Ghost Stories of a Librarian: The Mezzotint.

Hope I will be able to paint a word picture for you -- Boo!

“…The moon was behind it, and the black drapery hung down over its face so that only hints of that could be seen, and what was visible made the spectators profoundly thankful that they could see no more than a white dome-like forehead and a few straggling hairs. The head was bent down, and the arms were tightly clasped over an object which could be dimly seen and identified as a child, whether dead or living it was not possible to say. The legs of the appearance alone could be plainly discerned, and they were horribly thin.”

Image: Spooky Moon by Ray Bodden

Every organization has a complaints department and at the public library where I work, the buck stops with me.

Patrons complain about the content of books, the pictures and photographs in some of our magazines, the lyrics of rap tunes, the appropriateness of the ratings we put on our dvd collection. Sometimes we take specific action as a result of these complaints, often not, but each customers is entitled to a polite explanation of our decision.

After all, the public library belongs to them.

I had just returned from vacation, from a visit to the industrial town where I grew up, and because work piled up in my absence, I decided to take some home.

After dinner, I poured myself a glass of wine and set to work. It took me an hour to soldier my way through the materials until there was only one item left: a picture book.

THE FLOATERS.

Written and illustrated by Joe Sheridan

The Inmost Light

Something about the title and the cover illustration jarred some prehistoric and disquieting memories. The names of both writer and publisher meant nothing to me.

Picture books for kids tell the story as much by the illustrations as by the words; they have a standard length of about 32 pages.  Most complaints about picture books concern whether the contents are suitable for children; in this case, patron thought the pictures were too frightening, even for adults.

I opened the book -- and dropped it on the floor.

I didn’t pick it up right away and before bending over to reach for it, I drained what was left of my wine. When I had calmed down, I re-opened the book and looked at the first pages.

The illustration showed a typical bungalow such as one might find in any blue collar town in North America back in the 70s  -- but this particular house was an exact duplicate of the very one in which I had grown up, down to the identical house number, posted just to the left of the white front door.

Three figures stood on front lawn. It appeared to be the fall, the grass was brown and dried and the trio all wore windbreakers. One of the figures was me (I still remembered the Toronto Maple Leafs ball cap I appeared to be wearing), one was my father and the third was our grumpy next door neighbor, Mr. Cushing.

The simple text read: I see the Floaters got another kid last night!

I went and poured myself another glass of wine; I knew exactly what was going to happen now without having to look – but I knew that I would have to look.

And I was afraid.

I swallowed half my wine in one gulp, picked up the book and turned to the next pages:

Close up of the three figures: me, eyes wide, Dad, face red and angry, Mr. Cushing, smug, smiling.

Text: Not in front of the boy!

I remembered the entire conversation now, as if it had happened yesterday and not 40 years ago.  Dad had been very angry about it, as he had no use for our crabby neighbor, who he called an “old woman.” behind his back.

The next pages showed my childhood bedroom, with the sports posters on the walls, my model cars, and the desk where I did my homework and comics everywhere, including the floor.

Few details were visible, as the room was in darkness, the only light coming from the open doorway in where Dad stood, the light spilling across the foot of my bed:

Text: You’re too old to need a nightlight.

I turned the page.

Total darkness. The only illumination in the room comes from the bedroom window; the curtains have been pulled back, but the darkness outside renders it as little more than a patch of grey. 

I am invisible, but I know I am wide awake.

No text.

Next page

:

The picture shows the front yard of our house, looking towards the far end of our street. As it is night and this is a factory town, most of the houses are sleeping, with only a few lights visible in the windows. The streetlights cast pools of illumination, which still leaving most of the street in shadow.

And down at the far end, a white spherical blob.

No text – but what flashed through my mind was:  “It’s coming to get me.”

Next page:

The illustration zooms in to the far end of the street, where the white blob has now become a human head, floating several feet off the ground. The face is young, freckled, with unkempt hair and reddish eyes.

I flip through the next few illustrations, all of which show head – the Floater-- sailing down our street – until it arrives directly in front of our house.

And as I’ve been looking at the pictures, I’ve been saying: Get up, get up, run, wake up, wake up – and with a start I realize I’ve been talking out loud.

Next Pages

The head is shown entering the room by floating through the window. I’m a mere shadow, lying in bed, sound asleep.

No text.

Next page:

The head hovers over the bed, looking down at me, its expression both hungry and malignant.

No text.

Next page:

The Floater pounces, mouth open to reveal strong, discolored teeth, the entire scene suffused with red, spurting blood.

Text: EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEENNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNN!!! – the moaning sound of a Floater!

Next page:

Dad stands in the doorway of my bedroom, light behind him, his face a mixture of fear and confusion; again, the light spills across the foot of my bed – revealing my bare foot, sprayed out at an odd angle.

Text: 

The written text was Dad calling my name -- my name -- ending in a question mark.

I closed the book and locked it in my desk drawer. I had another glass of wine and when it was time for bed, I lay down on the living room couch, with every light in the house turned on.

I didn’t sleep a wink.

I had recognized everything, knew everything that was about to happen, because the story in the picture book was my story, my dream, my nightmare. I had screamed the house down and had slept with my parents for weeks thereafter (and when I finally returned to my own room, slept with a light on for at least another year). It was the most terrifying dream I had ever had and it took me years to get over it.

No, this was certainly not a picture book for young children.

But how had it become a picture book in the first place; had my terrible night vision happened to someone else? I already knew what I would write to the patron: the book would be withdrawn and removed from circulation. 

But when I opened my desk drawer, the book was gone, vanished – and there was no patron complaint. At work, when I checked the online catalogue, there was no listing for “The Floaters,” nor any record of the concern.

But I remembered the names of both the author and publisher. It took time, but eventually I was able to track down both Joe Sheridan and the Inmost Light at addresses in a faraway city. Given the nature of my problem, I decided to visit in person rather than make contact by phone or email.

The offices of the Inmost Light had been in an old warehouse, but were now closed; I questioned some of the other tenants, but no one I spoke with knew anything about them.

Joe Sheridan lived in a bungalow, similar to the one I grew up in, in an older neighborhood which had seen better days. A woman, with a sad, lined, face answered the door and when I asked to speak with Mr. Sheridan told me bitterly that he was dead.

“Are you Mrs. Sheridan?” I asked, concerned that now I might never learn the truth.

“I’m his widow,” she answered angrily.

“May I come in? I have a few questions I would like to ask you.”

“What about?”

“Well, questions I’d rather not ask out here on the steps.”

I was shown into a cold and gloomy living room, taking a seat on a musty chesterfield, while the Widow Sheridan sat across for me, glaring.

“Did you husband publish a picture book called, “The Floaters?”

“That damn thing,” she swore, “that’s what killed him!”

It appeared  Joe Sheridan was a failed artist who had been plagued for many years by a vivid and terrible nightmare.

“He’d wake up with a roar, all covered with sweat. At first, I’d try and comfort him, but…it never went away, so I just sort of gave up. This thing was coming to get him and he couldn’t get away…I mean, he was a grown man.

“Eventually, he got the idea that if he wrote it all down, if he drew pictures of what he saw in this nightmare, it might exorcise his demons. I encouraged him to try – I mean, I was at my wits end. And, it seemed to work – all the time he was engaged, the dream stayed away…”

And then came the day the work was finished, a limited edition with only a small number of copies printed by a small esoteric publisher.

“That night, I suddenly woke up to find him sitting up in bed, cowering, hyperventilating. I asked him what was wrong and he started babbling that it was down at the end of the street, but it was coming for him, it was coming for him fast, that he had to get out of here, had to get out of here, but he didn’t move, just sat there, trembling.

“I was looking at our bedroom window, when I saw this face, this decapitated head, floating outside, staring in at us and then it disappeared…and then the glass exploded and I hear a long, drawn-out shriek:

THE EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEENNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNN!!!

“I passed out in shock; when I came too, Joe was dead. The doctors said it was a massive heart attack, brought on by sheer terror.”

“And the books,” I asked.

“I burned them.”

The main thing that puzzled me was how Joe Sheridan came to illustrate my nightmare? I knew of no connection between us. But when I tried to question his widow, her anger resurfaced and she began blaming me for “killing Joe:” I left her and the faraway city soon after; I don’t plan on ever going back.

And now, every night, I drink myself unconscious and sleep with all my lights on because I have a new dream, a new nightmare; I see a fat, sensual face with thick, silver-white hair, floating down my street. I know it is Joe Sheridan and I know he has become a Floater and is looking for me. Every night he gets closer and someday soon, we will meet face to face.

Perhaps I’ll learn why we share this phantasm.

But either way it will be the end of the story.

The moral of the story? Picture books should not be scary; they are for kids, not adults.