Losing Logan

Twenty-one

The library is filled with screaming toddlers. Kids story time, I remember as I wade through the horde of midgets. My dad used to bring me when I was little. Luckily, the study area is off to the back, far beyond the kids section and down the stairs. Taking the first left into the bowels of the library we head for the computers, and take seats opposite each other. Logan appears before I can even launch the internet.

“He vanished before I could get any answers out of him.”

I nod, not wanting to freak out Carlos, and begin my search. An hour later and all I have to show for it is a stiff neck, blood shot eyes, and the beginnings of a nasty headache.

“Does it have wings?” Carlos asks across the table.

He’s staring at the computer so hard it looks like he’s trying to figure out how to climb inside the monitor.

“No,” I answer.

“What about a scythe?”

“Nope.”

He frowns, clicking the mouse. “What about a trident?”

I raise an eyebrow, “Really.”

He nods.

“No, no trident. What are you looking at?”

“Online catalogue of death figures,” he says as if it should be obvious.

Because, duh, I totally should have expected that.

“Okay, no…no. No…”

“You’re talking to yourself Carlos.”

He shushes me.

“Here, how about this? The Mintle. It comes from ancient Samaria, a sort of death omen. It says they appear with a white or brown robe, and they don’t cause death so much as witness it. The ancient Samarians believed the Mintle was responsible for leading the dead to the afterlife. There’s even a picture. Sort of.”

I get out of my chair and round the desk, looking over his shoulder. Picture is a deceptive word. A crudely drawn sketch would be more accurate. Basically, it looks like any generic person in a long hooded cape.

“Maybe. Any other references?”

He shakes his head. “None that fit. But there’s a footnote with a reference. A book from the late 60’s.”

“Great. Give me the number and I’ll see if it’s in the catalogue here. If we get lucky, they might have a copy.”

Going back over to the main catalogue computer I type in the numbers as he calls them out. Zero in stock. Of course. So I decide to try a general sweep and type in Mintle as a subject and keyword. One hit. But there’s no shelf number.

“Crap. I’m gonna go see if the librarian knows where this book is. I’ll be right back. But keep digging, just in case this isn’t what we’re looking for.”

He salutes and returns to typing and I head for the Information Desk where a slender brunette is talking on the phone. She hangs up.

“Can I help you?”

I hand over the slip of paper I’ve written the title on. “Yeah, I found this in the catalogue, but there’s no shelf number.”

She types it onto her computer, lowering her glasses from her head onto her eyes.

“Let’s see. Okay, well this is in the archives. It’s not on the shelf.”

I frown. “Oh, well, how does one go about getting a book out of the archives?”

She stares at me like I must be joking.

“It’s important. History assignment.”

She huffs, looking completely put out. “The archived books are all in the sub-basement.”

She points to the stairs. “Look for the shelf labeled reference. The boxes will be in alphabetical order by author.”

Nice, way to send me to a rat infested basement on my own you crappy excuse for a librarian. The phone lights up, indicating a call. She hands me back the paper and quickly answers it.

Stuffing the paper in my back pocket I head for the elevator at the far end of the room. I tap Carlos on the shoulder as I walk by.

“Hey, I have to go play Where’s Waldo for this stupid book. If I’m not back in five, send in the National Guard.”

“Can do.”

The sub-basement is brighter than I expected. Rows of overhead lights flicker on as soon as I step off the elevator. Of course it stinks like stale cigarettes and old books. It’s a large, concrete room with rows of grey metal shelves and white boxes. At the front of each row is a small sign. Fiction, Non Fiction, Audio, and Reference. Making a bee line down the reference aisle I start scanning for books, looking for the S shelf. Saunders is the author’s last name.

The lights overhead buzz with electricity and somewhere I hear the tell-tale squeaks of a mouse. Or with my luck, an army of mice. With rabies. And knives. Yep, rabid, ninja mice. That would be my luck. I finally find the S boxes. A whole freaking shelf of them. I decide to start at the top and work my way down. Grabbing the first box off the shelf I let it fall to my feet and pull the lid off. A moth flies out and I let out a nervous shriek.

“Hey, let’s go down to the creepy ass basement. That sounds like a great plan,” I mutter to myself feeling like a complete wuss.

Worst. Plan. Ever.

It takes me all of three seconds to realize this isn’t the right box and return it to the shelf. Grabbing the next box I repeat the process. Finally, three boxes later, I hit the jackpot. Pulling the ancient, tattered book out of the box I fold myself cross legged onto the cold floor and open the book up in my lap. The pages are musty and faded, even the glue binding the spine is failing, and loose pages out of order are stuffed haphazardly inside the cloth cover.

I examine the pages carefully, looking for any mention of the Mintle. Finally, I see it.

“The Mintle…blah, blah, blah, death spirit. Blah, blah, blah. Usually depicted as a female with hollow eye sockets and skeletal features. Ugh. Can rotate head completely around. Eeew. That’s just unnecessary. And…always accompanied by a large black dog. Sorry Mintle, you aren’t my ring wraith.” I slam the book closed with a dusty puff and return it to the box.

I’m making my way back to the elevator when I feel it. A chill air blows past me like someone’s switched on an air conditioner. I turn slowly, praying that it’s just Logan, even though I know it isn’t. Logan, despite being very, very dead, still somehow smells like rain and water. I don’t smell that now.

I just smell musty books and death.

It’s at the far end of the stacks, hovering there silently. If not for the subtle movement of its robe, I would think it was just some ass-hat in a costume playing a prank. But its feet aren’t touching the ground.

I don’t scream. I just sort of tense up, my muscles locking in terror as it watches me from under its large hood. Its face is shrouded in shadows, and part of me is really glad. I have the distinct feeling this is not a creature I want to be eye to eye with.

Slowly, as if carried by a breeze, it floats toward me. I straighten my back, my feet firmly planted. I’m not going to run. It doesn’t even feel like an option. Whatever this thing wants from me, I just want it over with. Lowering my chin I ball my hands into fists. I doubt that beating this thing violently about the head will do any good, but hey, what’s the harm in trying?

It gets to within three feet of me and stops, its hands folded into its sleeves.

“What are you waiting for, a freaking invitation? Come on!”

I stand there, my jaw clenched so tight I can feel the ache in my teeth, challenging the spirit. It doesn’t move.

“I’m right here. I’m not going anywhere. So tell me what you want or get lost.”

A deep rattling breath fills its robes, words escaping from under the hood with a sour hiss.

“You. It’s you.”

“What’s me?” I demand.

“It’s you. It’s you.” The voice keeps repeating, growing louder and steadier each time it repeats. “It’s you. It’s you. It’s you.”

Soon the voice is deep and echoing inside my head like a bell. I drop to my knees, pressing my hands to my ears to try to block out the sound, but I can’t. It’s coming from inside me, resonating through my body and bouncing around inside my skull. The voice is like a vice in my head, squeezing my brain. Pain shoots through my skull like shards of glass, shattering inside me.

I squeeze my eyes closed. “Stop it. Please stop.” The pain is unbearable, blinding. It’s like I’m going to explode. “Please. Logan help me.”

And just like that the voice is gone. I’m shaking, my heart pounding. My head aches and I feel a trickle of something wet roll down the side of my neck. I touch my fingers to it and they come away bloody. Pitching forward on my knees I press my head against the cold, cement floor and just breathe. Logan appears beside me in the blink of an eye.

“Zoe, I heard you call out for me is everything—“ He stops, dropping to his knees beside me. “Zoe, what happened?”

I don’t know what to say, or if I could even form words. My throat is raw, the pain still ebbing from my body. I look over at him. His eyes are wild, desperate. He’s trying to touch me but he can’t make himself solid enough.

“I’m fine,” I manage weakly.

But there’s something in his expression, something broken and defeated and afraid. I think Logan is realizing, maybe for the first time, that he can’t protect me. And I think it’s killing him.

Using the shelf for support, I climb to my feet, wiping the blood away with the sleeve of my shirt. My knees are still weak, but I manage to make my way to the elevator with Logan beside me the whole way.

“What happened?” he’s asking. “Did it attack you?”

I take a deep breath and hit the up button.

“Yeah. Sort of. I don’t think it meant to hurt me. It was trying to tell me something.”

“Trying to tell you what?”

The doors slide open and I step inside, resting my head against the wall.

“That somehow, all of this is my fault. Logan, I think that somehow, it’s my fault you died.”