“My mom gave it to me,” said Eddie, suddenly unsure of himself. “Do you know what it means?”
The librarian’s face turned red. “Of course I don’t know what it means,” she said, too forcefully. “Why would I know what it means?”
“I just thought …,” he said. He cleared his throat, trying to compose himself. Maybe it wasn’t so easy to talk to book people, after all. “Can you recommend a book that might help?”
“No, actually,” she said suddenly. “I’m quite busy, and the library closes at noon today.” She turned her back on him and started typing something at the computer on the table behind her.
Eddie’s face burned. Her attitude toward him had changed when she saw the first page. He wondered if the symbol written there had upset her? Or had it been Nathaniel Olmstead’s name that sparked her irritation? Eddie decided not to ask. Instead, he quietly made his way to a cluster of computers near the back spiral staircase.
Pulling up the library’s online catalog, Eddie suddenly had an idea. Since his own Nathaniel Olmstead books were packed away, it might be worth checking out a few from here—just to acquaint (or reacquaint) himself with some of the town’s locations.
When he typed the author’s name, a message appeared: WE DID NOT FIND RESULTS FOR “NATHANIEL OLMSTEAD.” Confused, Eddie checked his spelling and entered the name again. But he received the same message. No results? How could that be? He glanced at the librarian at the front desk.
She was watching him.
When she saw him looking at her, she flinched and turned back to her computer. Eddie shivered. The librarian must not be a fan of Nathaniel Olmstead.
Eddie understood that some people didn’t think Olmstead’s books were very good, that they weren’t considered literature. Still, it seemed odd that the man’s hometown library wouldn’t carry his own books, even if there was supposed to be an—
Olmstead Curse …
The tow truck driver’s words echoed in Eddie’s head. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath. Don’t be silly, he told himself. It’s only a story, right?
After searching the catalog for books about codes, Eddie climbed the stairs to the second floor and wandered into a row of shelves hidden in shadow. Even in the dim light, he managed to find The History of Cryptography. At least this should get me started, he thought.
Eddie headed back downstairs and reluctantly approached the front desk, where Mrs. Singh pretended to ignore him. After a few seconds, he said, “I’d like to check out this book, please.”
Finally, she turned around with a huff and a sigh. “Your library card?” she said, holding out her hand to him. She waved her fingers impatiently.
“I … don’t have one.”
“Mmm-hmm,” said Mrs. Singh. Eddie almost expected her to tell him that they were not issuing any new cards, but she reached under her desk, pulled out a piece of paper and a pencil, and handed them to him. Without looking at him, she said, “Fill this out.” Eddie wrote down his new address and phone number and handed the paper back to Mrs. Singh.
“You’re new in town?” she said curiously. Eddie merely nodded. As she turned around, she began to chew on her lip.
While he waited for her to process his new card, he flipped through the heavy book. It was filled with all sorts of confusing language—almost as weird as that of The Enigmatic Manuscript. Strange words like cipher, algorithm, scytale, skipjack, and cryptanalysis jumped off the page. There was so much stuff shoved between the covers, he wasn’t even sure if he would be able to understand everything.
“Here you go,” said Mrs. Singh. She handed him a small peach-colored paper card on which was printed Gatesweed Public Library, a place where stories are told.
“Thank you,” he said, as politely as possible. Eddie shoved the book in his bag, hiked it onto his shoulders, and struggled to open the library door.
Once outside, Eddie could not deny that it was a lovely day. Puffy clouds hovered over the hills, and a warm breeze skirted around the corner of the library. When Eddie unlocked his bike, he decided to ride over to the park and flip through his new library book. He crossed Center Street and followed the path through the middle of the town green. Like the rest of the town, the park was strangely deserted. There were several benches planted randomly in the grass. Eddie hopped off his bike and was about to find a place to sit when he heard an odd whispering sound from across the lawn.
The sound came from the direction of a bronze bust perched on top of a rectangular marble pedestal. The gray slab stood in the center of an old granite circle. Dandelions filled wide spaces where the slate had cracked over time. A plaque was attached to the front of the pedestal, but from where he stood, Eddie couldn’t read what it said. He rested his bike on the sidewalk and trampled across the tall grass.
When he got closer, Eddie could see that the face of the bust had been destroyed, as if by a large blunt instrument. The nose had been mashed flat. Where its eyes should have been were two dark holes. Its lips were mangled into a permanent gaping howl. As he got even closer, the whispering sound grew louder.
Whist-whist-whist-whist-whist-whist.
It almost seemed as though the head was trying to speak to him through its distorted mouth. Eddie’s hands went numb. He clutched the straps of his book bag against his shoulders. The pungent smell of bleach filled the air. How strange, he thought. Then, from the edge of the stone circle, he realized he could finally read the plaque: DEXTER AUGUST, 1717-1779.
Sam had mentioned this place. Eddie had actually found one of Olmstead’s inspirations! Nathaniel Olmstead had written about the bust of Dexter August in The Ghost in the Poet’s Mansion. It wasn’t quite how Eddie had pictured it when he’d read the book; in Nathaniel Olmstead’s version, Mr. August’s face had not been vandalized.
The sound of something splashing came from the other side of the statue, startling Eddie. He stumbled off the edge of the granite circle.
A second later, he noticed a face peering at him from around the marble base. Before he could see it clearly, the face disappeared and the whispering sound began again. “Hello?” he said, trying to keep his voice from shaking. Keeping his distance from the bust, Eddie made his way to the other side.
A skinny man dressed in a wrinkly blue uniform knelt in the center of the granite circle. He scrubbed at the marble pedestal with a heavy wood brush. Whist-whist-whist-whist-whist-whist. Beside him sat a squat red metal bucket. After a moment, Eddie realized the man was the same police officer who had abandoned his family on Black Ribbon Road yesterday.
Eddie could hear the man muttering when he noticed what the police officer was scrubbing at. Someone had sprayed black paint in the primitive shape of a face onto the back of the pedestal. Two black squiggles for eyes dripped down the stone where the paint had been sprayed on thick. Below the eyes, one blunt, almost straight line grinned grimly. On the ground, behind where the police officer knelt, Eddie noticed more graffiti, huge words painted directly onto the broken granite. THE WOMAN IS WATCHING.
Eddie hiked his bag higher onto his shoulder. The woman is watching? What woman? Who is she watching? He glanced at the library, where the glass doors stared at him darkly. He wondered if Mrs. Singh was watching him from behind her desk.