Curse of the Boggin

by D. J. MacHale

  “Surrender the key,” she said in the gnarly voice of the old lady, “or more will die.”

  I took a few quick steps back as if I’d been pushed. The girl, or the doll or the old lady or whatever it was, turned and skipped away down the sidewalk. I stood there watching, stunned, as it rounded a corner and was gone.

  I didn’t move for a solid ten seconds, trying to unfreeze my brain. Finally, I remembered.

  Michael Swenor.

  I spun toward the spot where the ghost had been standing.

  He was gone. The entire block was deserted. Nobody saw what had happened but me.

  Why had he come back? What did he want? Was he trying to stop me from going into the road to save…who? The old witch? Was he protecting me?

  I had to will my feet to move. I sprinted along the sidewalk, barely looking for cars as I crossed multiple streets, and didn’t stop moving until I got home. I slammed the door and stood in our foyer, gasping for breath. I needed water, so I hurried into the kitchen and grabbed a glass, then changed my mind and put my head directly under the faucet.

  As I gulped down the water, my eye caught something on the counter. It was a plate filled with brownies. My favorite. Dark-chocolate Ghirardelli. Next to it was a note. It was a folded piece of paper with my name on it. I didn’t want to look at it. I thought for sure it would say Surrender the key. Three words I had grown to hate.

  Only now there were more words to worry about: Or more will die.

  That was what the old lady–girl doll–witch had said.

  Or more will die.

  I summoned my courage, grabbed the note, and read.

  It was from Mom. I recognized her perfect penmanship.

  Let’s talk when I get home. I made your favorite brownies. Don’t eat them all. Oh, never mind, eat them all if you want. Mom.

  Was this note really from Mom? Or was it another illusion to try to get me to eat a plate of poisoned brownies? It sure didn’t sound like Mom. I wanted to believe that she was reaching out to try to make things right, but I wasn’t sure what I could believe anymore.

  Or more will die.

  That wasn’t a threat against me. It was a warning. Was the old witch going after people I cared about? There was only one thing I knew for sure: my role in Michael Swenor’s story was not finished.

  Not by a long shot.

  I left without grabbing a brownie. I didn’t want to take the chance. I went upstairs to my room, threw my books down on my desk, and pulled the key out from under my shirt. How could I surrender it? If I gave it up, I’d lose the one connection I had to my real parents, but if it meant ending the haunting and protecting others from this crazy old lady, how could I keep it?

  I walked to my bedroom door and felt the key grow warm in my hand, as if it was telling me what to do. I held it out toward the door. Instantly, the dark spot returned and transformed into the brass keyhole.

  Message received.

  I inserted the key into the lock, twisted it, and opened the door to return to the Library.

  The place was as quiet as—well, as a library.

  My footsteps echoed back at me as I walked slowly past the long corridors of books. I didn’t call out to announce that I was back. That would have felt wrong. After all, it was a library. Instead, I listened for signs of life.

  The ancient room was suddenly feeling less like a library and more like a tomb. It didn’t help knowing that all the books were filled with true stories about ghosts and other assorted oddities. I took a few more steps and heard the faint sound of rustling pages. Quickly, I headed in that direction. After passing a few more aisles of endless bookcases, I arrived at the circulation desk, where Everett was sitting on a high stool, reading. His wire-rim spectacles were down on the end of his nose as he squinted in concentration at a book that was open in front of him. I stood a few yards away, hoping he would notice me.

  After a few awkward seconds, I cleared my throat.

  He didn’t look up.

  “I’m back,” I said sheepishly.

  “Obviously,” Everett said without looking at me.

  “You were right,” I said. “Michael Swenor’s story isn’t done, and I’m still part of it. I want to know how I can finish it.”

  That got his attention. He looked up at me over the top of his glasses.

  “What changed your mind?” he asked. “Perhaps it was the odd young lass who was nearly run down by the car? Brave rescue, by the way. Quick thinking. Good instincts.”

  Once again my knees went weak.

  “How do you know about that?” I asked, incredulous.

  Everett spun the book around and tapped the page. I looked down at the printed words to read:

  * * *

  THE LITTLE GIRL HAD the face of a wizened old doll with wild eyes. She fixed her intense gaze on Marcus and said, “Surrender the key, or more will die.”

  * * *

  “Or more will die,” Everett said, raising his eyebrows. “Sounds a bit ominous.”

  “Who wrote this?” I demanded. “Nobody else was there.”

  “Eyes are everywhere,” Everett said. “Especially when there’s a disruption.”

  “Disruption?”

  “That’s what I call it. Like I told you before, the course of human events doesn’t always follow the rules of science and nature. There are forces at work that can’t be explained. That’s what this library is about. We document, investigate, and try to put things right.”

  “Who’s we?”

  Everett stared me straight in the eye. I felt as though he was trying to read my mind. Or maybe he was deciding if I could handle the answer I was asking for. He took off his glasses and wiped them with a rumpled handkerchief he pulled from his back pocket.

  “I’m going to ask you a question,” he said. “Your answer will either make this a far sight easier or cause a boatload of grief for the both of us.”

  “Go for it.”

  “Do you believe in ghosts?”

  He kept his eyes on me with an intensity that meant he was dead serious.

  Did I believe in ghosts? Good question.

  “If you’d asked me that a couple of days ago, I would have thought you were the one who was crazy,” I said.

  “And now?”

  “Yeah, I believe in ghosts. Though I’m not sure that’s better than being crazy.”

  Everett gave a satisfied nod as he slipped his glasses into his vest pocket. “It is. It means you’ve accepted reality.”

  “Reality?” I said, scoffing. “I don’t know what that is anymore.”

  Everett closed the book, stood up, and gestured for me to follow. He rounded the counter and waddled down one of the long aisles, walking with a slight limp that proved he was every bit as old as he looked.

  “There is a natural order to life, Marcus,” he said. “It’s why the world exists and keeps spinning. But every so often the balance gets thrown off. People do things they shouldn’t. Or something unexpected happens that knocks somebody’s train off the tracks. That’s when things become unsettled. Unfinished.”

  “Disrupted.”

  “Aye! Good. That’s where we come in. We try to make things right.”

  He scanned the rows of books.

  “Here’s a perfect example,” he said with enthusiasm as he pulled an ancient volume off the shelf. “A classic. The fella in this story was poisoned by his business partner. Clear case of greed. The killer got off scot-free. There’s the disruption. The victim was wronged, and his spirit couldn’t rest in peace till justice was served. Thanks to an agent from the Library, the truth came out. That’s what I call the folks who finish the stories. Agents. This lass revealed the identity of the murderer with help from the victim himself. Or his spirit. She finished the story, and the spirit was able to move on. These shelves are packed with stories like that. I file ’em under Justice.”

  “How did the agent finish the story?” I asked. “Did she, like, do research?”

  “You c
ould say that. Firsthand research. When an agent leaves the Library with one of these books, they step into its story. They become part of it.”

  “Wait, what? For real?”

  “Aye. How else can they put things right?”

  “That’s impossible,” I said.

  “You thought ghosts were impossible until a few days ago, didn’t ya?” he said, and shoved the book into my hands. “Here’s another good one,” he said as he pulled down a book with a black binding. “Happened in New Orleans. Family with three young ones. One morning all three tykes woke up mute. Just like that. Couldn’t say a word, not even a whisper. Turned out the elderly woman who lived in the apartment below fancied herself to be a voodoo queen. The wee ones had been making too much noise for her liking, disturbing her afternoon naps. She used her dark magic to cast a spell that kept ’em quiet. Doctors couldn’t figure out what was wrong with ’em, but we did.”

  “So the agent was transported to New Orleans and figured this out?” I asked.

  “Aye. I shelve that one under Curses.”

  He handed me the book.

  I stared at it, trying to understand the magic that could send a living, breathing person to another place.

  “So these unfinished stories are all happening right now?” I asked.

  “Some are. Like Michael Swenor’s story. But not all stories are happening today. Many of these tales go a ways back, but that doesn’t stop us from trying to finish ’em up.”

  “Seriously? The Library is like a time machine?”

  “I told you, time doesn’t mean much here.”

  I was reeling. The more I learned about this oddball library, the wilder it all seemed.

  “Who writes the stories?” I asked.

  “Spirits, of course,” Everett said casually. “Like I said, eyes are everywhere.”

  He must have seen the stunned expression on my face, because he gave me an innocent shrug and said, “Why so surprised? You said you believed.”

  He turned away and headed back toward the circulation desk.

  I jammed the books back onto the shelf and hurried after him.

  “You’re telling me ghosts are roaming everywhere, taking notes on strange happenings and writing books about them?”

  “More or less,” he replied.

  “I’m never going to the bathroom again.”

  Everett frowned and said, “Please, boy-o. There are limits.”

  “So a spirit was watching what happened with me and the little girl and wrote it all down?”

  Everett picked up the book he’d been reading from and held it up. “Every last detail. But that’s not always the case. They don’t catch everything. We have to fill in the blanks ourselves. That’s our job.”

  “Then if the spirits are everywhere, why don’t they help out? They could have saved Michael Swenor from falling off that roof.”

  “Doesn’t work like that. Spirits can’t affect events, only observe them. That’s why we need the living agents.”

  “What about you? You read all the books. You knew what was going on. Why didn’t you help Michael Swenor?”

  “I told you, spirits can’t affect events.”

  “But you’re not—”

  The full meaning of his answer took a few seconds to sink in.

  “Wait. That means…”

  Everett winked at me and said, “Boo.”

  I backed away so fast I slammed into a bookcase.

  “You’re dead?” I said, my voice cracking.

  “Easy now—you look like you’ve seen a ghost. Oh, wait…”

  He wheezed out a laugh, as if pleased by his own cleverness.

  I wanted to run the heck out of there, but the memory of that old witch’s face came back to me. She was way more frightening than this guy. Even if he was a ghost.

  “Why am I here?” I asked, trying to keep my voice from rising three octaves. “Why did my father have this key? And who is that old lady?”

  “Answers to the first two questions are easy,” Everett said. “Your father was an agent of the Library. Seems as though he wants you to follow in his footsteps.”

  “You mean my real father? My biological father?”

  “Yes. Good man, Jim Roxbury. He often brought along a young buddy to help him out. Michael Swenor.”

  “Michael Swenor came here? You knew him?”

  “Aye. Smart fella. Good agent. Really cared. Open that drawer in front of you there. He left something here a while back.”

  I looked down at the desk to see several drawers with brass handles. I pulled out the drawer directly in front of me and saw that it contained a single item. It was a badge. A silver New York City firefighter’s badge.

  “Pick it up,” Everett commanded.

  I reached into the drawer and retrieved the heavy silver badge, which had an engine company number as well as the number of the firefighter.

  “This was Michael Swenor’s?” I asked.

  “Aye. Such a good man. Just like your father.”

  Another piece of the puzzle clicked into place. Mrs. Swenor told me that her husband investigated paranormal occurrences but never left the apartment. Turns out he left the apartment plenty. He came to the Library, and since time didn’t matter here, when he returned home, no time had passed. It was as though he had never left home.

  “It pains me that he passed the way he did,” Everett said.

  I moved to put the badge back in the drawer.

  He stopped me. “Take it. That badge is from the mortal world. It shouldn’t be here.”

  “What am I supposed to do with it?”

  “Whatever you’d like.”

  I slipped the heavy metal badge into the pocket of my hoodie.

  “Now,” Everett went on, “it’s the answer to your third question that has me worried.”

  He sat back down behind the counter and opened the book again.

  “The thing about these stories is that they only tell us what happened. They don’t predict the future.”

  “Does it say who the old lady is?” I asked.

  Everett took a worried breath and said, “I’m afraid so. She may be old, but she is by no means a lady.”

  “She’s a man?” I asked, incredulous.

  “Let’s call it a…thing. That’s as good a word as any. That thing has been the subject of many of the stories we’ve got here in the Library, which is why I suspect it wants the key. It doesn’t want any of the stories to be finished.”

  “Why not?” I asked.

  Everett slid the book over to me and said one word.

  “Read.”

  The pages were yellowed, as if the book had been printed a long time ago. Printed? Is that what spirit authors did? Was there some magical laser printer that spit these books out? I flipped to the first page and read:

  * * *

  THE PHANTOM GOES BY many names: El Coco, Nøkken, Mörkö, Babau, and the Boggin. There are countless others, depending on the country and culture that share the tales. Though it is a creature whose myth has grown, its actual origin can be traced back to the time of the druids. Ancient texts relate how a powerful specter was conjured by mystics as a means to control disobedient children. Its entire reason for being was to use fear as a tool to discipline defiant young ones.

  However, the power of the phantom proved to be more of a problem than a solution. Its mindless craving to create fear only grew stronger as it spread terror by reaching into the minds of its young victims to show them the images and apparitions they feared most. Word of this frightening spirit spread throughout the ancient world, prompting the creation of stories and legends that continue to grow, even in modern times. Though most of the stories are myth, the monster itself is very real.

  The ancients had no way of destroying it, but in its creation they anticipated a way to entrap and control it. Through the centuries it has been imprisoned many times, only to find its way loose to continue its insatiable quest to spread fear and terror.

  * *
*

  I pushed the book away and looked to Everett, who was leaning back in his chair with his hands folded over his round belly.

  “You’re kidding me, right?” I asked.

  “Is there a problem?”

  “Yeah, there’s a problem. You know what this is saying, don’t you?”

  “I have a pretty good idea.”

  “Me too,” I shot back nervously. “This says the legend is true.”

  “That’s pretty much how I see it.”

  “But that’s just—crazy,” I said as my heart raced. “It’s a fairy tale. A myth. Like Frankenstein. Or Dracula. It’s a…a…joke.”

  “Joke? Has anything you’ve seen come across as remotely funny?”

  “But it’s a fictional character.”

  “Tell that to Michael Swenor the next time you see him.”

  I slammed the book shut and backed away.

  “I don’t believe it.”

  “What don’t you believe, Marcus? That these stories are real? That I’m a spirit? That this library is full of actual stories about people who need our help? Or that what you just read is true?”

  My mind was spinning. After all I’d seen, all I’d been through, this was the most impossible thing to accept.

  “I—I don’t know,” I stammered.

  “Well, get your head around it, boy-o,” Everett said, turning serious. “You’ve seen the illusions. You’ve felt the fear. I don’t know exactly how Michael Swenor ties in to it, but from what I can see, that thing is on the loose again, and it’s set its sights on the Library. It tried to stop you from getting the Paradox key, but now that you’ve got it, it’s coming after you. With that key, it could destroy this place and the work we’ve been doing here for eons. That’s what it wants, Marcus. It wants to destroy the Library, and it’ll stop anyone who gets in its way. Like Michael Swenor…and now you.”

  I looked to the book that sat between us on the counter. It contained a story. An impossible story. Yet I knew it was true, because I’d seen it in action.