In the Name of Menohpeque
Ms. Pauline had been the Walnut Landing librarian since the early 80s, but she had never liked the historic grammar collection. Ironically, it was the whole reason she worked there. She had gotten the position because she was Dartmouth’s most promising grammarian in addition to being a library scientist.
Daniel Cuthbert, the colonial founder of the village school, had been the man who brought grammar to New England. He introduced the teachings of John Hart to the local natives and wrote letters to Noah Webster about the inferior European use of vowels. His half-scale statue stood in the library’s marble boot room, welcoming visitors with an extended slate and piece of chalk.
Despite their shared interest and his direct historical importance to her circumstance, Ms. Pauline had no love for Mr. Cuthbert. She saw him as another well-meaning-but-actually-not-at-all white person who was fanatically loved by a tiny town without much else going on. She wrinkled her nose at his statue every time she walked by.
The historic grammar section, tucked into a climate controlled side room, contained Cuthbert’s own writings and a collection of antique copy books, style guides, and instructional manuals that traced the evolution of American English from 1625 to 1900.
Ms. Pauline was supposed to be its specialist curator. In truth, she had catalogued everything in those books decades ago, and now her job was mostly dusting and making sure no moisture or insects damaged the manuscripts. It was her least favorite part of the job, which she reserved for Wednesdays, as that was her least favorite day of the week.
One Wednesday, however, an overnight storm deposited two feet of snow on Walnut Landing, causing the library to be closed on the first Wednesday in Ms. Pauline’s era. She thought about carefully driving over to handle the historic grammar section, but she figured it would be there for her to clean the next day. She made some soup and caught up on trash TV.
The next day was the busiest Ms. Pauline had ever seen the library. Usually Fridays and Monday were the big days, but something — whether the massive blanket of snow on the ground, the promise of intellectual growth, or the fact that more than half the town had no power or internet — had people looking to borrow a good book that particular Thursday.
As she locked the door at 5 o’clock, Ms. Pauline realized she’d never had time to do the weekly maintenance in the historic grammar room. She considered procrastinating but decided she didn’t want to spoil her Friday with her least favorite task. Instead, she’d pop out for a quick dinner and then come back to complete the work after hours.
With a belly full of fast food, Ms. Pauline let herself back into the library. As she passed through the boot room, she hugged the wall so as not to pass too close to the statue of Daniel Cuthbert — it gave her the willies in the dark.
When she entered the main body of the library, things seemed different than they should’ve been. The lights were off and the place was empty, but there was an uncomfortable buzz to the building. It felt like the walls and floors weren’t fully flat or stationary. There was a swimmy quality that Ms. Pauline had never experienced before. Ms. Pauline chalked it up to bad chicken nuggets, grabbed her archival cleaning supplies, and headed back toward the historic grammar section.
As she got closer and closer, the soupiness of the walls seemed to get worse, and the general buzz of the room turned into a mumbling hum directly in Ms. Pauline’s ears.
“Aaaaaaaaaaaaayeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeyyyyyyyyyeeeeeoooooooooooohyoooooooooou,” she could hear.
Tinnitus. Getting older.
As she entered opened the climate controlled door into the historic grammar room, Ms. Pauline could feel the floor undulating with a strange energy.
“Quearessteeyouvee quearessteeyouvee quaressteeyouvee,” the hum in Ms. Pauline’s ears said.
She tried to clean, assuming the mild food poisoning would pass, but there was an undeniable movement to the room. She would try to dust a book, but it would duck away from her. She would try to adjust the dehumidifier, but when she looked at it, none of the symbols on the machine made any sense to her. She would bend down to pick up an ant trap and feel so nauseous she had to stand.
Finally, Ms. Pauline realized that the vibrations and waves seemed to be originating from a particular old manuscript. It was wobbling on the shelf, with a green glow about it, and as she wandered closer to get a good look, she felt herself consumed by the rumble.
“The tip of the tongue, the roof of the mouth, the lips, and the teeth,” she heard clear as day in her ear. “The tip of the tongue, the roof of the mouth, the lips, and the teeth,” it repeated.
“The tip of the tongue, the roof of the mouth, the lips, and the teeth,” Ms. Pauline repeated mindlessly. “The tip of the tongue, the roof of the mouth, the lips, and the teeth.”
She felt herself reaching for the glowing, trembling manuscript. When she grabbed it, the bookcase slide away, revealing a spiral staircase below the floor. She had cleaned that room thousands of times, and that had never happened before.
From below, an even deeper rumble came.
“Red leather. Yellow leather. Red leather. Yellow leather. Red leather. Yellow leather. Red leather. Yellow leather.”
With each call and response, the spiral staircase threatened to melt, but Ms. Pauline could not help but continue to descend.
Finally, she reached the bottom. She couldn’t see the floor beneath her feet, but it must’ve been there because she didn’t fall. She staggered forward, beckoned by the rhythmic din, as the secret basement ebbed and flowed like a fluid around her.
Moving in the dark, with only the sound to guide her, Ms. Pauline came upon a chamber. In the middle was the twin of Daniel Cuthbert’s half-scale statue, with a tremendous pyre burning underneath it, producing purple and auburn smoke. Around it were hooded figures, who she realized were the source of the noise that was jellifying the building.
“She makes a proper cup of coffee in a copper coffee pot,” they chanted. “She makes a PROPER cup of coffee in a COPPER coffee pot. She makes a proper CUP of coffee in a copper coffee POT. She MAKES a proper CUP of coffee in a copper COFFEE pot,” and on and on.
The chanting made it quite impossible for Ms. Pauline to think at all. She caught herself joining in.
“Stop,” a male voice suddenly said, silencing the whole room. “The sacrifice has arrived.”
The male who owned the voice pulled back his hood and took off his robe. His body was covered in grotesque scars and tattoos that looked like editor’s correction marks.
“It has taken many years, but we finally have the vessel in the ceremonial chamber on the appointed day of the week.”
Without the chanting, Ms. Pauline could think clearly and was mostly focused on how she should’ve just gone home. She tried to run toward the staircase, but robed figures were on her in a flash. They carried her close to the pyre, where she could feel the heat waves.
“Today, my brothers and sisters,” the grotesquely corrected man said, “we fulfill our centuries-old aim and trade the soul of one grammarian for another to unleash the golden age of phonics and syntax upon the earth. Just as our great leader traded his soul to the ancient one Menohpeque on his deathbed so that he might live on through his twin statues, we shall appeal to His Loquaciousness to exchange that divided spirit for the one in this woman of grammar. What do you think of that, dear Ms. Pauline?”
“I think it’s expositional,” she said and spat in the man’s face.
With that, they cast her into the fire.
Ms. Pauline didn’t maintain the historic grammar section on Wednesdays anymore. She was replaced with a team of three volunteers who raised money to save the library when Ms. Pauline had disappeared into thin air.
Every time someone walked through the boot room, the half of her in that Daniel Cuthbert tried to cry out to them for help but could make no sounds. The other half of her grew to enjoy the Thursday night chanting.
At Dartmouth, a new professor emerged, claiming to be a former colleague of the missing woman. He had some radical ideas about grammar, syntax, and phonics.
This story is part of 13 Ghost Stories in 13 Days. Each entry in the series was written and published in a single day during October of 2020. This idea was completely stolen from Mark Macyk.
Day 1: The Devil’s Diphthong
Day 2: The Podcasting Ghost
Day 3: The Portal Potties
Day 4: The Household Accident
Day 5: The Scarecrow Competition
Day 6: The Cursed Father
Day 7: When the Car Hits the Tree
Day 8: Thank Christ It’s Halloween
Day 9: The Greek Halloween Myth
Day 10: The Ghost & The Cockroach
Day 11: Pampered
Day 12: In the Name of Menohpeque
