Iiiiimma writing a short story.
In theory. Wish me luck.
“It wasn't even a good book,” complained the ghost.
The librarian nodded understandingly. She had moved to sit behind the desk before the ghost had finished speaking, because she knew the beginning of a long explanation when she heard one.
The ghost, for its part, sat down on the desk. Its skirt draped freely down from its raised knees, fabric dropping, or appearing to drop, right through the polished wood. The seams where ectoplasm intersected with a solid surface glistened orange in the early morning light, bright as a line of fire glimpsed from under a door.
The librarian wondered whether it would be impolite to ask why gravity still seemed to be acting on the ghost's clothes, and not on the ghost's... ghost. She decided yes, probably.
“I see,” she said, instead.
The ghost rapped slim fingers on the desk. Their tips sank through, a little, throwing up sparks as they broke in and out, the well-kept nails gilded with brief, unlikely moments of sun.
“I bought it in one of those cafes that also sells books secondhand to lure in college students. I also, for the record, bought a croissant, but the croissant didn't cause nearly so much trouble.” The ghost's expression became thoughtful, or at least the librarian thought it became thoughtful: it was like trying to read the transparent reflection of an expression in a pane of glass, when one is on the bright side of a window, and looking out into the dark. “Although,” it said, “I suppose it would have, given more time. Never trust a baked good that glitters. No good can come of it.”
The librarian said, patiently, “And the book...?”
“Right, right,” said the ghost. “The book. I needed something to read on the train, you see. And it was exactly the right size for my purse.”
“Hm,” said the librarian; she did not believe in putting books in purses.
“Besides which,” the ghost continued, blithely, “it didn't have a dust jacket. That is, it had once had a dust jacket, and someone had since removed it. I like that in a book. Dust jackets are so embarrassing, don't you think? Like having a husband who wears Hawaiian shirts to the beach.”
The librarian said, “Very like,” and meant it. Dust was, after all, quite similar to skin cancer, in the essentials.
“So,” said the ghost. “This book, with its convenient dimensions and its jacketlessness. Which I bought. I don't remember the title, see. Or the author.”
“I guessed as much,” said the librarian.
She thought wistfully of coffee. It was: 7:26 A.M.; a beautiful winter's day, clear-skied except for the galleries of pink-edged cloud that piled low around the ring of the horizon, and showed in pieces through the wall-length windows of the library's front room; too early for this.
She said: “Why don't you tell me what happened in the story?”
“It was one of those conspiracy theory novels,” said the ghost. “There was-- a girl. A beautiful, headstrong girl, obviously.”
It hesitated.
“I was reading it on the train,” it said.
“Yes, you mentioned,” said the librarian. She turned on the computer. The screen flickered at her. “Do you remember the girl's name?”
“It started with an M,” said the ghost. “Or perhaps an S. I think it was French, or Latin. Very, um, delicate-sounding, and old-fashioned.”
“So that's a no, then,” said the librarian, pinching the bridge of her nose.
The ghost did not meet her gaze.
“Not as such,” it said, “no. It was a terribly bumpy ride, you know, the car we were in rattled like anything.”
The librarian logged in. The standard desktop-- rubbery-looking clipart of a stack of colorful but anonymous books, with strongly inked lines and no writing, not even a suggestive squiggle, to mar cover or spine-- felt uncomfortably appropriate.
"Go on," she told the ghost.
“Her family all died,” the ghost went on, “when she was sixteen. The first scene of the book is when the teacher gives her the news, at her expensive boarding school. All very cheap and emotionally manipulative. She faints dead away.” It paused. "Pun unintended, obviously."
"Quite," the librarian said. She was googling, not very hopefully, for girls fainting in the first chapters of conspiracy novels. For her troubles she got Wikipedia, some movie, the Three Musketeers. A spattering of Nazis. Nothing relevant.
The ghost peered over the top of the monitor, and the blue glow sheared part of its head right off, the faint tracery of sharp features fading to a shapeless, hazy area, through which it was difficult to read the text of the uppermost results, as soon as it passed out of the light of the dawn. It was odd, to see the ghost's frizzy no-longer-hair, pulled smoothly back from half a high forehead and then-- air, pure, edgeless and easy to look on.
“It wasn't even a good book,” complained the ghost.
The librarian nodded understandingly. She had moved to sit behind the desk before the ghost had finished speaking, because she knew the beginning of a long explanation when she heard one.
The ghost, for its part, sat down on the desk. Its skirt draped freely down from its raised knees, fabric dropping, or appearing to drop, right through the polished wood. The seams where ectoplasm intersected with a solid surface glistened orange in the early morning light, bright as a line of fire glimpsed from under a door.
The librarian wondered whether it would be impolite to ask why gravity still seemed to be acting on the ghost's clothes, and not on the ghost's... ghost. She decided yes, probably.
“I see,” she said, instead.
The ghost rapped slim fingers on the desk. Their tips sank through, a little, throwing up sparks as they broke in and out, the well-kept nails gilded with brief, unlikely moments of sun.
“I bought it in one of those cafes that also sells books secondhand to lure in college students. I also, for the record, bought a croissant, but the croissant didn't cause nearly so much trouble.” The ghost's expression became thoughtful, or at least the librarian thought it became thoughtful: it was like trying to read the transparent reflection of an expression in a pane of glass, when one is on the bright side of a window, and looking out into the dark. “Although,” it said, “I suppose it would have, given more time. Never trust a baked good that glitters. No good can come of it.”
The librarian said, patiently, “And the book...?”
“Right, right,” said the ghost. “The book. I needed something to read on the train, you see. And it was exactly the right size for my purse.”
“Hm,” said the librarian; she did not believe in putting books in purses.
“Besides which,” the ghost continued, blithely, “it didn't have a dust jacket. That is, it had once had a dust jacket, and someone had since removed it. I like that in a book. Dust jackets are so embarrassing, don't you think? Like having a husband who wears Hawaiian shirts to the beach.”
The librarian said, “Very like,” and meant it. Dust was, after all, quite similar to skin cancer, in the essentials.
“So,” said the ghost. “This book, with its convenient dimensions and its jacketlessness. Which I bought. I don't remember the title, see. Or the author.”
“I guessed as much,” said the librarian.
She thought wistfully of coffee. It was: 7:26 A.M.; a beautiful winter's day, clear-skied except for the galleries of pink-edged cloud that piled low around the ring of the horizon, and showed in pieces through the wall-length windows of the library's front room; too early for this.
She said: “Why don't you tell me what happened in the story?”
“It was one of those conspiracy theory novels,” said the ghost. “There was-- a girl. A beautiful, headstrong girl, obviously.”
It hesitated.
“I was reading it on the train,” it said.
“Yes, you mentioned,” said the librarian. She turned on the computer. The screen flickered at her. “Do you remember the girl's name?”
“It started with an M,” said the ghost. “Or perhaps an S. I think it was French, or Latin. Very, um, delicate-sounding, and old-fashioned.”
“So that's a no, then,” said the librarian, pinching the bridge of her nose.
The ghost did not meet her gaze.
“Not as such,” it said, “no. It was a terribly bumpy ride, you know, the car we were in rattled like anything.”
The librarian logged in. The standard desktop-- rubbery-looking clipart of a stack of colorful but anonymous books, with strongly inked lines and no writing, not even a suggestive squiggle, to mar cover or spine-- felt uncomfortably appropriate.
"Go on," she told the ghost.
“Her family all died,” the ghost went on, “when she was sixteen. The first scene of the book is when the teacher gives her the news, at her expensive boarding school. All very cheap and emotionally manipulative. She faints dead away.” It paused. "Pun unintended, obviously."
"Quite," the librarian said. She was googling, not very hopefully, for girls fainting in the first chapters of conspiracy novels. For her troubles she got Wikipedia, some movie, the Three Musketeers. A spattering of Nazis. Nothing relevant.
The ghost peered over the top of the monitor, and the blue glow sheared part of its head right off, the faint tracery of sharp features fading to a shapeless, hazy area, through which it was difficult to read the text of the uppermost results, as soon as it passed out of the light of the dawn. It was odd, to see the ghost's frizzy no-longer-hair, pulled smoothly back from half a high forehead and then-- air, pure, edgeless and easy to look on.