The Haunted Library

 

There are tales of a haunted Library in southern Ontario, the precise location of which I am bound by oath to a higher power not to disclose.  Suffice it to say that many have witnessed the ghost of the haunted library. 

The edifice is Georgian in architectural style.  It is a beautiful old building with a rich heritage.  The display of art work by prominent Canadian artists which hang in the gallery, alone is impressive.  The seating is some of the most comfortable that I have ever found in a library.  The floors creak and a cough or the clearing of a throat reverberates in the esteemed old building, as in a hushed theatre.

The ghost is not obtuse or buccaneer, quite the opposite, he is quiet, and retiring, and without being intrusive he has been known to be helpful.

Some library patrons have said that he has directed them to long sot after reading material prompting the suspicion that he may have been a librarian.  Everyone who has had an encounter with the paranormal anomaly, refer to the ghost as “he”, though librarians are traditionally of the female sex.  Upon further inquiry, no one with whom I had spoken had actually seen a figure.  Everyone spoke of a sensation.  Observations were described as an image that wavered like a mirage or one person spoke of the vibratory waves seen above a candle flame in describing the apparition.

 I thoroughly enjoy perusing the shelves of libraries.  I am generally drawn to the reference areas.  I loose track of time in libraries, the way most people loose track of time shopping in a mall. I had spent the entire afternoon in this esteemed place.  The sun was sinking in the sky and angular light was streaming in through the Georgian windows.

On my visit to the haunted library, I was hoping to have an encounter with the resident ghost.  I was on a quest and not fearful in the least but how to begin my search for such an elusive entity as a ghost?  In the poetry section, among troubled souls who turn their despair of life into a thing of beauty in verse?  One of my favorite poets is Emily Dickenson.  At a young age, she withdrew from a vibrant social life and secreted herself away to write poems.  Upon her death her sister found the volumes of verse and had them published.  Her themes dealt with all the great issues in life such as fear and love and death and she wrote about Nature.  On some level I feel a kinship with Emily in her love of Nature. 

It was nearly closing time and I was evidently insensitive to the paranormal because I saw nothing remotely otherworldly.    

As I was leaving, I came across a hefty book,  left opened on one of the reading tables.   Having worked in libraries for a good part of my life, it is an occupational hazard bordering on the obsessive to re-shelve books.  I thought I would save the librarian the trouble of putting away the abandoned tome.

The book was a collection of verse but the page was opened at one of my favorite poems by Emily Dickenson.  I looked around but saw no evidence of the ghost, no energy waves and I felt no chill or any sensation, not even fairy dust was visible to me in the shafts of day’s fading light.  It was just as witnesses said, “a tome that you loved”.  What a dullard am I not to have made the ghost’s acquaintance?  I thanked him anyway in a quiet voice.

The poem is as follows:  I once made a feeble attempt to write it out in calligraphic printing before the advent of diverse fonts on Office Word.