

Patricia forced a smile, the lights on full and the chill in the air gone. "Good morning, Rose. You didn't scare me.”

The young woman gave her a strange look. "Are you alright?" she asked.

Yes. Yes. Just too much coffee this morning.”

The cashier smiled and walked back to the front of the store, leaving Patricia at the book shelf.

No dear," she said quietly, shelving the remaining text. "You didn't scare me at all.”