“This wasn’t always a library,” Matilda says.
They’re in the archival room, which is also the basement. Vanessa sets her bag on the table and pulls out a chair. Carrie leans against the photocopier, spiral in hand, pen poised to write. Everything here is ordered on shelving units with easy-to-read labels… and dust. Those pesky bunnies don’t have a preference for where they nest and breed.
Peering about the stacks, Matilda clasps her hands. “It was originally a printing house. During the Spanish influenza, it became a sick house. Patients who were beyond help were brought down here—tended to by nuns instead of nurses.”
“Lots of people died, huh?” Vanessa remarks, sneezing.
“Heaps.”
“That’s why people think the library is haunted?”
“With time, some of the lost have managed to find their way. But there are many,” Matilda replies, “who don’t understand what has happened to them. They wander the building seeking loved ones, seeking closure. Which is impossible, of course, since their loved ones have also departed.”
“There’s more than one reported ghost?” Carrie scribbles ink across the page.
“Indeed.”
“Have any of them been identified?” Vanessa asks.
“One.” The light above Matilda flickers. “You’re writing this for a school assignment?”
“It’s a Halloween special for our blog, actually.”
“I see.” Matilda walks over to the exterior wall, gray skirt swishing about her ankles. She palms the brick, glances at the window above their heads.
“Is that okay?” Carrie asks.
“It might make a difference.” Matilda shrugs. “Who knows?”
“So, who’s the ghost?”
“They say,” Matilda begins, “the head nurse walks the floors day and night, looking for someone who will grant her absolution.”
“Why?”
“It was the head nurse, you see, who wielded the scythe. When the sick were brought in, she evaluated them. Then she pointed upward or downward, and that was that.”
“But isn’t that something she had to do?” Vanessa—nose reddening, eyes watering—sneezes again.
“That’s right,” Carrie agrees. “Sometimes triage is necessary. Though if I were in that position, I’m sure I’d feel guilt too. It couldn’t have been easy sending people to their graves.”
“That isn’t why she needs to be pardoned,” Matilda replies.
“Oh?” Carrie lifts her pen.
“She liked it.” Matilda fixes the girls with her almost-black gaze. “She enjoyed the power, the thrill of knowing their lives rested in her hands. Sometimes… she sent savable people to their deaths. Just. Because. She could.”
“Wow.” Carrie grimaces. “That makes her a serial killer, doesn’t it?”
“I’d say so,” Vanessa agrees. “Like, the worst kind.”
“There’s more.” Matilda pauses. “Supposedly, she’ll appear on these very stairs”—she points across the room—“if you ask her properly.”
Carrie arches an eyebrow. “Like an invocation?”
“Do you have to light candles? Offer blood?” Vanessa asks.
“Heavens, no.” Matilda chuckles. “Language is more powerful than anything of substance. Words have the capability to strike fear, stir hate, start wars. No, nothing is required but a few simple lines. Besides, old as this building is, there are fire alarms down here.”
“You’ve got me hooked,” Vanessa says, running a finger under her nose. “What are the magic words? Abracadabra? Open sesame?”
Turning from the wall, Matilda pulls a slip of paper from her skirt and hands it over.
“This?” Vanessa’s eyes widen as she reads the words aloud. “Blood and bone don’t seal my fate. To curry favor, I summon hate. Draw me in, I’m yours to serve. Breathe me, need me, sew each nerve. Show me what there is to see. Our bodies as one, our chains broken—freed.”
“Creepy.” Carrie finishes her notes and glances up. “This ghost requires forgiveness in order to cross over—that’s the gist?”
“You can write that.” Matilda heads toward the stairs. “Whatever you think will encourage the sycophants to visit,” she murmurs.
“Huh?” Vanessa dabs at her nose again. “What’d she say?”
“Didn’t catch it,” Carrie replies as Matilda disappears up the steps. “You okay?”
“Mm. Just allergies.”
Vanessa begins to edit their article-in-progress while Carrie sits down at a computer to research Matilda’s story. Twenty minutes later, she walks over to the filing cabinets and removes several boxes of microfilm. The third article she locates is dated August 24, 1918. It details the sick house and praises those who serve it, including the head nurse.
“I haven’t found anything to back up what that librarian said,” Carrie remarks. “Seems like the lady was a saint. According to the papers, she basically moved into the building. Spent all her waking hours taking care of others.”
“You think our readers are going to care whether the story’s true or not? They’re not going to fact-check us, Carrie. It’s all about entertainment—the spook factor.”
“Well, I care. And I’m not going to make stuff up.” Carrie presses the forward button, gasping when the next article slides into view.
“What’s wrong?” Vanessa leans toward the screen. “Whoa. That’s some weird shit.”
The accompanying photograph reveals a grainy image of Matilda standing beside a coughing patient, finger pointing toward the floor, a mask-hidden smile crinkling her eyes.
“I don’t think we should write this story,” Carrie says, a tremor in her voice. “I mean, how do you fake that? You can’t.”
“Everyone has a twin, hon. Some people make money impersonating celebrities. Remember that guy we met who pretends to be George R. R. Martin at comic-cons?”
“Yeah, but…” Carrie looks at Vanessa, the face on the screen, the words scribbled in her spiral.
“What’s the worst that could actually happen? Come on”—Vanessa wiggles her fingers—“let me see those notes so I can start writing.”
It’s a coincidence.
That’s what Carrie tells herself as she hands over the notebook. The head nurse was a Florence Nightingale. Matilda bears an uncanny resemblance to her. And the incantation? Perfectly harmless.
Their readers will eat up the article, maybe increase their revenue.
And the story?
“It’s just a story,” Carrie whispers, shivering as ice-cold fingers tiptoe up her spine.
A native Floridian, C. L. Sidell grew up playing with toads in the rain and indulging in speculative fiction. You can find her on various social media platforms @sidellwrites
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2 comments:
I'd love to say, "I enjoyed this!" but I'd be lying. Did it hit me like a 3/4 ton pickup spattered with iron-rich dried mud, dawdling along a small-town main street? Yes. Inexorable. Painful. Creepy in a non-threatening way. In a way I could just about believe it to be true, then to fervently hope it was not...not managing to convince myself...Thank you for sending a shiver up my spine...
I really liked the way in which the author plants subtle clues about Matilda's true nature without tipping her hand. Go back and reread the story, this time paying attention to Matilda's movements and stagecraft. Very nicely done!
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