Elgin’s Trial
By Mr. J.
Chapter XIII: Ivy League
Sitting in the lobby of her alma mater’s library, Tracy scrolls through the psych database for what feels like the millionth time since she plopped her butt in the chair earlier in the evening. She yawns and takes a sip of coffee and tries to pay attention as best she can, even if she’s been awake since at least six in the morning, toggling between her academic work, her job at Divinex, and her ongoing skullduggery digging into Frank Ennis’s closet of horrors. By rights she should be tucking herself into bed and calling it a day, but lately she’s been on a roll, and she shows no signs of slowing down.
Lesser beings have crumbled under such strain. But if anything, the last few weeks have done more to energize her than any pharmaceutical on the planet. Despite her near-insomnia she finds no need for rest or sleep; she jogs, does yoga, and runs errands. She has the metabolism of a horse. In hindsight it’s easy to see why—the competitive drive, the desire for success.
The lust for revenge.
The wind howls as she types in her word processor, Tracy chalks the rasping on the windows to the trees banging against the glass paines, or perhaps some figment of her imagination. It would be easy to imagine her thoughts twisting to form a sound in her ears that isn’t there. Such phenomenon isn’t unheard of in such an expansive space. How many lonely scholars been half-asleep in this very spot when they’ve heard their names called out, only to find out the truth isn’t so?
The rasping grows louder as she continues to type. Her body tenses. Her heart speeds up. Yet she shrugs it off. It must be coffee jitters, she muses. Yet her cup is nearly full, and she barely has put a dent in it.
Lights flicker over her head as the goes away and returns. She quivers. She doesn’t know which is worse—the fact that she can’t do her research or the fact that the little girl in her is afraid of the potential bogeyman outside?
As the lights continue to dance she spies a hooded figure out of the corner of her eye. Tracy tells herself it’s not real, that it must be a product of one of the many scary movies she and Jeremy used to watch, but with all the craziness happening these days, it’s hard to tell.
“Don’t panic!” One of the librarians calls out. “Just a Nor’easter!”
To her relief, the power comes back several minutes later. But she steals a glance through the window a second time just to make sure only to discover...nothing, not even a ghost. Catching her breath, she admonishes herself to get some sleep when she gets home. She just might need it.