Booke of the Hidden

by Jeri Westerson

  “Wow,” I said. Though none of it was any clearer. “What do you think it means?”

  Karl shrugged. “Looks to me as if the book acts like a Pandora’s Box, letting evil into the world, and then she was stuck jamming it all in again. It’s what I get out of it.”

  “That’s…scary.” I couldn’t help but recall how Karl hadn’t been able to open the Booke, but I could. Because I had already opened it first? Shit.

  “Sooo…” I gestured toward the Booke on the counter.

  He looked back at it. “Ah-yuh, that’s weird, isn’t it? Pretty interesting if that’s the same book. You said you found it in the wall?”

  “Yeah. Bricked up.” I had joked to myself at the time about the Cask of Amontillado, but now I didn’t think it was funny at all.

  But wait a minute! This was insane. This was fiction! Salem witch trial craziness. Some tale from long ago. It had nothing to do with me now… Right?

  Karl had been talking and I suddenly tuned back in.

  “…all just a story,” he said. “Besides, I don’t suppose you’ve seen this Dark Man lurking about, have you?”

  I must have paled because he was suddenly right beside me, grabbing my arm. “Are you okay? Sit down.” I was shoved into a chair. “You’re not buying all this, are you? I mean it’s only a story. An interesting one, but just a story nonetheless. And all the pages are blank, anyway. They’d be full of Mistress Howland’s ramblings, wouldn’t they?” I nodded. “If you don’t mind,” he went on, “I’d love for you to leave the book so that I can study it. It’s a fine example of eighteenth-century binding, at any rate. Might even be older than that.”

  “I’d like nothing better than to leave it with you…but…” The oddest sensation flared through me. And as much as I wanted to leave the Booke with him, I knew I couldn’t.

  “Can I get you a glass of water?”

  I shooed him away and stood—albeit a little unsteadily. “I’m fine. Just…a little overwhelmed. Look, I have to get back. Got a lot to do to get the shop open. I don’t think I should leave it here just yet. Should get pictures. Document it. You know.”

  His shoulders slumped in disappointment. “Of course. No problem. Maybe I could come by your shop and take a look at it again.”

  “Oh, sure, that would be fine.” I dug into the purse over my shoulder and grabbed a handful of business cards. “Here. Maybe you could leave a few of these around?”

  He read the card and smiled. “This looks great. I can see a lot of interest in this around here. Maybe you didn’t know this, but there’s a coven of local Wiccans in the area.”

  “I met one of them.”

  “Really? That was fast. They’re all nice people. It’s not like you see on TV. They’re all normal.”

  “I’m glad you think so. One of them fixed the hole in my wall.”

  “Doc Boone? Oh, he’s a sweetheart.”

  “But now all I can think of is him dancing naked in the moonlight.”

  He chuckled. “I can assure you, none of them do that.”

  “You aren’t…one of them, are you?”

  “Oh no! I don’t go in for that stuff. Plus I don’t think my pastor would like me to.” He grinned. “But it would make for interesting conversation at bingo.”

  “I don’t suppose that biker gang is part of the coven.”

  His face drooped. “What do you know about them?”

  “Nothing, except they tried to run me off the road without so much as a wave. They had a pentagram on their jackets.”

  He shuffled some papers, not looking at me. “Best to stay away from those guys.”

  “I have little interest in biker clubs. And I’m pretty sure they won’t be buying any tea cozies from me.”

  “Just the same. The ODD isn’t anything to mess with.”

  “ODD?”

  “Doesn’t matter,” he said curtly. His smile perked again. “I tell you what. You should try to get a hold of Ruth Russell. She’s one of the descendants of the founders of Moody Bog. She’s got quite an archive of family history and local genealogy. Been trying for years to get her to share it with me. She’s not quite the sharing type, though. She’s related to the Howlands.”

  “As in ‘Constance Howland’? The one with the Booke?”

  “The very same. As I said, she isn’t too keen on this part of her family history. But I bet she’s got more information. If she warms to you, you could find out a lot.”

  “I’ll try that, certainly. Hopefully I’ll meet her soon.”

  He watched me clutch the Booke tightly to my chest. “It was sure nice meeting you, Miss Strange. Funny…that name sounds familiar to me, too.”

  “I don’t see how. My family is from the West Coast.”

  “Always? Never came out east? I’ll have a look in the archives and see what I can dig up. I love a challenge.”

  I shrugged. “If you like. And thanks, Karl. I’ll be talking to you soon. When you can, let me know about the Booke and…” I shook my head. “Is it weird that in my head I keep thinking of it as the capital ‘B-o-o-k-e’?”

  His eyebrows rose and he seemed to be considering.

  “Never mind. Don’t answer that. I’ll be going. You can find my number on the card. Call me if you find out anything interesting. Like how much it might be worth. I’m definitely interested in selling it.”

  I wrapped the Booke—book, dammit!—back in its sweater and clasped it to my chest. The cold hit me again as I got out the door and I quickly climbed into the Jeep, setting the Booke beside me on the passenger seat.

  I drove back to Moody Bog, feeling a sense of homecoming now as I navigated her familiar streets. I turned off the highway onto Lyndon Road and pulled onto my gravel driveway. I had left a few lights on in the shop and I was pleased at how welcoming the place looked.

  After I had secured the Booke behind the counter, I worked for several more hours hanging curtains on the front windows and putting up more shelves. All the while, in the back of my mind, was a niggling feeling, like I’d forgotten something important. It was an odd sensation. I stopped my work and looked around. I glanced at the Booke and a shiver ran up my spine. I trotted upstairs to get a sweater. It wasn’t just a feeling. There was a draft in here, somewhere. I was sure of it.

  An hour or two later, I was at the point where I could unpack some of my boxes. A siren startled me from my happy musing.

  A black and white Ford Interceptor SUV rushed by the window with a flashing light-bar on the roof, heading out of town. Its wail pierced the peace of the countryside, even from a long way off, as it climbed the roads of the wilderness. A lonely sound. Maybe there was an accident on the highway. I hoped it wasn’t anything too bad. I sent up a good thought for whatever it was.

  Out the window the forest across the way was dark and getting darker with the falling light. For an instant, the good, warm feelings I had about my new life seemed to shift away from me like a blinking beacon. It was the oddest sensation, as if melancholy was a living thing and had come to perch on my roof.

  A streetlight was trying to come on, winking like small flashes of lightning. It lit a figure of a man in a long coat just standing at the edge of the wood.

  I gasped and drew back, startled. But then I heaved down the package of mugwort I had in my hand and it hit the floor with a splat. That’s it! Whoever this stalker was, it had to stop.

  I pulled out my phone and dialed 9-1-1. It was ringing. I went to the door and yanked it open. “See this!” I yelled so he could hear me. “I’m calling the cops.”

  In the blink of an eye—I hadn’t even seen him move!—Mr. Doom of the English accent stood right in front of me, glowering. “Now see what you have done,” he said. “You opened the book!”

  I didn’t even realize I was lowering the phone. Distantly I heard it pick up and a male voice say, “9-1-1. What is your emergency?”

  “What?” I gasped, barely registering that the person on the phone had repeated himself and was now a
sking, “Hello? Hello?”

  “Who are you?” I demanded.

  The man in the duster looked behind him into the woods. “It’s too late. Too late for him. Too late for you.”

  A scream, deep in the forest. We both turned toward it. I’d heard that sound before. That same half-howl, half-scream from the dog that attacked me. But I knew—from the squirming pit of my stomach—that it wasn’t a dog at all.

  Chapter Four

  I pushed him into the shop and slammed the door. “Just who the hell do you think you are?”

  “Who the hell do I think I am? You have no idea.” He arched a cultivated brow.

  The guy on the phone kept saying, “Hello? This is 9-1-1 emergency.” I clicked the phone off. “I’m a little tired of your stalking me and I’d like you to stop with the gloom and doom crap. So say what you need to say—no matter how insane—and hit the road.”

  He started toward me. “‘Hit the road’? I have absolutely no intention of hitting the road, as you so quaintly put it.”

  I looked around for a possible weapon and ended up grabbing a bag of tea. “Allergic, right? Just how allergic?”

  He pulled up short with a look of horror on his face. Aha! His kryptonite!

  “Don’t come any closer,” I warned, brandishing the tea covered with cellophane. “I’ve got Earl Grey and I know how to use it.”

  He frowned and pulled grumpily at his coat. “Fine. What do you want to know?”

  I held the bag of fragrant tea above my head. “First, I want to know who you are.”

  “Very well. I am Dark. Erasmus Dark.”

  I lowered the tea to my thigh and barked a laugh. “A likely story. You can do better than that.”

  He sneered. “I beg your pardon! Look who’s talking…Miss Strange?”

  He had a point.

  His eyes flicked to the bag of tea in my hand. “Do you have to keep holding that?”

  “Yes.” I stepped forward and was satisfied when he took a step back. “Now what’s your real name?”

  “I told you. It is E-ras-mus Dark. Mister Dark, to you.”

  “Oh, really? Okay. Let’s suppose for just a minute that this is your name. Just what is it you want? Why are you skulking around outside and why did you say all those things about the…the Booke?”

  “You opened it, didn’t you?”

  “How do you even know about it?”

  His eyes took in the room, the rafters, and the shelves. “I remember this place. From a long time ago.”

  “That doesn’t explain how you knew the Booke was in the wall.”

  He turned back toward me. “Was it?”

  “You damn well know it was…and I want to know how!”

  Carefully, he folded his arms over his chest. “I’ll make a bargain with you.” The aristocratic way about him was a bit annoying. On the one hand, he seemed dangerous, as if something were seething just below the surface. But on the other, I was drawn to him for the sheer animal magnetism he exuded seemingly without effort. “You put aside that…that package,” he continued with smooth, dark tones, “and I’ll explain.”

  I looked down at the forgotten bag of tea in my hand. I clutched it tighter. “No way. Nothing doing.” I did a little posturing myself. “I tell you what I’ll do. I won’t break open this package and heave it at you—” He cringed back. “—and instead, I’ll hold it right here and you tell me what crazy tale you have to tell. And if I like it, well, we’ll sit down and talk. And if I don’t like it, you’ll get a face full of this. Deal?”

  He sputtered his indignation. “That’s no kind of deal at all!”

  “It’s the only one you’re getting. It’s that or you can leave now. Either way I’m probably calling the cops.”

  “They’ll do you little good,” he sneered. “Besides, I have a feeling they’ll soon be contacting you.”

  The phone in my hand rang and I jumped about three feet. Heart racing, I looked down at the unfamiliar number. Putting the phone to my ear, I held the tea out to Mr. Dark to prevent him from rushing me, which it looked like he wanted to do.

  “Is this Kylie Strange?” said the male voice.

  “Yes?”

  “This is Sheriff Bradbury. Do you know Karl Waters?”

  “Um…yes. I just met him today.” I turned away from Mr. Dark’s piercing gaze and concentrated on the call.

  “Do you live at 331 Lyndon Road, Moody Bog?”

  “Yes. What’s wrong? Is everything all right?”

  “Are you at your home now, Ms. Strange?”

  “Well…yes. Sheriff, what’s wrong?”

  “I’ll be there in five minutes. Please remain where you are, Ms. Strange.”

  “What is this about?” But he’d already hung up. I spun toward Mr. Dark, who was looking at me warily. “The sheriff is on his way.”

  “I know,” he said, looking a bit pained. “He’s about to tell you that Karl Waters has been murdered and that you are a suspect.”

  “What? And how do you know that?” I brandished the tea again and he took a step back.

  “Really, Miss Strange. Is that strictly necessary?”

  “It damn well is! Now talk or eat Earl Grey.”

  He took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “You really have no idea what you’ve unleashed. No idea. You opened the book. And you saw that it was walled up. Why couldn’t you just leave well enough alone?”

  “When I meant ‘talk’ I also meant to make sense.”

  Suddenly he was in my face. He had rushed me within a split second. He could have killed me, could have slammed me against the wall, but he hadn’t. He was mere inches from me, dark eyes glaring menacingly into mine. “You opened the book!” he said, as if that should have explained it all.

  “Okay! All right! I opened the stupid Booke! Are you saying it’s like…Constance Howland all those years ago? Did I open a Pandora’s Box?”

  His eyes narrowed. “You’ve heard of Mistress Howland?” His voice was low and silky. “Then this will be easier. Yes,” he said. “A Pandora’s Box. Just like that.”

  “I don’t get what you mean. The Booke was empty. The pages are blank.”

  “Of course they are blank. Each comes to the book as if it were a new thing, a blank slate. Tabula Rasa.”

  I shook my head, still mystified.

  He scoffed. “The point is, the cycle has started again, because you have opened. The. Book!”

  “That’s what Karl Waters said. He said…” I stared at him, into his shadowy eyes. “Did you kill him?” I whispered, taking a step back.

  He sneered at me again. “No, I did not kill him! Something far worse has done so. And time is running out!”

  The sound of a car pulling up broke our conversation, and he stalked to the window and looked out. “The police are here,” he said unnecessarily.

  I stood where I was, stunned by everything that was happening, but relieved that the sheriff had arrived.

  Dark spun toward me. “You must not tell them about the book. They will not believe you in any case.”

  “Believe what? I don’t know anything!”

  He gave me a crooked smile. “Don’t you?”

  Car doors slammed and my front door burst open. I stepped back, my mouth parting in surprise as two police officers barged in.

  “Kylie Strange?” asked the sheriff. He was wearing a heavy jacket with fake fur at the collar, and a Smokey Bear hat on his dark-haired head. He had a handsome face, rugged from the weather, and was, I guessed, about five or so years older than me.

  “Yes?”

  The sheriff looked me over, seeming surprised by what he saw, and hid it by glancing around quickly. His deputy stood by the door, a dour expression on his face. He was about my age, and wore a clipped mustache.

  The sheriff came closer. “I’m Sheriff Bradbury. And this is Deputy Miller.” He thumbed over his shoulder toward the mustached officer. “I talked to you on the phone. I’d like to ask a few questions.”

&nbs
p; “Can you tell me what this is about?”

  “Karl Waters was found dead this afternoon at his museum,” he said. But since I already knew that, my little breath of surprise was all for show. My eyes darted, looking for our friendly neighborhood Mr. Dark, but he had simply vanished.

  “When? I mean I left him no more than a few hours ago.”

  “About that, Ms. Strange. We wanted to know why you went to see Mr. Waters. Did you know him?”

  “No. I had a question about a book I saw online. A historical question. And…wait. How did you know to contact me?”

  “He was clutching your business card in his hand.”

  “He…died holding my card?”

  “That’s right. And so we need to ask you—”

  “What did he die of?”

  “That…has yet to be determined.”

  “Look,” I said, “there’s someone you need to talk to. This mysterious Englishman who keeps coming around with messages of gloom and doom. He said his name is Erasmus Dark, but I don’t think that can be real.”

  He tipped his hat back on his head and scratched his brow. “I’m sorry. Who?”

  “He’s about your height, slim figure, maybe late thirties, dark longish hair, dark eyes, English accent, snooty attitude. Oh, and he wears a black duster coat. He knew about the murder before you told me.”

  “Is that right? And where did you meet him?”

  “He just keeps showing up. I saw him outside. He was here before you came in.”

  “And where is he now?”

  I faltered. “He was here…a minute ago.”

  He straightened his hat again. “What sort of vehicle does he drive?”

  “I never saw a car. He just shows up. Uninvited.”

  “How long have you known him?”

  “Just since yesterday. I mean, I don’t know him. Never saw him before in my life.”

  “Uh-huh.” He glanced back at his deputy, who was taking notes. “And so this—this Mr. Dark—he told you about the death?”

  “Yes. He said I would be blamed for it, which is just ridiculous. I don’t know anything. I just met him today.”

  “And you met this alleged Erasmus Dark yesterday.”