Literary Souls: Episode 2

This time when I come to, it’s with a young man leaning over me. “Oh god, are you one of them too? You’re way too young to be dead.”

“Excuse me? I simply came in to return this book and saw you lying on the ground mumbling to yourself. Are you alright? Can I get you anything? Let me find the librarian.”

“No, I’m fine. That’s me in fact. I’m the new librarian. I can take that book for you,” I rush in an embarrassed jumble as I stand up and go to grab the book from his hand. He jerks back from my rushed expression and I end up falling down for the third time in two days.

Picking myself up, I adjust my nametag and return to my spot behind the front desk. “Let’s try that again,” I amend. “Hello, I’m Clary. I’m the new librarian here at the Sunshine Public Library. How can I help you today?”

The man looks at me strangely before putting the book on the counter. “I just wanted to return this book. It’s a bit overdue so I brought it in to make sure I didn’t have any fines. My name is Allan Costas.” When I don’t move to do anything, he tries again, “Could you check my account for me before I leave?”

“Do you see them, too?” I whisper to Allan while looking over his shoulder at the grumpy ghost from earlier.

“Oh the living can’t see us. Except you of course,” the ghost explains. “I’d suggest you start acting a bit more normal in front of the living. Eventually they’ll think you're crazy and not just quirky. That’s what happened with the last two librarians.”

“See who?” Allan asks, looking at the empty lobby behind him.

“Never mind. Let’s check your account while you’re here.” I quickly pull up my computer and log in. “Now that you’ve returned the book, you seem to be all set. Is there anything else I can help you with today?”

“No…I’m good,” he mumbles, still staring at me strangely. Eventually he turns and leaves, but not without giving me one more look.

Left alone with the ghosts, I begin wondering aloud. “Am I going crazy? Who concocted this elaborate joke? I don’t think this is a very nice way to greet the new members of the community.” Slowly, I realize the apparitions aren’t going anywhere. “Let’s say I believe all of this. What am I supposed to do?”

The ghost of my next door neighbor floats closer. “I need help to move on. I can’t leave until I know what happened to me. Please help me solve my murder.”

I laugh. “Your murder? I was there remember? No one else came out of your house, except your scary floating self.”

“I wouldn’t be here if there wasn’t a mystery behind my death. The Literary Souls and the librarian are where members of our community go when they die if they have unfinished business. You have to help me!” By now he’s practically screaming at me.

“Fine. Fine. I heard the gunshot and I ran right to your door. All I saw though was a figure behind your curtains. I assume that was you laying on the ground after being shot. How am I supposed to do anything with that?” I ask exasperated with the charade.

“That’s when you come to us,” the grumpy ghost interrupts. “We each have unique experiences from our lives that can help you in solving these mysteries. That’s why we end up here.”

“Who are you? Who are the Literary Souls?” I ask. “I’m sick of calling you a grumpy ghost in my head.”

“The name is Ernest Hemingway. This is Sylvia Plath,” he says gesturing to the coughing lady from yesterday. “There’s more of us around as well if you care to have a look. Some are a bit more shy than others. We are all authors, writers, dreamers who have dedicated our afterlives to helping the literary lovers of the world find their ways to the hereafter. With the help of our faithful librarian. So what do you say? Will you be joining our ranks?”

“Why not? It’ll be a good story years from now. That time I helped Ernest Hemingway solve a murder,” I say in a mocking tone. “So gunshots and possible suicide. I assume that’s why I’m seeing you two first? The suicidal poet and the author who shot himself.”

All three pairs of ghostly eyes turn to me. “How do you know all of that?” Hemingway asks me.

“I’m a librarian. I went to school. I learned about literature and authors throughout my life. You guys are kind of famous after all. So how does it go from here? Do you tell me how he died and I go tell the police? Do we go all Scooby-Doo gang on this town?”

“Solving the cases is up to you. We are simply assistants with our limited knowledge from our lives. If you take one of my books off the shelf and carry it with you, I can travel to the scene with you. Maybe help with blood spatter analysis or something.”

“Wait! Taking a library book with me means that the author travels with me? Does that mean Johanna Lindsey…saw me two nights ago?”

“Oh yes, she was quite flattered that you loved her novel so much.”

“I am so sorry, Johanna!” I yelled in an attempt to overcome my embarrassment. “I mean who doesn’t enjoy a strong heroine and her sexy sidekick once in a while right?”

Note to self, order books from other libraries from now on.

“Okay, let’s get this over with,” I say as I head towards the fiction section to grab The Old Man and the Sea from the shelf. After locking up the library, I head across the street with Hemingway floating along. “You know this can’t become a thing either right? I can’t just be closing up the library randomly to go solve some ghost’s unsolved business. I need to do my actual job.”

Once again standing on the front porch, I knock on the door. Surprisingly, this time someone answers the door. “My wife, Marilyn,” my neighbor whispers in my ear.

“Hello, Marilyn. My name is Clary. I live right next door and I just heard the news about your husband. I just wanted to come over and offer my condolences.”

“My Arthur!” Marilyn practically screams. “I still can’t believe it! The police tried to tell me he did it himself, but I refuse to believe it! He wouldn’t leave me like this.”

“She’s right. I was happy. We were happy. I can’t have done this,” Arthur chimes in.

“Marilyn, I’m the new librarian in town and I brought you this book to borrow. It’s Ernest Hemingway. Have you ever read it? It has an inspirational message about resilience and perseverance, even in the face of seemingly insurmountable challenges. I really think it could help you in this difficult time.”

“Oh thank you, Clary. My husband, Arthur, was a big reader. He was always trying to get me to do more of it. I think he’d really appreciate that this brought us together.”

“Please let me know if there’s anything else I can do for you,” I say, “but I really must be getting back to the library. Feel free to stop by for more suggestions if you find that you enjoy it.”

When I walk back into the library, Hemingway appears before me. “I didn’t know if that would work. You can’t stay with your book unless I’m with it?”

“Oh no, I can. I just didn’t need to, so I separated from my book and came back here. There is no evidence left. Marilyn and the police must have already cleaned up.”

“What? But it was only last night? How could that be?”

“If the police think it was a suicide, they must have told Marilyn it was okay to clean up,” Arthur offers.

“But even still. The love of your life dies in your living room and your first reaction is to clean it all up on the very next day. I think it would take more time for her to get up the nerve to do that. If she ever does at all.”

“It is a bit strange,” Hemingway says. “I think we need to talk to Joan Vollmer.”

“No way,” Arthur argues. “She wouldn’t have done that.”

“Who is Joan Vollmer?” I ask. “My literary knowledge is a bit unclear on this.”

“Joan Vollmer was a poet who was killed by her husband,” Arthur offers. “But I’m telling you, Marilyn couldn’t have done that. There must be some other reason I’m still here. I’d rather believe I killed myself than think that she did it.”

“Vollmer,” Ernest yells. “We’ve got a question for you.” A young woman no more than thirty appears slowly from the poetry section. “Don’t worry, he’s not here right now,” Ernest promises.

“Who?” I ask curiously.

“My husband. My killer. My eternal purgatory of being stuck in the same library as him,” Joan states while looking around her.

“What? Your husband was also a writer? That’s some tricky afterlife. I’m so sorry. We’ll be quick so that you can go back to your poetry. Do you think there’s any reason Marilyn might have killed Arthur? Ernest seems to think you can help.”

“Were you suffering financially? Physically? Mentally? Sexually? Or playing some stupid game?”

“No of course not,” Arthur said indignantly. “We were perfectly happy!”

“But was she?” Joan asks meekly before turning and heading back into the poetry section.

“She has a point, guys.” I start going through everything. “Arthur, she did say you were always pushing her to read more. Were you perhaps a bit pushy about anything else in your lives together?”

“I just wanted the best for her. It was never anything crazy. I just made sure she ate, dressed, and acted properly to give us the best possible life together. When she was annoyed by my obsession she’d just go write in her journal and then come back and apologize. She was fine with it.”

The next day, after an anonymous tip, police find Marilyn’s diary hidden in the bottom of her nightstand and inside are her rants and plans for how to get rid of her overbearing husband and create her own perfect life. When I open the door of the library after fetching Hemingway's book from the police, I expect to see the ghosts waiting around, but there is no one. The library is completely deserted except for me. I’m feeling an odd sense of calm, until I hear someone coughing from the poetry section.