William Shakespeare Meets Ghosts in the Library

By Greg Minster

We all know words, especially written words, can haunt. Their meanings linger, keeping thoughts and ideas alive forever. Nevertheless, it only follows: If words can haunt, there must be word ghosts!

The setting for "William Shakespeare Meets Ghosts in the Library", The Mead Public Library in Sheboygan, Wisconsin, swarms with word ghosts from throughout history, and across the globe.

What happens when these ghosts spill from their pages and meet each other? Cultures collide, chaos breaks-out, and amazing fun takes center stage!

Thus it unfolds in Ghosts in the Library. English playwright William Shakespeare meets such historic luminaries as patriot and inventor Ben Franklin, world explorer Christopher Columbus, American slave liberator Harriet Tubman, a Mayflower passenger, and even a contemporary American high school student!

Few storylines ever begin with such rich material. A tale so fascinating, only ghosts could tell it!

• Language: English
• Publisher: Greg Minster
• Release date: Jul 10, 2013
• ISBN: 9781301781638

Greg Minster

Greg Minster is 59 years old, and lives in Sheboygan, WI with his teenage daughter.

Book preview

William Shakespeare Meets

Ghosts in the Library

Greg Minster

Copyright © 2007 Greg Minster

Published by Greg Minster at Smashwords

All rights reserved

Dedicated to my three daughters, Erin, Kristen, and Kathryn, and my late parents, Betty and Rudy Minster.

Special thanks to my mother Betty, my Aunt Pat Craig, my sister Lisa Dobberke, and Jeff and Ben Rea for their help editing this story, and their encouragement.

Most stories find and discover their own endings, following neat patterns and clear pathways toward conclusion. Other stories need help in order to finish.

While most stories may stay safely inside the limitations and boundaries of that which is expected, familiar, and understood, others slip into mystery, legend, and myth.

The latter could be called ghost stories. In fact, some stories only ghosts can complete.

That’s where this story begins...

Chapter One

The sleeping man had fallen hard. He lay still, with eyes closed and head down, on the floor. His elbows hurt from landing on them, and scratchy fabric irritated his left cheek.

Dare I guess, he wondered, waking up while lying there, where I am?

He opened his eyes, and noticed a brown leather shoe with a thick sole just a few inches from his face. A strange beige colored fabric draped over the top of the shoe. Hm… the man thought, a brown shoe of some sort draped in ribbed, tan colored cloth. He heard a book close, and the shoe silently lifted and stepped away.

Laying there, his cheek still on the scratchy fabric, he said, Why the cloth floor? He cocked his head up, craned his neck, and observed: Why all the books?

Slowly rising to his hands and knees before standing up, he looked around and brushed his groomed beard in amazement. He’d never seen anything like it before. Books completely surrounded him: He found himself in a long aisle formed by two high walls filled with shelves and hundreds upon hundreds of colorful binders.

Why in the great stars above, he said in his surprise, do I see all these books?

What would be cause for all these books? Also, he added while squinting upward toward the ceiling, just as confusing, why do these peculiar indoor stars peek through the ceiling above?

He stepped to the book wall in front of him. He drew his right hand across the textured and bumpy binders at eye level.

They’re real, he said softly.

These books are real! He repeated.

Still stepping carefully, he walked toward the aisle where the two shelves ended. Looking right, and left, he found himself in a large room. Shelves filled from side to side with books lined up everywhere.

I know I’ve been sleeping, the man realized, and, from what I see, what a mighty long sleep I’ve taken! Judging by these many books, much has happened since my slumber began! I knew of so few books, what could possibly fill these many volumes now?

Still staring in amazement at the binders, he walked back toward where he first fell. Part way down the aisle, he paused and wondered. This many books begs the question: Did I sleep a short time, and much happened quickly, or did I sleep a long time, and much happened slowly? He looked back up at the lights. I suspect, he said thoughtfully, that both have occurred. I slept a long time, but much also happened quickly!

The man asked, So, sleep or no sleep, lots of time or scant minutes, where am I? What fortunate point on which well blessed map now possesses so much writing and knowledge?

He paused, again thinking deeply. I must also ask just how much time has passed? What hour, what day, or quite fearfully I question, what year might this be?

He observed. I don’t hear a thing. Have I landed in a quiet church--stilled of all sounds but the occasional scampering mouse?

Standing where he first fell to the floor, and taking a closer look at the books on the shelf, he suddenly froze. Shock locked his shoulders and chilled his spine. On the shelves right in front of him sat hundreds of books labeled with the number 822. Almost all of those books listed his name on their binders!

Rubbing his eyes with trembling fingers, he looked more closely and examined their titles. Sure enough, he read, The Life of, Complete Writings of, Poetry of, Plays of, this of, that of, everything of, his own name, William Shakespeare.

You’ll gather no taxes here, good lad! The scolding voice of an older man cut the silence.

What? William turned and replied in alarm.

You’ll collect no taxes here! The voice repeated.

Who’s speaking? William asked, his voice quivering as he quickly looked around.

You’ve come for more taxes, have you not? The voice asked, as the ghostly figure, half visible, half invisible, of an older man, perhaps in his seventies, stepped through some books and into the aisle where William could see him.

He just stepped through those books!? William thought in alarm. He simply stepped through the books! How’d he do that?

William reached for his mustache to tug on it, could feel it with his hand, and without thought lowered his hand back down to his side: "He appears to be a ghost! I’ve always considered ghosts to be something of the imagination--but here one stands right in front of me. Regardless, what else could this half invisible figure be? And if a ghost, just whose ghost do I see?"

Shocked, his voice cracking, William addressed the man: I can see through you!

The older man looked back at him.

Taxes? William responded. Me, collecting taxes? I don’t collect taxes! Turnstile receipts, of course, but taxes?

Taxes? He asked again.

Yes, the man finally spoke, taxes!

Why else, he demanded, would you come here?

Stop for just a minute, my mysterious friend, William said. Please let me confess my complete confusion. I’ve just fallen and landed face down upon a cloth floor. I wake up sluggishly from an apparently very long and deep sleep. I see confoundingly high numbers of books, of which quite a few for some reason list my own name on their binders, and now what looks to be a ghost appears who thinks I’ve come to collect taxes! Sir, I have no clue as to where I am, and I’ve not one hint as to what the date might be. Now you literally float into view, half invisible, and tell me I cannot collect the taxes that you for some reason expect me to collect! Could we possibly start this conversation some other way?

The man glanced at the bookbinders, and quickly looked back at William.

Who, William asked, if I can be so bold, might you be--and what can I expect from such an oddly dressed ‘old man ghost’ such as yourself?

Without answering William’s question, the man stepped closer. Both men stood silently, each one staring at the other.

Not just a ghost, but a very curious looking ghost, William thought. Beyond the fact that I can see through him, those shiny glass circles sitting upon his nose, his gray, drawn back hair, his drooping mouth, bored eyes, and an unbuttoned vest—all look so strange. I’ve never seen such a strangely dressed and peculiarly attired person anywhere. In addition, he appears to be so very old!

Hm, the older man now thought while looking back at William. I know this one. I know him not only by the name on his books, but also by his cummerbund, tights, and slippers. I recognize his mustached face, combed hair, and accented speech. In fact, such nimble demeanor could only be that of one person. I’m almost surprised he didn’t arrive sooner. But either way, no, he would not be here to collect taxes.

Welcome, William, the older man then said out loud. I always like to see new ghosts! By the way, I can see through you too!

William quickly looked down at his own hands. Oh my, he thought in surprise, I can see through them! I can see through my hands to the floor! He focused his eyes on his feet. He saw through them to the floor. I see through my feet too! I’m partially invisible! Well--may the stars pour their shine upon my soul! Just like this old man, I must be a ghost! That means I’m dead! I last remember being old. Now, suddenly I find myself wandering and haunting in the afterlife?

Still in shock, William looked down through his hands again before glancing back up at the other man and asking: Have we met?

My name, the man extended his hand in answering, is Franklin. I’m Benjamin Franklin from Philadelphia.

William thought, Franklin? That sounds English. He also speaks English--though just a bit roughly. But thank my merciful God! Wherever I’ve landed and now haunt as a ghost, at least I’m home in England.

William suddenly questioned his reasoning. Blinking his eyes, he quickly scanned Ben once more. Hold everything, William thought, yes, Ben speaks a form of English, but something seems out of order in this place. Ben not only speaks, but also looks a bit drab--perhaps uncouth--to me. Could he be a serf? If a serf, why would he be in here with all these books? Certainly he cannot read!

I’m sorry, William repeated out loud while reaching to shake Ben’s hand, but feeling only air pass through his opened palm, have we met before? And as you say, I am a ghost?

Well, William, Ben replied, I followed you in history by about a century or so—which means, that while I know who you are, you don’t have the slightest inkling about who I am. In addition, the fact of my life following your life means if I’m a ghost, by all measures you too, William, would be a ghost!

What a bizarre thing for him to say, William thought. Nevertheless, I must be dead. He looked down through his hands once again. So what do I do next? Should I just accept the passing of my being so casually: that I’m no longer flesh and blood but a faded, haunting, wisp?

William looked at Ben, and spoke. Well OK, I’m a ghost. Regardless, I must not be too far from my home. For I notice you speak English, and you have an English sounding name. I assume we’re in England. Can you tell me where? You mentioned you’re from Philadelphia. I’ve never heard of such a place. Can you tell me what it might be close to? Can you also tell me what year the calendar says? Can you tell me who the king or queen might be? It serves every Englishman well, ghost or alive, to know at least the names of the current royalty!

William, still trying to digest his spiritual vs. mortal status, noted: So I’ve become a ghost! I loved having ghosts perform in my plays--they could be quite amusing! This will undoubtedly prove quite unusual!

Ben spoke up. Well, ‘William Shakespeare’, the great poet and playwright, with all these books written about you, I’m actually surprised it took you so long in getting here. Look at your section, ‘822’: There must be three hundred books with your name written up and down the binder! You must have had countless chances to step out and haunt. Our books have been neighbors here for so long. It took us forever to finally meet!

You know, Ben abruptly changed the subject, it didn’t have to end the way it did between our two countries. Certainly, it had to end. I fervently wish it had ended with more civility!

So how, Ben changed the subject once again, was your trip here?

My trip here? William asked, and responded. "I don’t recall traveling anywhere. And you refer to an uncivil ending between our two countries? Are you not from England? Are we not now in England? What do you mean when you say it did not have to end the way it did? Of course, aside from that, what country ever did get along with my boisterous and bombastic England?"

William, Ben said, One thing at a time! You arrived here riding along as a ghost in these books, just like the rest of us!

I arrived in a book? William asked. Ghosts travel in books?

Yes, Ben replied, "you most