by Mark Leslie
Prospero’s Ghost
By Kimberly Foottit & Mark Leslie
Copyright © 2012 Kimberly Foottit & Mark Leslie Lefebvre
Cover photo © 2012 Peter Rainford
“Prospero’s Ghost” was originally published in Campus Chills (2009) edited by Mark Leslie
www.campuschills.com
(Available in print and eBook format)
Prospero’s Ghost By Kimberly Foottit & Mark Leslie
McMaster University - 1964
Dr. Marshall Emerson lost his balance as a student brushed past him in the stairwell, almost knocking the withered, leather-bound text out of his hand. Clutching the book to his chest, Emerson fell to one knee, sending a sharp pain up his side. With a grunt of annoyance, he checked the precious book to make sure it had not been damaged; he would sooner fall down the stairs than let it come to any harm.
"Sorry Professor Prospero," the youth said over his shoulder as he vaulted up the stairs. "I'm late for class."
"Rapscallion!" Emerson watched the youngster with the t-shirt and bell-bottom pants disappear through the doorway to the main floor of the library. "Always rushing. Never pausing for deep thought or study."
Still on one knee, Emerson looked at the collection of Shakespeare's plays in his hand. The pain in his bones receded quickly when his eyes rested on the rare tome.
This single volume of Shakespeare's plays represented much of his life's work and focus. And though he thought his simple alliterative nickname was immature, he allowed a small part of him to warm with pride whenever he heard it.
"Professor Prospero, indeed," he said, shaking his head and briefly allowing a smile to cross his lips.
The stairwell door opened again and the smile left as fast as it had appeared as a library assistant, this one dressed properly for an academic setting, rushed to help him. "Dr. Emerson," she said. "Are you okay? Let me help you up."
McMaster University - Present Day
Richard Hamill pulled the text from the display shelf, closing and locking the glass case. He turned the book over in his gloved hand, caressing the withered leather cover.
"I'm amazed at how well this has stood the test of time," he said to the young blond man beside him. "Look at how solid and sturdy the spine and binding still are."
"It seems the perfect candidate for the Kirtas scanner," the young man, Matthew Phillips, said, reaching for the book.
Richard held the text away from his reach. "Your gloves," he insisted.
While he watched Matthew put them on, Richard said, “This particular book was owned by none other than the world renowned Shakespearean scholar, Dr. Marshall P. Emerson.
"It’s an 1861 reprint of the first folio edition of Shakespeare's plays and could easily fetch enough money to completely re-equip the William Ready Division of Archives and Research Collection here at McMaster."
"Wow. Really?"
"Absolutely. But I'd sooner die than see this book lost or sold, which is why I'm delighted we have the ability to scan and create a digital replication of it from which print on demand versions can be made."
"It allows others the ability to appreciate the text without having to handle the original," Matthew added.
"Exactly.” Richard was always surprised at how the reverence for the printed word remained intact in someone so young during such technologically advanced times. “These archives aren't about the monetary value of the texts, but more about the cultural significance,” the older man added.
And this one held plenty.
"On top of its standing as the first reliable printing of twenty of Shakespeare's plays in 1623, this book is held in regard from its final ownership by McMaster's own Dr. Emerson,” Richard continued.
"Professor Prospero,"Matthew grinned, unable to hold back and wanting to display his knowledge. "The leading expert on The Tempest for over thirty years, and controversial in his proclamation that it was an example of one of Shakespeare's finest tragedies, despite the more popular supposition of the play being a comedy."
"Indeed he was," Richard said, bemused at how Matthew sounded as though he were reciting the facts straight from Wikipedia.
"Did you ever meet him?" the young man asked.
"No. I joined the university six years after he died."
"So you never witnessed if the rumours were true."
"The rumours?" Richard said, fighting the shiver crawling up his spine.
"That he carried this book with him no matter where he went."
Richard relaxed. "Oh, that. Yes. Yes, apparently it’s true. He was said to be a difficult man, not love by his colleagues; yet when he passed on, his entire collection of books, including the much-adored text he always carried around campus was bequeathed to the library archives."
"And," Matthew said, his eyes brimming with curiosity, "what about the other rumours?"
Richard felt his shoulders tense again. "What other rumours?"
"The legend of Prospero's Ghost."
He averted his eyes from the young man. "Hogwash."
"Really? I've heard that the ghost of Dr. Emerson has been seen wandering the library halls endlessly searching for his lost book. You mean you've never seen him?"
"No," Richard said, his eyes not returning to his assistant. "No. Never. Those are just silly stories."
McMaster University – 1970
On his first week of work at McMaster, Richard Hamill not only saw a ghost for the very first time in his life, but he heard it, too.
Hamill was making the rounds on a Thursday night, ensuring the top floor of the library was cleared and that any books left in the study carrels were placed on the “to be shelved” carts in the main aisle. Though it was his first week, he’d become fond of the late shift and the wonderful quiet and solitude that came at the end of a long and busy day.
As he was passing an aisle he thought he saw someone out of the corner of his eye, just off to the left. It appeared to be an older man with grey hair in a dark jacket crouching to look at the books on the shelf second from the bottom.
Hamill turned on his heel and headed down the aisle prepared to politely ask the patron to retrieve their books and proceed to the checkout downstairs.
But there was nobody there.
He took a few steps forward to stand in front of the shelves where he thought he’d seen the figure crouching.
This was the drama section. The second shelf from the bottom held Shakespeare’s works. Hamill had been in the section not two hours earlier, having resorted the previously unordered books.
But they were strewn about again. A complete mess, as if a child had been searching for something and been unable to find it.
He was furious. He was certain the figure he had seen had messed up the books. Dashing down the aisle, he looked left, then right.
On the periphery of his vision, a scrawny grey haired figure shuffled by on his left, quickly disappearing behind the shelves of the aisle he’d just been in.
“Excuse me!” Hamill said, racing in that direction, unashamed of the loudness of his voice in such a quiet place.
But, as before, when he got to the end of that aisle, nobody was there.
He looked left and right.
The stacks were quiet and still.
Then, just as he was about to head back to the mess and tidy it for the second time that night, he heard a distinct low voice echo across the library, coming from the drama aisle he’d just vacated.
“All . . . all lost, quite lost . . .”
The
voice faded in and out like a radio tuned to a strange station from another world. At the same time the words reached his ears, a cool chill, not unlike a stiff fall breeze, settled over him.
But in the same manner the words faded, so too did the chill, leaving Richard Hamill alone in the library to mark that day, April 23rd, as the start of what would later become a life-long passion of studying Dr. Marshall P. Emerson.
McMaster University – Present Day
Placing the book carefully on the Kirtas APT 2400 scanner, Matthew reached up to adjust the focus of the top left camera.
While disappointed that Dr. Hamill hadn't stayed with him, as he had more questions and enjoyed listening to tales about the university's history from his mentor, he also found joy in the solitude offered by his role. Slipping the ear buds back on, he pressed play on his mp3 player and then adjusted the attachments that would hold the pages flat while they were scanned.
As Matthew turned toward the keyboard to enter specifications into the software that ran the machine, he didn't hear the creak of the door opening behind him.
He'd just entered the keystrokes to begin the process that would capture a digital image of each page, then carefully turn the pages until the entire book was photographed -- a process that took no more than about fifteen minutes -- when a shadow fell over him.
Matthew turned to see who was there.
#
It had been a long day at the library. Nancy Irving, rubbing the back of her neck with a tired hand, headed into the special collections section. Students could be so demanding some days. There was just one more book to return before finally calling it a day.
As she passed by the scan room, she noticed the light was on. Knowing Dr. Hamill was in his office, she could only assume that Matthew Phillips was still in there, tinkering around with the library’s new toy. She stopped and checked her watch. It was well past Matthew’s finishing time. She sighed. For such a bright boy, he could be so absentminded. If it wasn’t his pass card, it was his water bottle or his glasses. Now it seemed his forgetfulness had moved onto leaving the lights on.
When Nancy entered the room, the machine was humming. She frowned as she noticed that the book still in the machine was quite old. This had to be more than just carelessness on Matthew’s part. Dr. Hamill spoke so highly of him, and she had personally seen the boy with the books. He was always so careful.
She was about to reach for the mouse, to turn off the screen saver and start the shut down process when the figure in the corner caught her attention.
The young man was pushed into the corner, as though backing away from something until the walls had stopped his progress. The body was pale and rigid, but it was the look of sheer terror on Matthew Phillips’ face that froze the scream building in Nancy Irving’s throat.
He was dead.
Yet still standing – rigid, like a stone statue.
#
Dr. Richard Hamill ignored the carriage clock on his book shelf as it chimed the late hour. Without family to go home to, his office had been his refuge after many a trying day, but there was no peace tonight.
He stared into the amber liquid that swirled in the short square glass in his hand. It was usually a calming movement, meant to still the mind, but instead it just brought up more questions.
The police had long removed the body of poor Matthew Phillips and were now finishing up their crime scene investigation. He should be down there, making sure they didn’t damage any of the precious and fragile editions that lay in the collection, but he couldn’t bring himself to enter those rooms. Not yet.
Nancy Irving had been given a strong sedative and taken home by her sister who worked in the campus bookstore. Of all the people in the library, it would have to be the most sensitive and kindly of women to find a body. Had it been Mora Collins, the slightly gothic intern in the map room, perhaps there wouldn’t have been quite the kerfuffle. Richard sighed. With Nancy’s dramatics, it was guaranteed that the entire campus would know the elaborate version of the grisly discovery before the morning papers hit the doorsteps.
But it wasn’t the bad press Richard Hamill feared. It wasn’t the badgering of the campus and city police that pushed him to pull out his secret bottle from the bottom drawer of his desk and seek solace in its amber glow.
It was that book.
Professor Emerson’s book of Shakespeare. That was the volume found in the machine by Nancy Irving before she turned and saw Matthew’s horrified face. The computer had long since completed its scan before the young man was discovered. The information now waited for transfer to the bookstore so the book could be printed out on their new fangled book machine.
Professor Prospero’s favorite volume. The jewel of his collection.
Richard took a swig of his drink, closing his eyes as it coated the heavy spot in his belly with a layer of warmth. But it didn’t penetrate the feeling; the dread that had started growing there ever since Matthew had expressed an interest in the book’s history.
Prospero had loved that book so, and now it seemed he had come back to reclaim it.
Richard raised his glass to the dim light around him.
“Welcome home, Marshall. Welcome home.”
McMaster University - 1964
Alistair Rogers straightened his tie for the umpteenth time while he waited for Dr. Emerson – his two o'clock appointment. He wasn't sure why, but Professor Prospero had always intimidated him. It was laughable really, a man as old and frail as Emerson making him feel like he was a naughty schoolboy. The two men had started off on the wrong foot when the librarian had foolishly asked to touch the professor's precious volume of Shakespeare. The affront had carried through their relationship no matter how accommodating or ingratiating Rogers had tried to be.
That was about to change. He was sure of it.
Then there was a knock at his door and the eminent Professor was before him.
"Dr. Emerson," Rogers stood and came around his desk, hand outstretched. "I'm so happy you could meet me today."
"Mr. Rogers," the older man greeted, emphasizing the mister in his usual disdainful tone. He put out his hand and allowed it to be shook, but it was clear that it was a polite social gesture only.
Rogers chose to ignore the attitude and waved a hand to the empty chair in front of his desk. "Please sir, have a seat."
Emerson sat with a rickety grace, putting his worn leather briefcase on the floor with delicate care.
"Well Professor, I'll get right to the point," Rogers began, settling into his own chair. "As you may have heard the library has just acquired the new Xerox 2400. It's the latest in high volume copying technology. We now have the ability to preserve some of our oldest texts so we don't have to handle the originals and can make them available to a much wider student base for research purposes. We would be most honoured if we could borrow your volume of Shakespeare's works for the inaugural copy."
Rogers took a breath, waiting for the pleased, perhaps flattered, reaction to his proposal.
The silence was long as Emerson’s face turned a deep hue of scarlet.
"I was unaware this institution was supporting mass copyright infringement," Professor Emerson finally replied, his tone cold, almost horrified. Reflexively, he reached for the briefcase, bringing it to his lap.
Rogers noticed the movement and guessed the edition in question was within its depths. "It's Shakespeare, sir. His work is in the public domain. It belongs to the world now, and is not restricted by modern copyright laws. None of the classics are." The librarian noted Emerson's hold on the briefcase, the wringing of the bag's straps under gnarled white knuckles. "I assure you, no harm will come to the book.”
Emerson rose, clutching the bag to his chest. "It is not merely a book, Mr. Rogers. This edition is a precious treasu
re. I certainly wouldn't expect you to comprehend its value.”
Rogers stood as well. This was not going well and he had, yet again, offended the sensitive man. "But surely, Professor Emerson, you recognize the significance of making such a classic available to everyone."
"Such classic, unique editions should not be available to everyone!" Emerson turned to leave.
"With all due respect sir, Shakespeare wrote for the masses. It would be a shame to deny this generation such a treasure."
The professor turned back. "Shakespeare wrote for royalty, Mr. Rogers. And the masses of Elizabethan England were far more civilized and worthy of such art than the barbarous hordes of today with their long hair and loose clothing and rock and roll. Good day sir!"
The slamming of the door behind him punctuated his departure.
Rogers sighed as he sat back in his chair. His colleagues had laughed at him when he had made the suggestion at the last board meeting. They warned him against approaching the crotchety old eccentric, especially about anything regarding his precious volume of Shakespeare. He hated hearing “I told you so.” Rumour had it that the old man was nearing retirement. Picking up the receiver of his phone and dialing the extension number of Frank Letts, the board chair, Rogers thought that day couldn't come soon enough.
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.