While they rode, Harris told Eddie about growing up in Gatesweed. He explained that most of their classmates lived on the outskirts of town, out in the farm country. He and his mother had never lived anywhere other than here, and he couldn’t really imagine what it would be like to leave. Eddie told Harris about the car accident, leaving out the part when he’d thought the animal was a monster. He didn’t want to sound like a freak. He mentioned the weird people he’d seen in Gatesweed so far—the policeman, the tow truck guy, the librarian. Harris nodded, as if he knew exactly what Eddie was talking about. He agreed that some people in the town could be a little paranoid and protective of each other in a way.
They rode in silence for a while before Harris brought up Nathaniel Olmstead’s books. They’d both read all of them at least twice. Harris told him that his favorite one was The Ghost in the Poet’s Mansion. He really loved the part about the secret passage behind the kitchen cabinet that led to the magical library. Eddie told him that his favorite book was The Rumor of the Haunted Nunnery. The way Ronald Plimpton solved all the riddles was so exciting. Harris disagreed that Ronald was an expert. He insisted that Ronald had gotten all of the most helpful information from his grandfather.
Eddie noticed that Harris was a little sensitive about who liked the books better, so he made sure not to argue about it. Eddie didn’t want to blow a potential friendship, so he changed the topic to Nathaniel Olmstead himself. He asked Harris what he thought might really have happened to him.
“I’m not sure. Some people say he got in some sort of trouble and decided to hide for a while.”
“From who? The librarian?”
“Yeah … right!” Harris stopped and stood on his bike in the road.
On the right was the tall rusty iron fence the tow truck had driven by on Saturday. It was set back in the woods about thirty yards from the road, stretching about a hundred feet in both directions. Farther ahead was a small gate. Someone had chained it shut. Nathaniel Olmstead’s house sat on the grassy clearing at the top of the hill. The boys stood at the base of the overgrown driveway. Beyond the gate, the road curved around the steep slope and disappeared into the trees. Gnarled vines hung from the branches, and brown grass grew in patches out of the pebbly dirt.
At the gate, Eddie was certain they would not be able to go any farther. But Harris got off his bike, hiked into the brush, pushed aside some of the thick vines, and revealed a gap wide enough for them to squeeze through one at a time.
“We’re going in?” asked Eddie, suddenly remembering the animal his father had hit only two days earlier. “Is it safe?”
“Hmm,” said Harris. “Probably not. But I can’t show you what you need to see if we don’t. Come on, we’ll leave our bikes here.”
“Won’t someone see them?” All of a sudden, Eddie felt nervous. The faces of the people he’d met in Gatesweed scowled at him when he closed his eyes. “We’ll get in trouble.”
“Lay it down flat. You can’t see them from the road. Believe me, I’ve checked.”
“Then you’ve been here before?” Eddie asked.
Harris rested his bike behind a small evergreen bush. “What do you think?” he said.
Eddie shrugged, laid his bike next to Harris’s, then followed him through the broken gate. Together, they hiked the rest of the way up the long driveway.
At the top of the hill, the house sat in silence. Eddie couldn’t believe he was actually here, seeing the view Nathaniel Olmstead had seen every day. He turned around to take in the countryside. He wanted to see where the house stood. Farther up Black Ribbon Road was the spot where they’d stopped on Saturday. In the opposite direction were the hills through which the road dipped and curved. The town of Gatesweed lay beyond the small, smooth peaks. The blue sky made the house even creepier, as if on a day such as this, the house should have been alive and lived in. But covered in vines and falling apart, the house almost seemed to whisper, Welcome …
“What’s the matter?” Harris said.
“Nothing. Why?”
“You look … I don’t know … weird or something.”
“Sorry,” said Eddie, stepping toward the house. Eddie pulled a clingy nettle off his sleeve. Goose bumps raced across his skin. He crossed his arms and shuddered. Those dark upstairs windows were dead eyes, but they watched nonetheless. “I don’t know. It’s creepier up here than I thought it would be.”
“This is nothing,” said Harris, raising an eyebrow.
The sound of crickets and chirping birds was interrupted only by the wind and Eddie’s imagination. Harris led him to the back of the house, where a small pasture stretched down the other side of the hill. About three hundred feet away, five rows of small trees dared the boys to come closer.
“An orchard,” said Harris. “I don’t think the fruit grows here anymore.” Beyond the orchard another hill arched up. A thick blanket of trees covered a small ridge. “And there”—Harris pointed—”is the Nameless Woods.”
“Why doesn’t it have a name?” asked Eddie.
“That is its name.” Harris trotted off down the hill and across the pasture. He called over his shoulder to Eddie, who stood frozen like a statue. “And that’s where we’re going.”
Once over the small ridge, they came to a green carpet of plants stretching under a flat expanse of trees. They continued their hike in silence. Under the dense canopy of leaves, the light filtered dimly, almost green. The forest was surprisingly dark. The smaller trees twisted toward the rare rays of sunlight. Fighting for space in the rocky soil, some of the bigger tree roots bulged like the swollen tentacles of deep-ocean creatures. As Harris led Eddie into the woods, they waded through a shallow sea of ankle-high plants. There was no path, only dead leaves and prickly brush. Eddie hoped he didn’t end up with poison ivy.
Finally, they reached a place where the trees did not obscure the sky. A circular clearing stretched out in front of them. It was approximately twenty feet in diameter. No greenery grew here. The ground was covered with small rocks. Dust hung in the air.
From the edge of the clearing, Eddie could see a white figure standing just off the center of the circle, closer to the other side. It looked like a ghost.
“What is that?” Eddie whispered.
“A statue,” Harris whispered back. “Come on.”
They slowly made their way across the clearing. A raven heckled them from a nearby tree, but Eddie couldn’t take his eyes off the figure. Standing in front of her, he could make out more details. The statue was gleaming white—a girl about his own height. She wore a simple robe that bunched at her shoulders, draped at the waist, and fell, pleated all the way to her feet, like something out of a painting he’d seen in an art history book. Her hair was draped in simple wavy ringlets past her shoulders. Her arms were bare and her toes peeked out from the bottom of the robe. The small-domed base on which she stood was carved with all sorts of beasts, dragons, sphinxes, and other strange creatures Eddie did not recognize. Her smile was almost undetectable as her milky eyes stared at Eddie and sent chills up his spine. Her arms were extended, and in her hands she held an open book tilted toward herself.