The Unfinished Meeting

The old library annex of Ashford University had always been a quiet place, but since Dr. Elias Thorne’s sudden death three weeks ago, it felt heavier, as if the air itself mourned. Dr. Thorne had been the Chair of the Faculty Council, a man whose booming laugh could fill any corridor, and his absence left a void no one dared to speak of. His sudden passing from a rare blood infection had shocked everyone; he had seemed invincible, a pillar of the institution.

Today, Marta, the night cleaner, was making her usual rounds. She was new to the job, having taken over from her cousin who had retired. She carried her bucket and mop, humming softly to dispel the unease that clung to the old building. Her route took her past the Faculty Council room, a room she had never entered, as it was always locked. But tonight, she noticed the door was slightly ajar. Curious, she pushed it open, and a wave of cold air hit her, as if someone had left a window open in the middle of autumn. She stepped inside, fumbling for the light switch on the wall, the darkness thick and suffocating.

When the fluorescents flickered on, Marta froze. At the head of the long oak table, in the chair that had once belonged to Dr. Thorne, sat a man. He was solid, unmistakably real, wearing a dark green cardigan over a white shirt, with silver-framed spectacles perched on his nose, just as Dr. Thorne had worn them. He was smiling, a gentle, familiar smile, as if expecting her. Marta’s breath caught in her throat. She blinked, and the chair was empty. The room was still, the cold air dissipating. She dropped her mop and ran, her heart pounding against her ribs.

The Faculty Secretary, Eleanor Vance, was an early riser, arriving at her desk before the sun broke over the campus. She saw Marta bursting out of the corridor, pale as a sheet, trembling. Eleanor knew Marta was a reliable worker, not prone to flights of fancy. She guided her into the break room, sat her down, and pressed a cup of lukewarm tea into her hands.

‘What happened, Marta? You look like you’ve seen a ghost,’ Eleanor said, trying to keep her voice steady.

Marta’s hands shook around the mug. ‘Dr. Thorne… he was in the Council room. Sitting at the table, smiling at me. I swear it was him. He looked so real, like he was alive.’

Eleanor felt a chill run down her spine. She had been Dr. Thorne’s right hand for over a decade. She knew his mannerisms, his routines. She also knew how much he had loved that room, how he had spent countless hours there, preparing for meetings, reviewing agendas. She tried to rationalize it: a trick of the light, a memory, a prank. But Marta’s sincerity was unnerving.

‘I’ll go check,’ Eleanor said, her voice firm. ‘The room might have been left in a strange state by the last meeting. Stay here.’

She walked down the corridor, her footsteps echoing on the linoleum. The door to the Council room was now fully closed. She turned the handle and pushed. The room was dark, as always. She reached for the light switch, and as she did, she felt a sudden drop in temperature, so sharp that her breath misted. She flicked the switch, and the room flooded with harsh light. The table was tidy, chairs neatly arranged. But at the head of the table, there was a single piece of paper, placed with precision. She approached it, her heart hammering.

It was a handwritten note, in Dr. Thorne’s unmistakable cursive. It read: ‘Eleanor, I didn’t get to finish the agenda for the last meeting. There is still something I need to discuss. Please, don’t let the chair sit empty. I will return at the next full moon.’

Eleanor staggered back, clutching the note. She had seen Dr. Thorne’s writing thousands of times; this was his hand, no doubt. But how? A month had passed since his death. She looked around the room, half expecting to see him, but the room was empty. She crumpled the note in her hand, then smoothed it out, her mind racing.

She decided to keep it to herself for now. But as the day went on, she couldn’t shake the feeling that something was wrong. The next full moon was in two nights. She started to worry that Dr. Thorne might indeed return, and she didn’t know what he would want. She had heard rumors that he had been working on something secret in the weeks before his death, something related to a new research grant that could have changed the university’s profile. But he had died before he could present it.

On the night of the full moon, Eleanor resolved to confront the matter. She stayed late, alone in the building, sitting in the Council room, waiting. The clock ticked past midnight. The room was bathed in the cold blue light of the moon streaming through the windows. She felt the temperature drop again, and she saw a shimmering by the door. Dr. Thorne appeared, more solid than before, wearing the same cardigan. His expression was grave, not the gentle smile of the first encounter.

‘Eleanor,’ he said, his voice echoing slightly, ‘I’m sorry to scare you, but I need you to help me finish what I started. I left a file in the archive, a proposal that could have funded the new ecological research wing. But it was met with resistance from the board. I was going to present it to them, but I died before I could. I need you to ensure it gets approved. Otherwise, everything I worked for will be lost.’

Eleanor’s hands trembled. ‘But you’re dead, Dr. Thorne. How can you be here?’

‘I don’t know,’ he said, ‘but I was given a chance to finish my business. The note was a sign. Please, find the file. It’s in a red folder in the archive, in the section on the third floor, behind the old periodicals. The board is meeting again in a week. You must place it before them.’

He began to fade, like water soaking into stone. ‘Promise me, Eleanor.’

She nodded, unable to speak. He was gone, leaving her alone in the cold room.

She didn’t sleep that night. The next day, she went to the archive, found the red folder exactly where he had said. Inside was a comprehensive, well-argued proposal for a center dedicated to studying the effects of climate change on coastal ecosystems. It was brilliant, with projected funding and collaborations. Eleanor felt a pang of sorrow; Dr. Thorne had been so proud of this. She understood why he couldn’t let go.

She prepared the documents for the upcoming board meeting, but she faced a dilemma: how could she explain the sudden appearance of a proposal from a dead man? She decided to frame it as a ‘posthumous submission’ that Dr. Thorne had left to her for safekeeping. It wasn’t entirely a lie.

The day of the meeting arrived. The board members took their seats around the table. Eleanor, as secretary, stood at the side, holding the red folder. She noticed that the chair at the head, Dr. Thorne’s chair, was conspicuously empty, as if waiting. The new chair, Professor Arthur Chen, began the meeting, but as he did, Eleanor felt a familiar chill. She looked at the empty chair, and for a split second, she saw Dr. Thorne sitting there, arms crossed, listening. The board members, however, seemed unaware.

When the agenda reached the point where new business was to be introduced, Eleanor stepped forward and announced Dr. Thorne’s proposal. She explained that it was his final work, and she believed it deserved consideration. The board members exchanged dubious glances. Professor Chen frowned. ‘This is highly irregular, Eleanor. Dr. Thorne is gone. Why would we consider a proposal from a deceased man?’

Before she could answer, the lights flickered, and the room grew cold. A gust of wind seemed to sweep through, and the papers on the table rustled. The board members gasped as the door to the corridor swung open with a loud bang. Eleanor turned, and there stood Dr. Thorne, in his cardigan, his eyes blazing. He walked to the head of the table and stood behind his chair, looking each member in the eye.

‘Gentlemen,’ he said, his voice firm, ‘I did not complete my tenure here, but I will not let my legacy die. This proposal is sound. It will bring prestige and funding to the university. If you reject it, you will be rejecting me.’

He pointed to the red folder. ‘I have spoken to Eleanor, and she has verified the details. Do not let my last contribution be thrown away.’

The board members sat frozen, their faces pale. Professor Chen stammered, ‘Dr. Thorne… we… we didn’t know you were…’

‘I have unfinished business,’ Dr. Thorne said, his voice softening. ‘Now, do the right thing.’

He then turned to Eleanor, nodded, and passed through the wall, leaving the room icy and shadows in his wake. The board members sat in silence for a long moment, then Professor Chen cleared his throat. ‘I… I think we should consider the proposal carefully. It seems… it seems it has merit.’

Eleanor handed out the documents. The vote was unanimous, the proposal approved.

After the meeting, Eleanor walked back to the Council room and sat alone in the dark. She whispered, ‘You can rest now, Dr. Thorne.’

And as she said it, the room seemed to warm slightly, and she felt a sense of peace. She never saw him again. But sometimes, when she passed the Council room late at night, she would catch a faint scent of old books and pipe tobacco, and she would smile, knowing that his work was done.