Antan held an alchemical lamp in a trembling, outstretched hand, staring into the darkness of the archives. He walked lightly, shelves housing thousands of books towering above him on either side, as though he were afraid of waking someone. But it was past midnight and Antan was all alone in the archives, all alone to index and catalog as was afforded to him in his position as an apprentice monk.
At least he thought he was all alone.
"No, no," the monk muttered to himself, his robe brushing at his ankles with each cautious step. "It must have been nothing. Must have been a mouse. Maybe a breeze from somewhere." The archives were housed in a sprawling building that rivaled the Thorn Palace. So it was not so unlikely that a gust of wind issued forth from some forgotten corner, window, or passage, or at least he liked to believe as much. But he knew every square inch of the Vandorian Historical Archives where he labored and no such nook or cranny existed.
Attributing the phantom feeling to a potent combination of the late hour and imagination, Antan returned to the small desk where he indexed and cataloged new additions to the archives. In addition to his duties indexing and cataloging, he had endeavored, as did all of the other monks, to cross-reference every single work in the archives. It was a monumental task. It would take a lifetime, a hundred lifetimes. And it would still never be finished.
Antan returned the lamp to the desk, and he took a deep breath to calm himself. Though still jittery he resumed his duties, and before long he became so absorbed in his work that the thought of some unseen thing skirting by faded away. Still he could not shake the cold feeling that crept up his spine from time to time until dawn came.
#
Thunder seemed to shake the foundation of the building. Antan could hear the explosions of ragged bolts of lightning splitting the sky, and he could hear the torrents of rain raging in futility against the great stone building. He once again crept through the archives, undulating lamp in tow, heart thumping in his chest.
In the past couple of weeks, candles were extinguished as if by breath, loud crashes led to thousand year old tomes lying upon the floor, glimpses and glances hinted at specters, and the faint awareness of an unseen other was ever present. Now, somewhere in the darkness of the archives, far back in the ancient stacks containing volumes on folklore, magicks, and songs from the glory days of Vandoria the sound of turning pages could be heard. The world around Antan muffled, the storm becoming little more than a dull murmur. Only the sound of his beating heart and the crisp rustle of old pages existed for him.
As he rounded a corner deep in the archives, his breath caught in his throat and the lamp nearly fell from his hand. Sitting on one of the many benches scattered throughout the archives was a ghostly apparition, a man washed in a hazy, transparent blue. The apparition appeared lost in thought, not doing as much as sparing a cross look at Antan. The monk stood motionless and finally the apparition, taking notice of Antan for the first time, jerked his head up from the thick volume upon his lap, setting his wide eyes upon him as though he had been startled as much as the monk.
"I - " Antan wheezed dumbly, his throat dry and stomach somersaulting under the gaze of the specter. He wanted to turn and flee. He wanted to scream, scream for help, scream for somebody, scream for screaming's sake, but paralysis rendered him immobile and void of any speech. The specter slowly closed the volume he held and gazed curiously at the monk.
"You can see me?" the apparition asked suddenly, setting the volume aside with great care.
Still incapable of any intelligent communication, Antan nodded.
"How curious," the apparition mused. His voice was pleasant, containing a pure, melodic quality that seemed to wash over Antan. It struck him as the queerest experience of his short twenty-some-odd years of life, but he suddenly found himself relaxing, his fear melting away.
