exit the staircase, then another right, and then the section you're looking for is about ten rows down. The novelization of the play is checked out, but it's available in a compilation book of Snakespeare plays. The number is on the card," the sea serpent's ghost said as it handed the card over the desk top.
"Thank you," Bigfoot's ghost said, nodding at the librarian as it picked up its book once more and disappeared behind it. He had only intended to read 'Some Ado About Literally Everything', but now that he thought about it, a compilation of all the Snakespearean plays would be favorable after all. Being a ghost afforded him a great deal of free time.
Bigfoot's ghost trundled away from the librarian's desk and made his way toward the staircase. As he passed rows of books, he noticed that several other ghosts of cryptids had apparently filtered into the library while he had been stuck conversing with the minotaur's ghost. A werewolf's ghost snarled at him as their eyes met. It was browsing World War Two history and apparently wished not to be disturbed. A luminescent centaur walked directly through the rows of books, parallel to Bigfoot's ghost, and arrived at the staircase before him and silently ascended.
Bigfoot's ghost began to walk up the steps. His enormous silver haired feet hovered an inch or so above the steps and his long arms swung so low that they grazed the tops of the stairs as he walked. The second floor was not lit as well as the first, and seemed to be deserted aside from the ghostly centaur that gamboled down the first row at the top of the staircase. Bigfoot's ghost took a right, and then another right, and then began to count the rows.
Although Bigfoot's ghost no longer had the sense of smell, he assumed that the library had that specific scent of musty old pages that only a library has. It was a smell that had always meant peace and tranquility to him. A wave of nostalgia crashed over him, and he tried to focus on the rows he passed so as not to become emotional. His goal was within reach, he needed to stay on task.
He reached the row that the librarian had indicated and walked down it. Although Bigfoot was on the better side of eight feet tall, the rows of books still towered over him. A ladder on wheels stood at the end of the row should he need it. He glanced up and down and side to side, pausing at each section so that he could read the titles of the books and the numbers written on their spines.
The Dewey Decimal System numbers were getting closer to the one he needed as he walked further down the aisle. "The Sneezewort Stew, by A. R. Sneezewort... 775.5... The Owlery in the Hawkery by T. L. Sneerheardt... 775.7..." He read the numbers and titles under his breath as he neared the end of the aisle. Where was his book? He needed 'A Complete Compendium of Snakespeare Works: A Compilation' edited and compiled by C. K. Choruslad with a preface co-written by C. C. Codrafterton Sr., number 777.8.
Bigfoot's ghost reached the end of the aisle, but the Dewey Decimal numbers were still in the 775's... Why was it that the books he needed were never where they were supposed to be? He sighed and walked to the adjacent aisle, but the numbers started in the 800's there. He was beginning to become frustrated. He walked up and down the rows of towering bookshelves and read the numbers on the side. None of them contained number 777.8... And none of them seemed to be plays or classical cryptid literature aside from the row he had just left.
He returned to the row that the librarian had told him the book would be located, and looked at the numbers written on the side of the long row of bookshelves. It read: 'Classic Cryptid Literature and Plays, 770.1 - 779.9. There was clearly some mistake.
A small glass container hung from one of the nearby bookshelves. It contained poorly photocopied maps of the library with each of the bookshelves indicated with their Dewey Decimal numbers. He grabbed one of the maps and returned to the row of classic cryptid literature. He scanned the map, locating the bookshelf he was standing in front of. It said the same thing as the words and numbers etched into the side of the row. Where could his book be?
Bigfoot's ghost exited the row and sat down at a long wooden table located beneath a flickering halogen light. He was determined to find this book on his own. The Dewey Decimal System had bested him too many times in the past. It was time for him to rise victorious over the library numbering and categorization system that had defeated him so many times over the years.
He smoothed the map against the scratched wooden surface of the table, trying not to imagine what the thin paper or the cool polished wood would have felt like against his skin if he could still feel. He needed to focus on finding his book.
Everything seemed to follow a logical order. Novels, histories, biographies, scientific publications... There were a few things that stood out to Bigfoot's ghost as he delved further into the mystery that was the layout of his local library. Several lone bookshelves stood independently throughout the library, their subject matter specific and their Dewey Decimal numbering not relating to the rows in their nearest vicinity.
If Bigfoot's ghost still had a heart, he would have felt it leap as he saw one of these lone bookshelves marked 'Works of Snakespeare’, 777.1 - 777.9. He leapt from his seat at the table, figuratively since he could no longer actually leap, and walked straight through the wooden table. He was a ghost of a sasquatch on a mission, and his destination was set.
Bigfoot's ghost trod directly through row after row of books, no longer using the aisles between them. He accidentally walked right through the centaur ghost on accident. It let out a squeal of surprise and snapped shut the book it was browsing in embarrassment. It was titled 'Secrets of Centaur Love: A Paranormal Romance'. Bigfoot's ghost muttered a brief apology, but did not stop walking.
Finally, Bigfoot's ghost reached the bookshelf containing the works of Snakespeare. It shone like a beacon to his weary eyes, set against the backdrop of identical rows of shabby bookshelves that were joined together. He approached the bookshelf, sensing the end of his journey.
Bigfoot's ghost found his book almost at once. It would have been hard to miss it, mixed amongst the others. The compilation book was almost a foot thick. Bigfoot's ghost knew that Snakespeare had written a great number of plays, but he had no idea it had been this many.
He lifted the massive tome from the shelves and carried it to another wooden table, set it down on the tabletop, and sat himself down on the chair beneath the table. He did not pull the chair out all the way and part of his body protruded into the wooden table. He just could not seem to get the hang of the whole "being a ghost thing".
The front cover of the book opened with ease and remained open as though it had been opened and closed many times before. The pages were worn around the corners and yellowed with age. Bigfoot's ghost flipped through the first few pages and paused upon what appeared to be a woodcut of the Snakespeare himself. A giant snake-like head rose from the ruffled collar of a highly decorated dress shirt. His forked tongue protruded from his mouth, tasting the air, and a small hat with a tassel hanging off the top was perched jauntily upon his head.
Bigfoot's ghost turned the page to the table of contents. There were hundreds of plays listed. Snakespeare must have done little else during his life other than write plays... There was 'A Midsummer's Ice Cream', which was about a dragon who most unwisely started an ice cream parlor but inadvertently melted all of the ice cream with his fiery breath. There was 'Gnomeo and Werewolfiet' , which was a tragedy about a pair of star-crossed lovers, a gnome and a werewolf, who were forbidden to wed because they were too young, different species, and also because the werewolf ate Gnomeo's entire family toward the end.
He passed his furry translucent finger down the column of play names, reading them under his breath, until he finally found 'Much Ado About Literally Everything'. It was located on page 2,451. Bigfoot's ghost took great handfuls of pages in his enormous hands and turned them until he found page 2,451.
Bigfoot's ghost was fraught with excitement. He scanned the dialogue eagerly, looking for the specific conversation that he had been unable to remember. He would re-read the whole thing later. About thirty pages into the
play, he found the passage he was searching for - the passage regarding the dispute about which cryptid baseball player from the first half of the twentieth century was the best. It read thus:
Obsequiam - 'Thou shan't profane mine own ears any longer with such half-truths and misconceptions, Irritatious!'
Irritatious - 'Profane not, do I! 'Tis profanity to accuse an elf of such. I speak my mind on this matter, and if the content of my mind is true then the truth is what I speak!'
Obsequiam - 'Ha! A denizen of the North Pole, and a soul under the employ of a third-party customer service company, you are! What dost thou know of baseball?'
Irritatious - 'Speak not of my employ with such razor sharp tones. Your tongue is a sword, Obsequiam, but it will not save you in this matter anymore than it will save your Destructomatic 3400's electromagnetic capacitor.'
Obsequiam - 'Blast! You mention my failed electromagnetic capacitor, you defer my thoughts in this time of debate. You wish to regress my argument, vile Irritatious!'
Irritatious - 'Aha, you are sagacious in discerning my attempts at misdirection but it does not matter! It does not matter... Flippin' Frank Flidizzio.... Mere mention of the merman with the golden