Driscoll
Chapter   One: The Hall of Monuments

A shadow of a man approached her. She felt unearthly chills as his misty eyes met hers. Gradually, she came to realize he was speaking to her in a watery voice that trickled into her ears.
“So, you have come.”
She did not know how to respond to the ghost. He did not seem to be a benign spirit, so she did not take a step back as he drew nearer. Confidently, she said something. She knew she was dreaming.
“Where am I?”
“The hall of my master. The connection you have with him has finally brought you here.”
Her question was hardly answered. Looking about her, she discovered she was indeed in a once-grand hall. Now the elaborate stone work and monuments lay in shambles with disorganized heaps of treasures scattered about in sawdust. One of the walls had collapsed into a story-high pile of bricks, blocking the spot where the entrance should be. The ceiling was impossibly high and tickled her batophobia, but little of it remained. Snow fell through the open patches and dusted the broke tile floor. She wondered what kind of master this ghost once served.
“Who…who was your master?”
“You have never met him nor heard of his exploits, but he was an admirable man. You would not expect a boy that small and sensitive to rise to the heights he did, but he was a hero. If you are truly the final part of his soul, then you understand him more completely than his own mother. Every intricacy of your persona is shared between you. Your every life event mirrors his.”
“But the hall. How old is he?”
“He is long gone.”
“Gone? But this makes no sense. How am I exactly like him when I do not even know him?”
“That is the nature of souls. Some are split and shared between people. Early people had a concept of this, but it only remains in your culture loosely in the term ‘soul mates’. They misuse it. This special bond has no romantic meaning, though it is natural for those who share a soul to fall into a romantic relationship. You both share a soul and, by extension, interests, a personality, and a life.”
“So I will do great things like him?”
“There will be no way to avoid it. You will make the same choices he did.”
“But…I do not understand.”
“Look around his hall. His hall is also your hall, and you can return here anytime you like.”
She gazed upon the ghost for a moment longer. His eyes were faded but pure white and ate deep into her mind. It was hard to break contact with them. 
She sorted through the sawdust in one corner, careful not to catch herself on a rusty nail or sharp splinter. A variety of warped jars were nested in the pile, filled with all manners of whimsical things. 
“Ah, my master was fond of alchemy. He had a talent for growing and mixing herbs. He kept his rare ingredients on a shelf there that has long since rotted away. He always told me that he was saving them for just the right sort of potion but never seemed to find the right occasion.”
“Alchemy?” she asked. She spent long hours as a tween leaning over pictures of old men with beakers of aqua regia and nitre wishing to join them in their experimental concoctions. “Are these ingredients still viable?” Glass takes hundreds of years to warp like this.
“Of course. I may have let the building go, but I will guard his treasures forever. He has ordered me to for you.”
“But where is he? You remain here even after death.”
“Yes. But my master is long gone.”
That question was obviously a dead end. 
She sifted through more silt and found a small chest. The lock held fast.
“Nothing in there. My master always teased me with that, telling me that he had bought an invaluable treasure from another world and locked it in a box for me. I’d fiddle with it every weekend for years before opening it years after his death. There was nothing in there, of course. Imagine my frustration!”
“Nothing at all?”
“Well, some snide message about my diligence, but I was too frustrated to read it. I locked the chest again, wishing the same fate on some poor soul. Honestly, I could care less at the moment. My sense of humor has eroded completely away.”
She laughed at that, and the ghost dulled in pigment. 
Continuing her search, she found a whole wardrobe of exquisite regalia.
Continuing her search, she found a capsized wardrobe filled with exquisite regalia under the dust. She gently lifted a garment and examined the material and stitching. Besides some use, the clothing was in fantastic shape. Nothing was threadbare or unraveling. The flowing silken robes with embroidered roses and quilted finery appealed to all her factories of sense. The ghost’s ability to maintain little things like this was astonishing, considering how ancient these garments must be.
	“Yes, he loved clothing. He collected it, even women’s clothing. He hardly wore any of it, but he did not need to. He was content to appreciate the feel, pattern, design, and some other nonsense. The few times he did, he looked rather silly. As I said, he was so small and skinny that everything awkwardly hung off of him. Even so, he enjoyed it like a child in his parent’s suit. I did not understand, but I know you do. At least someone could relate to you, I guess.”
	It was true. She loved clothing in the very same way. She was fascinated with the ghost’s master. He really must be made from the very same essence as she. She felt a little moment of warmth, realizing for the first time how cold it should be in an old ruin in the middle of a snowstorm. Honoring this corollary of lucidity, the dream blasted arctic winds over her. 
	Of course, the winds did not blow the dust from the relics. She had to continue searching without assistance. She pulled a rich fur coat over her head.
	“Curious. It hangs on you the same way. For a moment, I saw my master again,” Trace barely heard under the ghost’s breath, if he even takes breaths now.
	The stone bookcases needed only a little dusting. Selecting at random, she read a few pages from a bestiary, a manual of some sort, and a collection of fables. 
	“Books were his favorite thing to collect, I am fairly certain. He read nearly everything that was ever written, I am certainly sure.”
	Last of all, she uncovered a simple beaded necklace. It did not have the mark of worth or rarity on it, unlike anything else in the room. It seemed to have been lost by mistake by a visitor to the hall and preserved by the ghost’s magic like everything else. Inquisitively, she fingered the simple glass beads, studying each one. 
	“I apologize for losing the necklace. After filling his hall, my master came across these beads. They were purchased from an insignificant vendor and fashioned from cheap materials, but they caught my master’s eye. Somehow, he knew that you would come to this hall someday, and he wanted you to have these. He held onto them as long as he could in life to give them to you personally, and I kept them after him. Please, try them on.”
	She did as instructed.
	“It is such a cheap piece of jewelry. My master never understood girls. You may keep them as you like, though.”
	She ignored the ghostly words. The pale, delicate beads were round and chilled to the touch. They were beautiful in the more homely sense of the word. She tried to imagine the ghost’s master fingering the same beads and desiring them as his own to later give to the extension of himself. He wanted her to have something of his, and now she had it. She was enchanted by the weight of the necklace.
	“Ghostly watchman, what is your master’s name?” came the whisper.
	“It is not mine to say.” 
	The necklace made her walk into the dead end. Finally, she asked,
	“Ghostly watchman, what is your name?”
	The ghost’s clouded visage parted for a moment, revealing a ray of light.
	“Driscoll.”
	“My name is Trace,” she responded. “Thank you.”
	She was not entirely sure why she thanked him, but it felt as though he had helped her in ways no one else had ever tried. Fearful of soon awakening, she asked the ghost for his secret.
	“Then, Driscoll. I can return here at any time?”
	“Always. This is your hall as much as it was my master’s.”
	“How do I return?”
	“The same way you entered, I suppose.”
	She lamented for she knew that she could never reenter a dream. The connection Driscoll claimed she had to this place was strong enough for her to feel it. She belonged here. 
	“Don not worry. You will return. You must be the hero to lead the land. It is torn further and further in every sense of the word every day. Politics, nature, families…But you can bring it all together again.”
	“I am nothing like the sort of people who can do those sorts of things.”
	“No? You are exactly like the one I knew. But regardless, your life is bound to my master’s. You will repeat everything he ever did.”
	The room was filled with light. She desperately tried to photograph everything in the hall with her mind. Instead, she only gained more and more awareness until she was looking around her bedroom and yawning. 
	“Wake up, already!” her mother kept calling from the foot of the bed.
	She tried not to show her frustration at losing the dream and changed into her clothes.
	By second period, she remembered eighty-percent of the dream, far more than usual. By fourth period, she was praying to slip back into that world away from everybody else. The ghost promised that she would return. Most people would regard believing in one’s own dreams silly, but Trace lived by her dreams. It was not that she was excessively superstitious or spiritual, but she took everything with a child’s approach. A child can believe in many things without actually believing in them. By fifth period, she needed to use the restroom. While washing her hands, she looked up at the girl next to her and caught a glimpse of the necklace. She was still wearing the very same necklace Driscoll’s master wanted her to wear. Her jaw parted. Fingering the beads, they the very same. The very same that Driscoll’s master had kept for her.
Chapter Two: The Necklace
	When she returned home, she rushed to her bedroom and closed the door behind her. She could not find a mirror, but she could use a CD. Stretching the CD far away from her face, she could see the pale, iridescent image of herself in the necklace. She treasured this piece of jewelry more dearly than anything else she had ever come across. As a tomboy, she had never dressed up or worn makeup before, so she wondered how no one could have commented on the fact she wore a necklace to school. The girls always pressure her to dress up. Once again, she blamed perpetual invisibility. Perhaps she is invisible because she never belonged in this world to begin with. She belonged with Driscoll and his absent master all along. 
	She sighed deeply and shook her head. She was utterly ridiculous. 
She sat through the rest of the day until she could finally go home. That night, she did not go to sleep until hours after her family. She had done this as long as she could remember without her parents’ knowledge because the absolute darkness and silence consoled her. Once she was away from all the noise, she was usually free of all the problems other people caused for her. Today, it closed out all other thoughts besides her dream last night. She supposed it was real; there was no reason to suspect it might be false. Her parents and classmates would call her names for believing in anything even slightly fantastical, but they claimed to be religious. She knew they even shied away from their own faith when it ceased to be so concrete. She did not want to become like them, so she kept the advised “heart of a child”.
She tried to will herself back into that hall. 
She lay in bed half the night, thinking about Driscoll and the necklace. She tried to imagine his master, the man so close yet unknown to her. She considered the nature of that world and its history in contrast with her own. Eventually, she fell asleep and her dreams seamless slipped in amongst her thoughts. She woke up the next morning feeling as though she had not dreamt at all.
Gradually, the dream faded in her memory and seemed less and less real. Bitterly, she cast the entire thing aside as wishful thinking and continued life as usual.
She stayed up late into the night writing or drawing or something to distract her from reality. She played instrumental music that at least muffled the arguments and TVs roaring in the background without adding too much to it. When she became too lonely, she took her characters out of their medium and conversed with them as a child does with imaginary friends. It never filled her social needs, but it was all she could do. She had tried to invite the girls over who had been nice to her from time to time, but they never accepted. After enough rejections, she gave up. People do not need friends, she finally decided. Loners were always the most interesting character in a work anyways. 

Every time the necklace or Driscoll’s dutiful eyes entered her mind, she shut it out until the thoughts never returned. She lived this way undisturbed and completely forgetful of the dream. Instead, she turned to her imaginary friends. 
Some of her father’s liberal commentary on the upcoming election flitted into the room, preventing her from being able to read. She glanced at the calendar on her wall and saw it was November 5th, the day before what was to be the most important election in American history. The most hopeless as well, the girl always added.