The Seminarian

"Did you ever see a ghost, Grandpa?" my grandson asked. He'd just turned eight and discovered the age-old fascination so many find in ghost stories. He showed a definite preference for the bloodier sort, the kind guaranteed to keep one up at night, unwilling to turn out the lights or risk hearing strange sounds under the bed or outside the window.

"Not that I know of," I replied.

"Really? Darn." Clearly he was disappointed but realistically resigned as well. After all, who did see ghosts these days?

"I wish I could see one," he continued.

"Why?" I asked.

"Cause it'd be so neat, seeing something other people never see."

"And you wouldn't be frightened?"

He shook his head, sure of his answer.

"No, ‘cause they aren't real anyway, are they?"

"That's an interesting thought. How could you see something that wasn't real?"

Tommy thought a moment and frowned.

"That would be hard, wouldn't it? But I would anyway."

And with that show of bravado he hugged my neck and snuggled under the covers, confident he was king of his world. I gazed at him in wonder, amazed once more at the miracle of youth and love and the indestructibility of the human spirit. Ghosts. Hardly more than a word to him. Would he get his wish? And what would he do with it if he did?

For though I hadn't lied to my grandson, not totally, I had seen a ghost. At least I think I did. The question was, was it real? And real or not, how could I tell him about Orin Stiles and Peter Colllins?

It was when I first entered seminary in 1956. Princeton was a brand new world to me, and everywhere I looked, I was seeing history up close. Princeton was the scene of a major battle in the Revolutionary War and Colonial days were hardly a fortnight ago. Nassau Hall still bore scars of bullets fired in the War, and Palmer Square was an invitation to step outside the age of Sputnik.

The Seminary's ivy-covered walls offered much to spur the imagination, and our main classroom building, a hideous neo-gothic structure, would have made an excellent home for ghosts and haunts and things that go bump in the night. I never heard that any did. However, across the street behind the present Speer library, stood a hideous structure, the old seminary library, which just might have had such an unwelcome spectral guest.

It was a strange building, both in shape and color. It's no longer there, it was emptied and torn down during my first year there. Back then it huddled behind overgrown shrubs like an unwanted child hiding from trees that seemed to clutch at it with scratchy fingers. It was octagonal in shape with stacks radiating outward from the central reading room like the spokes of a wheel. It had three levels with the older volumes housed downstairs in a basement area. Cramped student carrels were located in its dark recesses, and while not many of them were used, there were some that were always occupied with papers and books.

I particularly remember the one where he sat. It was probably the most remote of all the carrels and seemed the least likely to be occupied, it was so dark. I don't know how anybody could ever read there. But apparently he did, for it was there I saw him.

It didn't occur to me he was a ghost, not then. He was just a young man - at least I assumed he was young. His face, although shrouded in darkness, and of a dark complexion as well, was smooth-shaven and unlined. His hair was equally dark and fell across his eyes in a ragged line like a torn curtain. He was thin, wiry, almost emaciated, in appearance.

He sat at the carrel, hunched over a book and apparently unaware of my presence. Even the squeak of the wheel on my book trolley did not disturb him. The book he was reading was an old one. It had a ragged leather binding and old-fashioned type I could barely make out.

When I reached his carrel he suddenly looked up and stared vacantly around, wondering, I suppose, what was causing the noise. I had the odd feeling that he was blind, which was nonsense, for he obviously was reading when I interrupted him. But when he looked at me, it was as if he were looking through me and not seeing me at all. I started to say "Excuse me," but before I could utter a word, he snapped his book shut, pushed back his chair and left his carrel, frowning his displeasure at being disturbed. He moved so quickly it didn't even occur to me to try and get out of his way. Instead, I stood there gaping at him as he swept by.

It was only after he had gone that I noticed he was wearing a tattered black academic gown over his clothes. Students from the University, on their way back and forth to the Institute for Advanced Studies, wore such gowns, but not we seminarians.

This student could hardly be one of us but neither were students from the Institute likely to be in our library. Our book collection scarcely contained the kind of titles that student body, immersed in atomic physics, would find interesting. Besides, this fellow was musty, neglected, like a being from another time. He was totally out of place, or, to put it more exactly, seeing him made me feel self-consciously out of place myself, as if I were the intruder, not he.

I gave myself a little shake and went back to my task of shelving books and thought no more about him. That is, not until I returned on my way back to the dumbwaiter to retrieve yet more books that needed shelving. As I approached the carrel I saw the outline of his back where he apparently had returned. He startled me so I said, "I'm sorry, I didn't hear you come back."

He looked up at me, equally surprised I imagine, for this time he glared at me as if to remind me there must be no noise in the library, and once more he jumped up from his chair and hurried down the aisle of the stacks and disappeared.

I noticed he'd left his book behind, and curious to see what he found so interesting, I picked it up to read its title. I had no more grasped it in my hands than I immediately dropped it on the carrel. It was cold as ice.

The feel of that book frightened me. It was far too cold to be naturally so, and there was no explaining its freezing temperature.

I looked at it and wondered if I'd somehow made a mistake. I carefully picked it up again, and once more felt its icy chill race through my fingers. Again I dropped it, frankly upset by its eerie feel, but equally disgusted with myself for such a show of cowardice. I pulled out my handkerchief and, using it as a kind of protection, picked up the book once more. This time I felt no chill. It was an ordinary book, obviously old, with the unpromising title of "The Day of Doom". It appeared to be a long poem written by some obscure Puritan divine describing what was in store for the faithful and for the heathen on the day of judgment. Its style was little better than doggerel and hopelessly out of date. I could not imagine anyone reading it now, let alone studying it so earnestly, as the mysterious student appeared to be doing.

I put it back on the carrel as we had been instructed to do whenever we found books left by students on their study desks and went back to my work, still wondering about the strange feel of that old book.

A short time later, I mentioned the incident to Dr. Templeton, the Reference Librarian. He was a chubby man with ruddy cheeks and a sparkle in his eye, friendly and cheerful, a confirmed bachelor apparently, content with his life; a man who obviously enjoyed his work and expected others to be as enthusiastic about their own.

"Ever hear of a book called ‘The Day of Doom'?" I asked him.

"By Wigglesworth?" He replied, "Oh yes, quite a famous title in its day. Very popular with the Puritans."

"Really?" I replied. "People still reading it today?"

Templeton shrugged, "I suppose so, more out of curiosity than anything else. Not quite in step with our modern times, I'm afraid. Pretty heavy on the fire and brimstone."

"Did you ever read it?"

"No. Glanced through it once, that's all. Why do you ask?"

"No reason," I said, "Somebody left it on that back carrel and I wondered about it."

"So it's back again, is it? Dr. Edwards was asking about it the other day. He wanted to check something for one of his classes, and nobody could find it. I thought it was gone for good."

"Apparently not. I just saw it a little while ago, and the student who was reading it."

"Really" Templeton looked startled when I said that.

"You saw someone down there?"

"Yes sir."

"Well that's a surprise. What did he look like?"

"Just a student. Rather dark complected, hair down in his eyes; he was wearing an academic gown which seemed odd to me. You don't see that very often on our campus, do you?"

Templeton stared at me, a look of puzzlement on his face. At least I took it as puzzlement, although what he had to be puzzled about I couldn't tell.

"Hm," he muttered and then said, "I'd better get that book before it goes missing again," and turning rather abruptly, he went down the stairs and disappeared into the stacks.

He came back empty handed and when I asked him about the book he merely replied, "It's gone again. I guess your student took it with him."

"No he didn't," I protested, "I picked it up myself after he left."

"Really?" he said,"well he must have come back because the book is gone now."

"That seems unlikely," I insisted, "I'd surely have seen him if he had, don't you think? There's not that much room down there to move around in. He'd have had to get passed me somehow."

Shrugging his shoulders he replied, "Well all I know is, it isn't there now. What can I say?"

The curt reply was a clear dismissal and I resumed my shelving and let the matter drop. But not completely. I made sure I found my way back to the carrel to see for myself. Sure enough, the desk was empty, and to add to the mystery, I couldn't help noticing the thick layer of dust that lay on its empty surface. It was odd, very odd. It was quite impossible that anyone had sat there in recent times. So how had that very real book lain on that surface without disturbing the dust? And just as important, how had that shadowy student sat there at that desk and left the dust untouched?

"It's almost enough to make you believe in ghosts," I told my room mate later, and tried to put the matter out of my mind.

But I could not. I kept finding excuses to return to the dusty carrel on the off-chance of seeing the student again.

He did not appear, but the book did. Three days later, my room mate, who also worked in the library, found it.

"There's the Wigglesworth you were talking about. Came in last night in the book return. Quite a scorcher. Listen to this:

All filthy facts, and secret acts,

however closly done,

And long conceal'd, are there reveal'd

before the mid-day Sun.

Deeds of the night shunning the light,

which darkest corners sought,

To fearful blame, and endless shame,

are there most justly brought.

"Those Pilgrims must have been a gloomy lot to buy this stuff."

I took the book from him, gingerly, half expecting it to be as cold as it had been before. It was not. It was just a book, a very old book that apparently had not been checked out in years. At least not until now. I looked at the date which was stamped on it - October 4, 1956, but the signature looked much older. It was a bit faded, but still legible - "Orin Stiles".

"Do you know anyone called ‘Orin' on campus, Charlie?"

"No, but maybe he came from the University. We share library privileges."

"I suppose so, but he didn't look like a University student. I wonder who he was."

"I guess you could do some snooping, if you think it's worth your time."

Charlie liked to kid me for wasting my time on trivia, to the neglect of my class work. It was a just criticism. I did enjoy chasing rabbits when I should have been studying. Tracking down Orin Stiles seemed infinitely more interesting than conjugating a Greek verb. My grades showed it, I'm afraid.

When I took the book to Dr. Templeton, he seemed reluctant to discuss it with me.

"Ah, you've found it. Very good. I'll take it and put it aside for Dr. Edwards."

"Who is Orin Stiles?" I asked him, "I don't know any student by that name."

Dr. Templeton shrugged "I have no idea." and dismissed me with a peremptory nod.

Unwilling to let it go at that, I risked one more question, "But doesn't it seem odd, this book that keeps appearing and disappearing? And look how old the signature is on that card. It must have been written years ago. But the date is new."

"I really don't see the point of these questions," he remarked testily, "why should I know? I'd think this would be more in the line of Peter Collins." And he walked back to his office.

Peter Collins? Now I was curious. Peter Collins was the campus pariah, a notorious loner and a mystery to the whole student body. Thin, pale, with sallow skin and rumpled clothes, he slouched as he walked and refused to look us in the eye. We never saw him going to any of our classes. He never spoke to any of us, his only connection with the seminary seemed to be with books, but no one had any idea what he was reading or why.

Peter lived in the room across the hall from ours. I had never been in it. It was, the maid told me, an unholy mess so filthy and reeking with the smell of stale smoke she refused to clean it. Why would Peter Collins, of all people, know anything about this old book and Orin Styles?

But I soon found out that Peter apparently did know something and was curious to discuss it with me whether I wanted to or not.

He stopped me one day as I was crossing the campus.

"Interesting book," he said, looking nowhere in particular.

"What?" I replied, with no idea what he was talking about.

"The Day of Doom."

"Oh, yes, very edifying."

He scowled at my sarcasm.

"It's more important than people realize."

"Really? Why do you say that? You don't buy all that stuff, do you?"

"Apparently some people did."

"All right. Why should we care now?"

Peter shrugged and said "Ask Orin Stiles."

That remark got my attention.

"Orin Stiles? Do you know who he is?"

Peter searched my face, as if surprised at my question.

"Why? Don't you?"

"No. I haven't a clue."

"Then why have you been asking around about him?"

"I'm not ‘asking around' about him."

Peter looked up and searched my face intently. His stare rattled me and I started to babble.

"I mean, not really. It's just that I saw his name on the check out card in the book, and wondered who would be reading such an old book ..." I stopped, confused.

Peter studied me intently.

"And that's all?"

"Yes. I thought I'd seen him once, but Dr. Templeton thinks that's impossible."

"Seen him?"

"Yes. Have you?"

"That's an uncomfortable question, isn't it?" And with that enigmatic remark, he turned and walked away.

Now I was more curious about Orin Stiles, but I couldn't find anything about him. In the end it was Charlie who made the next discovery.

"Look here," he said to me one afternoon, "Do you suppose this could have been the Orin Stiles you were wondering about? I found this clipping stuck in the back of the shelf where that Wigglesworth book belongs."

"Could have been?" I said, noticing he'd put it in the past tense.

"Yes, look at this."

It was a story about an unnamed student at the seminary being dismissed for improper conduct, but it was from at least fifty years before. He'd spent a lot of time in the library and had made a nuisance of himself. The clipping didn't say what he'd done, but apparently other students had complained and he was finally asked to leave.

"A campus untouchable, eh?" I said.

"Yes, the Peter Collins of his day." Charlie laughed.

As intriguing as the newspaper clipping was, it only heightened the mystery surrounding Orin Stiles. What was his name doing in a book that had just been in use in our library? Of course, he may have checked it out years ago, but then what was the current date doing by his name now?

Since there seemed no way of answering these questions, or much reason to for that matter, I had about decided to forget about him (if I could!) Only now I kept running into Peter Collins. Everywhere I went he seemed to be there ahead of me. On my way to class, he'd step out from behind a tree and stare at me. Climbing the stairs of the dorm, he'd appear out of the darkness above me and silently pass me on his way down. In the library, no matter what aisle of the stacks I was shelving books in, he'd be sitting at a carrel at the end of the shelves. He rarely spoke, but he always gave me a searching look as if he were expecting me to say something first.

"I swear he's haunting me" I complained to Charlie.

"Haunting you like that ghost in the library?" Charlie had never really believed in Orin Stiles, but he liked to tease me about it. "Why don't you ask him?"

Good question, and I had no answer. Why didn't I just ask Peter what he was up to? The reason wasn't that hard to find: asking Peter Collins anything was an acknowledgment that I noticed him, that I paid enough attention to him to care about his opinion. Even worse, it admitted that I'd spent time wondering about him, and that suggested a degree of intimacy which I did not want to admit. There was something dark and menacing about Peter Collins that made me uncomfortable.

I was coming out of the residence hall one day when I saw Peter standing on the porch, lighting a cigarette. He looked at me and smiled, but the curve of his smile hardly looked friendly. Unprepared and annoyed I said,

"What do you want anyway?"

He grinned and gave me a short bow.

"Not a thing. But I could ask you the same question."

What I wanted was to hit him in the face and make him leave me alone, but that would hardly have been appropriate.

"I don't want anything, it's just ... I don't know, we just keep running into each other."

"We do, don't we." he replied matter-of-factly. "Maybe we should blame it on our mutual friend. You do still see him don't you?"

"Who?" I asked, unwilling to say the name."

"Orin Stiles, of course."

"No. I don't," I flinched almost as if I were lying, even though I wasn't. "Why would you think that?"

Peter grinned, flicked the ash from the end of his cigarette, and said "No reason. No reason at all."

"I don't even know who he is. Is he a student here?."

Peter stared at me, shrugged his shoulders as if to say ‘how would I know?' and laughed.

"Why don't you ask him the next time you see him?" And before I could reply, he laughed again and walked away.

That weekend we moved the books from the old library into the new. The contrast between the buildings was startling. Out of the dark into the light, literally. There would be no ghost in Speer library, although I couldn't help wondering if I'd see Orin Stiles lurking about as the books made their way from the old building to the new.

I didn't, but I did see Peter Collins standing under a tree watching the books pass by. There was something fierce and pained in his face, as if he were looking for something (or someone?) to appear and pass on into the new building. Hour after hour he kept his post watching boxes of book pass from the old building into the new, never moving, like a sentry guarding a fort under siege.

I was amused at my own vigilance. Could I have been looking for Orin too? I did look for the Wigglesworth book to make sure it made the journey to the new building without incident. Apparently Orin did not. Nor did Peter. He disappeared that night, and was not seen on campus again.

The old library building did not remain empty long. It was dismantled and the rubble quickly taken away.

Some years later I ran into my old room mate, and we had a a grand visit. We went through a long list of old names and chuckled over old memories.

"By the way," he said, "did you hear what happened to Peter Collins?"

"Peter Collins?" The name escaped me at first.

"You know, the recluse on the third floor of Brown Hall?"

"Oh, him. Good Lord no, I hadn't heard his name in years, not since we left seminary. What made you think of him?"

"I just wondered. I came across it recently in an obituary notice."

"Really? Sorry to hear that. When did he die?"

"A few months ago. His body was discovered in Trenton behind a gay bar. And here's the interesting part: wherever he'd gone, he'd been living under the name of Orin Stiles."

"No!"

"Yes. Not surprising really. Obsessed as he was with Stiles. It all fit you know."

"What fit? I don't understand."

"Birds of a feather. That's what got old Orin Stiles sacked. He practiced the love that dared not speak its name. Peter did too, I'm guessing.”

“Really? I had no idea.”

“Yeh, you always were kind of naive about that sort of thing. Actually it was Templeton who clued me in about the Wigglesworth book and Orin. Seems old Wligglesworth was a tortured soul who lusted after young men, even though he was married and had children. Peter was obsessed with them both. When you started asking Templeton about it he wanted to know if I'd seen the ‘ghost' too. I told him I hadn't, he said, ‘good'.

"So I asked him, ‘What do you know about him?'

"'Nothing, really. Just a rumor' he replied. ‘I don't believe in ghosts, but some people seem to. Apparently Peter was one of them. I guess he thought he'd seen the library one, and when anyone started seeing Orin Stiles, their life could get a little complicated.'"

"I wonder what he meant by that? Sounds sinister, doesn’t it?. What happened to Peter? Do they know?"

"Killed, beaten to death, almost beyond recognition."

"Good Lord, poor guy. How did they finally realize he was not Orin Stiles?"

"He'd kept that old seminary handbook we used to get each year, with all our pictures and names in it. Someone noticed the picture of Peter Collins in it and that's how they realized who he really was."

"Poor guy. Anybody know who killed him?"

"Not a clue. He was a nobody who was invisible to everybody around him. Just like Orin Stiles.

"Oh, and that reminds me: Templeton told me something else that might interest you. It seems there had been rumors of a ghost in the library before. No one ever confirmed it. In fact, they didn't seem very anxious to even investigate the stories. According to Templeton, old Orin was picky about who he showed himself to, and the only ones who ever saw him had the same sexual preference he did. Makes you wonder why you thought you saw him, doesn't it?"

It did indeed.