Chapter 3 #2
Travis turned the page and found a faded newspaper clipping about the Mammoth Mine disaster. The priest’s handwriting on the bottom of the clip read, “gnome.”
His fingers brushed the old article, and suddenly the library seemed to disappear, leaving him in the dank cold of the mine.
Travis’s mind knew that visions weren’t real, but his body reacted to the threat anyhow.
The air smelled of wet rock, oil lamps, and the exhaust fumes of the huge engine at the mine mouth.
In the echo chamber of the tight tunnel, the engine’s cycle sounded like a mechanical heartbeat, reverberating from the stone walls.
Sweaty, dirt-streaked men crowded into the narrow entrance, and Travis could see the fear in their eyes they tried to hide.
These men—some of them only boys—knew that the odds were against them returning home, and faced that fear every day.
Most of them looked overtired and underfed, scraping out a living in this new land that barely kept them and their families alive.
Voices buzzed around him, speaking in Polish, Croatian, Hungarian, and heavily accented English. Many had been miners in their home countries before they came to Pennsylvania, hoping for a fresh start. They knew the dangers and gambled that, at least for today, luck would be with them.
At the mouth of the mine, silhouetted against the light, Travis glimpsed a man whose arms were lifted in benediction.
The thunder of the engine kept him from hearing most of the words, but he felt the tingle of magic as the spell swept over and past the men, deep into the tunnel where the monsters lurked.
When the miners moved, they swept Travis along with them, into claustrophobic tunnels that opened into cavernous rooms where the coal was chipped from the rock by pickaxes and sledgehammers. Some of the men carried open flame lanterns, and other lamps hung from hooks high in the rock pillars.
A few men had gone deeper into the tunnel and returned. Travis saw them argue with the overseer. He couldn’t pick up much, just “bad air.” Their report didn’t sway the man, who sent them back to their task. Murmurs and whispers circulated among the other men even as they stuck with their work.
Travis tried to draw a deep breath and found it difficult, as if his lungs were already full of something they couldn’t dispel. He coughed and gagged, trying to clear his throat. Smoke mingled with the tang of methane and fine rock grit that Travis could taste in his mouth.
Then he saw it, a misshapen shadow against the lamplight, lurching toward them. Seconds later, an explosion rang out behind the creature, and a ball of flames raced around and past him.
Men screamed and tried to run. Travis remained frozen, an unlucky observer of the tragedy. The fire that engulfed the miners didn’t affect the creature. Its red eyes gleamed, and just before Travis’s vision faded, he saw the monster’s lips pull back in a saw-toothed smile.
Travis woke gasping for breath, face down on the table. His whole body shook, and he swore he could still feel the fire and taste the methane.
I saw it. I saw the disaster and the monster.
“Your time is up.”
Travis had almost forgotten the Keeper had stayed with him, and he managed not to startle at the interruption. Whatever the priest made of Travis’s vision, it had not moved him to offer help.
“Because it’s clearly so busy in here?” Travis snarked, still trying to regain his presence of mind. He shut the priest’s memoir, careful not to touch the old clipping again.
The keeper was not amused. “The magic and spirits in these books make them dangerous. Contact must be limited to avoid possession or worse.”
Travis always doubted the dire predictions the Keepers gave about restricting time in the library with the magical tomes.
Although his skepticism suspected that the library minders didn’t want to be responsible for their visitors for longer periods of time, he knew that many in the Sinistram did not question the idea that the library and its contents were dangerous, to be avoided if possible, and if not, consumed in as small amounts as possible.
“I think I’ve gotten what I need.” Travis hid his annoyance. He carefully packed away his notebook and knew the Keeper would insist on reshelving the books he had used.
The Keeper followed him out of the stacks and the restricted area, a silent shadow. At the doorway, he paused.
“Don’t return until the period of cleansing is completed,” he warned. “For the good of your soul.”
“I’ll remember that.” Travis brushed off the priest’s concern.
“Mind your manners,” the Keeper snapped. “You’re merely a guest here.”
So many things ran through Travis’s mind to say in reply, but he swallowed them down. Picking a fight with someone who could turn a person into a frog—even temporarily—wasn’t worth the hassle.
“Then I thank you for your warm welcome.” Travis met the Keeper’s gaze without flinching. “And I’m sure I’ll be back as soon as I can.”
The heavy iron door clanged shut behind Travis, and he paused to take a deep breath, feeling as if a weight had been lifted from his chest.
He didn’t take the library’s magic lightly.
As a medium, he knew the archive had layers of protection, both from spells and from the cadre of ghostly priests who never left their posts even after their lives were over.
They flitted just at the edge of his sight, usually ignoring him, but on occasion dropping or pulling out a book that was exactly what Travis needed.
No matter how much he hated returning to the Sinistram stronghold or how it would spark nightmares for days afterwards, he would not compromise a hunt for his personal comfort. He accepted the library’s effect on him as a form of penance for the gray areas fighting monsters often required.
The Crown Vic was where he left it, untouched despite the dodgy area, protected by subtle distraction spells.
Danger. Run. The warning came from the ghost of a boy with a world-weary look in his eyes.
A bullet zinged by Travis, barely missing his shoulder. Clearly the spell didn’t extend to distracting attackers from Travis as well as the car. Three men stepped out of the shadows, clearly lying in wait for him to return.
Travis dropped and crouched behind the Crown Vic, pulling his gun.
He popped up, returning fire. That kept the men at bay for now, but he was likely to run out of ammo before they did, and a shootout in this area was bound to attract cops asking questions Travis didn’t want to answer.
He tried to rise enough to see his attackers, but more shots forced him back to a crouch.
The boy’s ghost remained, standing to one side and watching.
“Hey, kid.” Travis looked right at the ghost, who seemed surprised to be seen.
Me?
Travis nodded. “Yeah. You got friends nearby?”
The ghost nodded. Why?
“Cause trouble for those guys to make them leave, and I’ll send you on so you don’t have to hang around here anymore.
” Travis couldn’t promise heaven or that they would reunite with loved ones.
That knowledge, he always joked, was above his pay grade.
But he could give them rest. He had no way to know for certain, but he had the feeling that the ghost had been stuck here for a while.
You can do that? The boy looked wary.
“Yes. You can finally rest.”
Will I see my grandma? the ghost asked.
Travis shook his head. “I don’t know for sure. Maybe. You won’t be here anymore.”
Good enough, the ghost said and vanished. Travis slowed his pace to buy time, hoping the boy would keep his word.
He didn’t have to wait long. Invisible feet kicked over the bottles and cans that lined nearby concrete steps, sending them flying with enough force to break glass.
“What the hell—” One of the men flinched at the sudden noise, looking around for reinforcements.
Empty beer cans levitated, then pelted Travis’s attackers, hitting them in the head or smashing on the ground at their feet. Theatrical wailing added to the spooky effect.
“Fuck this shit, I’m gone.” Two of the men ran down a side street.
The third man hesitated until a glass bottle crashed into a light pole right above his head, raining down shards. He fled without looking back.
Travis locked himself inside the Crown Vic. Within its wards, Travis felt himself relax knowing he was safe.
A small gang of ghosts appeared next to the driver’s side window, laughing and joking with each other, proud of their success.
Pay up, mister. We’re tired of being stuck here, the first boy said.
The others looked expectantly at Travis, torn between hope and a history of being disappointed.
Travis could guess their backstories; he heard similar tales from the men who stayed at St. Dismas.
These were the ones who weren’t lucky enough to survive.
Travis raised his hands and closed his eyes, confident that the would-be attackers were gone.
“Thank you,” he told the ghosts. “It’s time for you to move on to where you can rest in safety. Go into the light and find peace.” In his mind’s eye, he saw a shaft of light strike the road near where the ghosts gathered.
One by one, they walked toward the beam and vanished. The last to go was the boy who had first spoken to him. He turned back toward Travis with a wobbly smile, waved, and then followed the others into the light. It blinked out, and the street seemed much darker than before with its loss.
Travis seized the moment and drove off, ignoring the thudding of his heart and the shaking in his hands as he gripped the wheel.
Once he felt calmer, he called Brent. “I think we’ve got an evil gnome.”
“Gnome?” Brent echoed. “I thought they were the cute little guys in old ladies’ gardens.”
“They come in all varieties, and one sort is definitely bad news.” Travis gave Brent a brief recap.