The Ghostwriter's Words

The Professor: Dust, Debris, and a Stack of Old Crates

"Do not enter!" the sign on the door demanded.

The Professor had never paid attention to the door or sign, which he'd walked past enough times that he was surprised he hadn't. But the door had never been left open before, if only a crack, and he couldn't resist the temptation to take a quick look on the other side. He was curious, and when had he ever followed the rules?

The staircase, what of it he could see as it descended into the darkness, appeared ancient and was covered in the dust of many years. No one had been down the stairs in a very long time, but his new footprints disturbing the dust on the landing left proof for whoever came next to know that they wouldn't be the first to disobey the instructions on the sign. So, why leave the door ajar if no one had intended to go down the stairs or step onto the landing themselves? That was a mystery he doubted he'd solve.

Once he'd stepped on the landing, there'd never been a question whether he'd head down the stairs to explore what was below. But it did occur to him just in time that if the door locked behind him, it might take long enough for the dust he'd disturbed to appear undisturbed again before anyone discovered his mummified remains. He'd checked whether the door could be opened from the inside without a key and felt a jolt of fearful relief that he'd caught himself before reflexively pulling it closed.

The Professor assumed there had to be other ways into and out of the basement, but he had no way of knowing whether any other doors opened without a key. Taking the precaution of putting his foot in the opening, he'd thought a moment, then rooted through his pockets and pulled out a condom in its foil packet, which he'd still habitually carried with him like a hopeful teenage boy. He chuckled that he wouldn't likely meet any willing twenty-year-old women below. Besides, like most men, he preferred going bareback when he had the chance. Condoms were primarily for the ease of mind of the young women he'd spent centuries luring into his bed since he could neither catch, carry, nor transmit STDs. He could still potentially impregnate a young woman and had periodically, but that topic involved a lengthier digression. Besides, he hadn't pursued twenty-year-old ass for more than a decade then. So, he'd wedged the foil package of his last condom between the door and frame to prevent it from locking, then nervously turned to the darkness calling him from below.

How often had he heard the words concerning horror movies: Don't go down into the basement? But they always did, and so did he, gripping the handrail since he couldn't see where he was putting his feet while chastising himself not to be such a coward for being afraid of the dark. Not his exact choice of words, but the specific details of that discussion with himself would involve another unnecessary digression.

The building's foundation was likely from the early days of The Faith, perhaps older. The stairs led down to a cavernous space the size of the structure's entire footprint, with rows of shelves filled with ancient and forgotten stuff that seemed to extend forever. It reminded him of the legend of the Minotaur, which provided no help in easing his sense of trepidation. Who knew what might be down there? He only knew that it was not supposed to include him.

At least there were lights, which nearly blinded him when he discovered the switch after feeling his way along the wall. Those must have been ancient, too; otherwise, there'd have been motion sensors. The shelves extended to the ceiling twenty feet above, filled with crates, piles of curious artifacts, and non-descript junk. Mostly there was dust and debris, like an archeological site which he began to explore, turning on one bank of lights after another.

The Professor had about decided that he wouldn't find anything of interest when he spotted a stack of old crates in a corner, which drew his attention much like the door above since the lid of the topmost was open enough for him to wedge his fingers beneath the edge. Once again, his curiosity couldn't resist. Prying free the lid, it took him a moment to recognize the contents of the crate as something only he and Sammy were old enough to have ever used themselves. At most, there might be a handful of archeologists in the world who would recognize what the crates contained.

The contents on top had suffered the most from the exposure over time. What the Professor believed had once been tablets of lined yellow paper were blotched with water stains and had long since turned various shades of brown. The lines that once covered them had faded until barely visible, as had whatever was once written between them. After gently setting the top few old tablets aside, he discovered that the pages of some of those below retained more of their original color. The lines were more clearly visible, as was some of what had been written between them. The handwriting was much like what he'd learned in school as a child. The language was familiar. Had the words been written in pencil, he wondered. Then, his heart nearly stopped as he read the words clear enough to make out.

There were three nearly identical crates, which he'd assumed must contain the same or similar contents. He'd hated disturbing the crates or their contents further once he became aware of their potential historical significance. But he couldn't leave them where they were for the Faith to blunder upon.

It was a wonder that someone else hadn't already discovered them, and, depending on who that had been, he doubted that either the crates or contents would have still existed. It would be unconscionable for him to leave that potential fate to chance. He tested the weight of the crate he'd pried open and found that he could barely budge it. He certainly couldn't lift or carry them and had no idea how to transport them if he could. His vehicle was designed to accommodate himself and a single passenger, not to haul freight.

Of course, arranging for something bigger wouldn't be a problem. Next to Sammy and likely members of the Curia, he was still one of the wealthiest men in the world. At least he was according to the balances of the various trusts he'd established to ensure his wealth remained his own, as he'd changed identities, passing through lifetime after lifetime. They also served to hide most of his wealth from the eyes of The Faith once he'd finally relented and purchased the Immortality that he'd been hiding from them for centuries.

Since the environment in the library basement was far from ideal, he'd decided the basement of his building couldn't be much worse, at least until he arranged someplace more environmentally appropriate, secure, and private. He'd already planned to have the recently vacated apartment immediately below his updated before relisting it.

Of course, if his assumptions were correct, he knew there was ultimately only one place in the world the tablets belonged. But, before then, there were still so many questions to answer. Were they even real? Or could they be some long-forgotten hoax?

They were old. The Professor knew that without question. Old enough? Could the materials be dated and authenticated? Pencil and paper would be period-appropriate, but something about that struck him as unlikely. So far as he knew, the old man had been reasonably tech-savvy at the time for someone his age. He'd supposedly posted the initial drafts on a blog before his wife downloaded, edited, and published them as a book. The Book. But who knew how long he'd been thinking about what he finally wrote? Sammy's great-grandfather had lived through that transitional era, from before the time of antiquities such as personal computers, through the invention of smartphones and tablets, now all long since extinct, thanks to the genius of his great-grandson,

First, the Professor determined he had to get the crates out of the library's basement without being caught transporting them. He'd paid dearly for his legitimized Immortality. That didn't mean they'd let him keep it.