Whispers of the Past

I used to achieve top marks in my class before coming to this university. Now, no one is perfect, but I might have been. Nearly perfect SAT scores, a GPA that was technically higher than a 4.0 and honors opportunities left and right. I likely could have applied to Ivy League schools and got in. Thinking back, I should have applied just to see if I could.

But I didn’t. I knew I wanted to come here. There was something that drew me to the old buildings. Something that pulled me towards lifetimes of history and knowledge. I didn’t feel the need to compete against other students at any prestigious location, I just wanted to enjoy academia for what it was.

And I did just that. In the beginning, it went well. It went amazing, in fact. I had some of the highest grades in my classes, my exam scores flourished, and a few teachers even asked me to assist them in research projects.

Then I began studying on the fourth floor of the library. It’s supposed to be restricted to grad students and faculty, but little me couldn’t resist the old books and grandiose ceilings. I'm unsure if the staff knew I was an underclassman or not, but my ability to keep quiet left my new schedule undisturbed by the rules. 

Things didn’t stay quiet for long, did they?

I’m not sure when I heard the first one, but I remember not being the least bit frightened. It started off with the whispers under my breath being echoed back to me in a passing breeze. I found myself in rabbit holes of research, asking myself the most peculiar of questions. I began to hear calls towards the old books, whispering just the right page numbers to settle my curiosities. 

It’s strange. The more I heard their coaxes, the more I came back. And soon I could hear their faint conversations. Ponderings, arguments, observations… Sometimes they would even be about me, and I’d keep a tight smile on my lips to not let them know I could hear. 

It was her—the one the others rarely talked with—that realized it. For some reason, I could physically sense her presence better than the others. She would read over my shoulder, once asking a question about my psychology paper—something that must not have been familiar to her time.

Without thought, I wrote a small explanation on the edge of my notebook, and seconds later I heard a gasp that could easily be mistaken as the whistle of the wind. 

Holding in my smile was impossible as a feeling of elation burst into my chest. I couldn’t hear her excitement this time, but I could feel it. There was a magnetic pulsation that rippled through my body and I had to cover my mouth to stop myself from laughing. 

As soon as she calmed down, I pressed a finger to my lips and continued my work, unable to wipe the grin. 

For the next few weeks, she would trail behind me the second I entered the library and rest behind my right shoulder while I worked. Every once in a while she’d ask me questions about whatever I was working on, and similar to our first interaction, I would write the answer on the edge of my paper. It seemed an effective way to study.

My understanding of her presence became stronger with each day. I could feel were she was, whether she was sitting or standing, and by extension, I started to know where the others were as well.

Some of them would walk past, stopping to observe what I was doing. I assumed that unlike me, they could see one another, as she—who I would later chose to refer to as Serendipity—would go quiet when the passed. It was like she wanted to keep my knowledge to herself. A little secret shared between the two of us. I liked it that way too.

But slowly the others began to realize just how much time she spent around me. They must have heard her ask me questions or see me write them down because some began to watch over my shoulder as well. Though I could tell she was distraught, she accepted this, saving her questions for times others weren’t there, but letting them stand next to her in observation. 

On instance, I was writing a historical paper on Bayard Rustin with at least half a dozen of them gathered around me. They were having their conversations, and in their whispers I could not for the life of me focus. 

He was punished for his-

I couldn’t figure out what to write. Crimes didn’t seem right, neither did offenses or actions.

“I think the word she’s looking for is transgressions”

I—once again without though—nodded and wrote the word in.

And then a cacophony of whispers began. Asking if I could hear them, asking how long and how come. I could feel the buzzing magnetic energy of more joining in to surround me. 

I sighed. This had not been my intention. 

Taking out a sheet of paper and pen among their babbles, I answered. Yes. a few months. I don’t know why.

Then followed an eruption of questions.

“Is interracial marriage legal now?”

“What’s your field of study?”

“Did anyone find the ending digit of pi?”

“Did my painting ever become famous?”

I wondered how long they’d had these questions. I wondered what my first question would be if I were dead and could talk to the living. I wondered so many things at that moment. Things that I realized were not things other people could learn of. Dozens of voices of knowledge were around me. And for whatever reason that the universe bestowed me to hear it, I was grateful. Just as they might have had ten questions each, I had a million more for them.

One at a time I wrote. …starting tomorrow.

 I needed to finish my paper, that was why I was in the library in the first place. 

Though disgruntled, they dispersed, and left the sole presence of the first I’d talked to in her wake. Serendipity let out a heavy sigh, but said nothing more.

I couldn’t finish my paper though. It wasn’t that they were still bothering me, it was that my mind was swarming with curiosities. After a brief questioning of my insanity, I spiraled into the implications of having knowledge of people no longer among the living. I had no idea who the oldest one was, or how recently the youngest died, or why they had chosen this library to haunt.

Well, perhaps they didn’t choose this library. Their spirits seemed tethered here. They had no clue about the outside world, otherwise they wouldn’t need to ask me anything. Their existence was limited to the stacks of academic books and buzz of old fluorescent lamps. 

But I knew about the outside world. I had access to the world wide web while they had access to the memories and essence of the past. 

This could be an equally beneficial relationship…

As promised, I started talking to individual spirits the next day. They’d ask their questions and I would write and answer if I knew it and look it up if I didn’t. In turn I would ask them whatever questions popped into my head when talking with them.

Some of these questions might have been invasive in a way, which would anger them or cause them to leave. I laughed these moments off in reflection of the hypocrisy. Serendipity would simply comfort me after and tell me her alternative answer to the question.

Soon I bought a little journal to write my findings in. I made my way through each of them. Writing down their names and occupations. Their birth years and dates of death. Their ponderings and personalities. None of the names were familiar to me, so when they asked me to look them up on my computer, I obliged. 

Most of the time, their common eurocentric names would show up as people who were currently still alive, and on rare occasions there would be a book by them or a wikipedia article they could read.

The few times I tried to study in the library after that I was met with watching eyes, and unsolicited commentary on my work. While I was annoyed with this, I still went back. Everyday I spent less and less time on my academia and more and more on research into these souls who rarely got to share their stories.

There was once where I had a history project on the behavior of working class versus middle class individuals in the Gilded Age. My mind instantly went to two individuals, Hector and Johnathon, who had shared with me previously statements that I believed categorized them as such respectfully. I spent five hours interviewing each, taking as much notes as they would let me on their experiences in life. On their hopes and dreams, their failure and achievements. 

I wrote my paper in accordance, turning it in as likely the most historically accurate paper that teacher had ever seen.

But that was the issue. I couldn’t very well credit the voices in the library as my main source.

So I failed.

And I failed more and more papers and assignments as my time was consumed by the whispers of the past.

When the university found out that I was spending time on the fourth floor without achieving top marks, they restricted it again. They assumed I was wasting resources set for grad students and faculty.

I was locked out. My grades were crumbling, and I couldn’t do anything about it. I was forced to either get my grades up or drop out.

I chose to try, but my interest was no longer in the world of education. What used to be the greatest of scores became the average, and both of the things that made me special had been ripped away from me

And now I walk past that library everyday, wondering if they know what’s happened to me. Wondering if they still wait for me to enter the fourth floor with my journal and computer.

But I may never hear those faint voices again. I may not see the library ever again after this May.