Finally, the man looked at him, holding up his hand to block the sun’s glare. He scowled. “It’s not coming off this time.”
This time? Had someone done this before? Eddie wondered. “I’m sorry,” he said, feeling for some reason as if the officer blamed him.
“Oh, it’s you,” said the man, suddenly recognizing him. Eddie expected him to finish with You made it home all right, or Sorry I couldn’t be of more help yesterday, or at the very least, You lived! But the man simply stared at him expectantly, as if he anticipated Eddie to sprout wings and fly away.
The man’s silence made him feel weird. “I, uh … I’ll let you get back to work,” Eddie said, stepping into the grass, heading toward his bike. The police officer continued to stare at him as he walked away. Eventually, the whispering sound began again as the man went back to scrubbing at the black paint. Whist-whist-whist.
Eddie began to run. When he reached the sidewalk where his bike lay, he noticed something painted onto the window of a store on the other side of the park.
BOOKS.
This time, the paint was not graffiti.
Even though he was sort of freaked out, Eddie couldn’t resist. His mother had mentioned a bookstore in Gatesweed. This must be it. A bookstore was always cozier than a library—more comforting—a familiar place in an unfamiliar town. He picked up his bike from the sidewalk. Keeping far away from the weird cop, he walked his bike across the grass and crossed the street.
The bookstore was in the lower portion of a two-story white wooden house, the last in a row of buildings that curved along the park. A green-and-white-striped awning reached out toward Eddie, shading the house’s porch from the sunlight. Glancing over his shoulder toward the park, Eddie noticed the cop staring but decided to ignore him.
He crept up the stairs and pressed his nose to the window of the store, holding up his hands to block out the glare. Dim lights hung from the ceiling, and bookshelves stretched up so high that tall ladders leaned against them in several spots. The store looked empty.
“We’re not open,” said a voice behind him.
Eddie spun around to see a blond-haired boy who’d spent too much of the summer exposed to the sun. The skin on the boy’s nose was peeling. Eddie thought he smelled like insect repellent. Eddie stood there with his mouth open, barely able to breathe. Why was it that he could approach an adult librarian without a problem, but when facing the possibility of conversation with someone his own age, Eddie’s brain shut tight?
“What do you want?” said the boy.
“Nuh,” said Eddie, turning sunburn red. He’d meant to say Nothing, but was only able to spit out the first part of the word.
The boy examined Eddie quizzically before reaching around and opening the door. Cool air breezed out. Eddie was about to ask what time he should come back when the boy brushed past Eddie, closed the door, and locked it.
Embarrassed, Eddie almost turned to leave when the window display caught his attention. He came closer to the glass to make sure his eyes weren’t fooling him.
Sitting on the table near the window ledge was a small display of Nathaniel Olmstead’s books. A hand-painted sign propped up on the table read GATESWEED’S VERY OWN. The books were stacked precisely in several piles. The Ghost in the Poet’s Mansion. The Revenge of the Nightmarys. The Cat, the Quill, and the Candle. The Wrath of the Wendigo. They were all there; however, these were not the books that caught Eddie’s attention.
At the far edge of the table sat a small stack of leather-bound books that had a different title.
The Enigmatic Manuscript.
Eddie dropped his book bag onto the porch. Bending over, he opened the bag’s front pocket and pulled out the book his mother had found the night before. Holding it up, Eddie compared it to the books sitting on the table. They seemed to be exactly the same. Would the inside of the books be the same too? Eddie felt his heart pumping. He could see the blond boy moving around near the back of the store. Eddie took a deep breath, realizing what he must do. The characters in Nathaniel Olmstead’s books never solved any of their mysteries without taking a risk or two.
Before he could think to stop himself, Eddie knocked on the window. When the blond boy peered around the corner of a bookshelf, Eddie waved and forced himself to smile.
“We’re closed!” shouted the boy before ducking away. His words hit Eddie in the chest like a fast, hard baseball. This wasn’t going to be easy. Maybe he should leave. But no, he told himself. Ronald Plimpton would not have given up so easily.
He raised his hand again and continued to knock. He didn’t stop until the blond boy had come all the way to the front of the store. Angrily, the boy shouted through the door, “What is wrong with you?”
“I—I wanted to ask you something,” Eddie stammered.
“Yeah …?” said the boy, looking as if he were about to walk away. His voice sounded muffled through the glass.
“I wanted to know about that book on the table in the window. The Enigmatic Manuscript.“
“What about it?”
“I was wondering if you knew when Nathaniel Olmstead wrote it?”
The boy made a face like Eddie was crazy. “Wrote it?”
“Yeah,” said Eddie. “What year did the book come out?”
“Nathaniel Olmstead didn’t write a book called The Enigmatic Manuscript. Nobody wrote The Enigmatic Manuscript.“
Eddie shook his head, confused. The blond boy rolled his eyes, grabbed one of the books off the pile of Enigmatic Manuscripts, and opened it to a page in the middle. He held the book up to the window for Eddie to see.
“Blank,” said the boy.
Eddie still didn’t understand.
“The Enigmatic Manuscript is the name of my mother’s store!” said the boy.
“The name of your mother’s store?” said Eddie. He looked over his shoulder. The store’s hanging placard sign stuck out from the pole at the top of the stairs, but it hung perpendicular to the street, so it was really only visible from either side of the stairs.
“We sell souvenir blank notebooks,” the boy continued. “If you wanna buy one …” The boy spun around and started back toward the bookshelves. Over his shoulder, he called, “Then come back some other time.”
“Wait!” cried Eddie, knocking on the window. When the boy turned around, Eddie quickly pressed the cover of his own copy of the book up to the window. “I don’t want to buy one,” he called through the glass. “I’ve already got one. And I think it might have belonged to Nathaniel Olmstead.”
The boy paused for a few moments before returning to the front of the store again. He unlocked the door, opened it, and stood in the doorway. “Why do you think that?” he asked.
Suddenly, Eddie felt foolish. “Because mine’s not blank.” He awkwardly held out the book.
The boy took it from Eddie and brushed the cover with his fingers. It was obviously older than the ones in the store. He turned it over and examined the spine. When he opened the cover and saw the first page, his eyes widened. A moment later, he squinted skeptically. “Where’d you get this?” His reaction reminded Eddie of the librarian’s.
“My parents bought it at an antiques fair just north of here,” said Eddie. “But look.” He reached forward to turn the page.