Hunting the Ghost of Fiona Diamond

The librarian watched from behind the circulation desk as a young mother and daughter, the last patrons of the night, approached the desk with a stack of picture books. Pasting on a cheery smile, the librarian checked out their books and sent them on their way. As soon as they passed through the double glass doors, she strolled over and turned the lock, reaching for the drawcord to lower the blinds on the quiet dark street beyond.

Finally, she breathed, pressing her back against the mahogany doors. The cavernous great room of the library spread before her. High ceilings vaulted above with rich cherry wooden beams. Arched windows sat above tall bookcases allowing sunlight to stream through during the day. Tables spread across the room, a popular gathering spot for school children and college students to gather to work on projects. Across from where she stood, her station, the round circulation desk, beside the polished dark wood double staircase leading to the second story.

She strolled across the beige carpet, which stretched from the door to the circulation desk, and began to straighten the free bookmarks and flyers patrons had messed during the day. Stepping behind her desk her fingers deftly removed the nametag clipped to her shirt. Bronze implanted, it read Helena in bold script. She reached up to unclip her brunette hair from its tight, professional bun, allowing waves of hair to drift around her shoulders. She dropped the long iron clip onto her desk, and stretched, looking at the large round clock hanging above the double doors. Almost nine o’clock, she was on the clock for another five minutes. Humming to herself, she shut off the computers and reached for the light switch, turning off the harsh fluorescents, leaving the moody golden orange lights on to rain their ambient glow on the library floor.

Helena entered the employee kitchen beneath the stairs, pulling out the leftovers of the Chinese food she had ordered at lunch. She then went up the steps to the second floor and strolled through a couple book lined corridors before slipping into a door marked employees only, and into the research stacks. They housed the old newspaper and journals people rarely required. The internet and digital archives had made them almost obsolete, but they were kept as backup and viewed as documents of history. There had been talk of moving them to a climate-controlled warehouse for storage, but Helena was thankful they had remained just talks, otherwise, she would truly be homeless.

Helena moved through the dimly lit stacks to the corner she had made hers. She had a sleeping roll and a duffle bag of clothing. Her blazers and work cardigans were strung on a makeshift clothing line to keep them wrinkle free. Her laptop rested on a small dinged up desk she had dragged up from the cellar one night. Beside her pillows were a pile of library books she was working on reading. She stripped her cardigan off and leaned her back against her pillow, tugging her laptop to her, ready to watch bad tv and eat good Chinese food.

*

Helena’s eyes fluttered open as she heard a loud crash. She thought it was nothing, a figment of her imagination, a dream, until she heard another shattering of glass and a distinctive whispered swear.

Helena pushed the laptop onto the sleeping bag and tugged a cardigan across her bare shoulders, adrenaline pumping through her system making her feel more awake. She slipped into a pair of low ankle boots and held her phone in her hand. She knew she should remain hidden, do nothing to reveal herself, but this was her library and she would allow no one to break into it without consequences.

She crept down the dimly lit hall towards the staircase, 911 plugged into her phone, her thumb hovering over the call button. If she saw anything violent, she wouldn’t hesitate to press call. She stopped at an intersection, leaning over the corner to look at the landing at the top of the stairs.

A young man about her age bent to the ground, picking up shards of glass. She didn’t recognize the glass at first, until her gaze traveled upwards. He had smashed one of the ceiling lights. A vandal then. She sniffed, disgusted, and was about to dial when the man turned.

She recognized him. He visited the library frequently. She didn’t know all the patrons of the library, but she knew him. It wasn’t because of his looks, which were more than decent she had to admit, or because of some friendly rapport at the checkout counter, like some people tried to stir up. It was because he had a look in his face that said he could see the truths about you that you kept locked away. Helena knew she had enough skeletons in her closet and did not need a man pulling them forth with a penetrating gaze.

She crossed her arms and stepped from behind the corner, chin tilted up, infusing authority into her voice. “What are you doing here?”

“I could ask you the same question,” he responded, standing, brushing down the front of his black jacket, his demeanor nonchalant. No guilt, his expression neutral.  

“I work here.”

“At eleven at night?” She noticed his gaze flick to her for a moment and then swivel to the walls, the stairs, as if he were looking for someone.

She searched for an appropriate response. Night shift at the library did not seem believable. “You broke the light.”

“I didn’t mean for that to happen; you have to believe me. I’ll pay to have it repaired. Helena, right?”

She nodded, not surprised he knew her name. She wore the name tag enough.

“I suppose you get a lot of Helena of Troy complements.”

“Do not even start.”

He put up his hands and delivered a placating smile. “I’m sorry, about everything.”

Helena stopped; her mouth partly open. She had been going to tell him off, but the way his hands fell to his side, his apology, made her rethink. “What are you doing here anyway? You don’t look like someone who would break into the building.”

“I love books. Why wouldn’t I come to the library to read at night?”

He smiled again and she found herself almost smiling too. She had a soft spot for people who loved books, like her.

“Enough to break the laws by entering a building and vandalizing a lamp?”

“Certainly. But not the vandalization part. It was an accident.” He reached behind his back and pulled out a pistol. Helena’s mouth fell open, her fingers returning to her phone. “Please, it’s not dangerous.” He said, setting it down on the ground. “It’s rock salt. No bullets, I swear. I would never hurt anyone. Anyone living.”

She gave him her full intention, trying to decipher this strange man. “Why are you here,” she forced out, her voice cold.

“There are rumors this library is haunted. I wanted to see if they were true.” He shuffled his feet, a bit nervous.

“I suppose the odd salt gun makes sense then?”

“I heard something and panicked. Ghost hunting, and guns in general, are not my area of expertise. I’m a double English and history major. I’m exploring the legend of Fiona Diamond for a term project.”

“Who is Fiona Diamond?”

“A murderer like this town has only known once in its two hundred year existence.”