by Dan Poblocki
“Thanks,” said Eddie.
“Can I borrow this one?” she said, blushing. “I know it’s creepy fantasy stuff, which isn’t usually my thing. …” She hestitated. “It’s sort of silly, but …” She flipped open the back cover and showed Eddie the picture of Nathaniel Olmstead. “I had a feeling that I should look him up. I thought maybe since we live in his old town now, he could help me.” She paused, then said, “It’s been so difficult lately, I’m not even sure I should be a writer anymore.”
“Of course you should be a writer,” said Eddie. “You love writing.”
“But I’m beginning to think I’m not any good!” said Mom. “I read you that epic poem I wrote last week. It was ridiculous!” She threw her arms wide and said in a deep, dramatic voice, “How woebegone was Constance Meade? She had one glass eye and couldn’t read! What was I thinking? I don’t even know what I want to write anymore. Forget this rhyming stuff. … I’ve got to find a great story to tell.”
Eddie walked across the room to his bed, sat down on his mattress, and took off his sneakers. “New town, new stories. Isn’t that what Dad said?”
“He did say that, didn’t he? The funny thing is … I think I might actually have an idea for a new story,” said Mom. “Thanks for letting me borrow this.” She waved the book. “Let’s hope this Nathaniel Olmstead person knows what he’s doing.”
“He knows,” Eddie said. “I’m sure of it.”
Mom went back downstairs. After unpacking some more boxes, Eddie spent some time hunched over his desk scanning the mysterious book, searching for a clue. After staring at the page, the letters all started to blend together, and he couldn’t concentrate.
To clear his head, Eddie hauled the library book out of his bag. He went through it slowly, trying to understand the confusing academic writing, but ultimately, the book wasn’t much help. For a while, there didn’t seem to be anything in it that resembled the code in The Enigmatic Manuscript.
Finally, in a chapter called “The Science of the Secret Message,” he came across a symbol similar to the one written on the first page of the book. The symbol was called pi. Memories of Mrs. Benson’s math class came back to Eddie. He already knew pi was a Greek letter that stood for 3.14; still, he tried to read more about it. The letter represented a constant relationship between the circumference and diameter of a circle. But he didn’t see what that had to do with anything.
Just before dinner, Eddie’s father finally managed to set up the Internet connection. Thinking about what the tow truck driver had said, Eddie searched for a link between the names “Jeremy” and “Gatesweed.” Near the top of the page, he found what he was looking for: a headline for an archived article in a journal called The Black Hood Herald. The article described an investigation, which had occurred almost twenty years earlier, into the disappearance of a twelve-year-old boy from his bedroom one October night. His name had been Jeremy Quakerly.
This must be the boy Sam had been talking about, Eddie thought. His childhood friend had disappeared. How horrible … But what did this have to do with the supposed Olmstead Curse? The article didn’t mention anything about curses.
Next, Eddie searched for the words “Olmstead Curse.” He received several results, but one paragraph leapt clearly off the screen. It was from a Web site called Cassandra’s Calendar, posted several years ago.
Some citizens of Gatesweed are calling these incidents the unfortunate consequence of the aptly named “Olmstead Curse.” Local superstition says the author’s stories have wreaked havoc on the town itself. As strange as it may seem, many blame the missing author himself for the recent closing of the Black Ribbon Mill. Representatives for Mr. Olmstead pass off such comments as unsubstantiated hogwash. Outside of Gatesweed, such hogwash continues to work wonders for the author’s sales. …
Weird, thought Eddie. He read through several more search results. From the articles, Eddie gathered that, for some reason, people in Gatesweed believed Nathaniel Olmstead’s stories were dangerous. Eddie didn’t understand.
How could words be dangerous?
More important, Eddie still wasn’t sure if there was a connection between the supposed curse and the book his mother had found in the barn. Certainly, the biggest clue of the day had been the bookstore. Now at least Eddie knew where the book had come from. He wondered if the blond boy who smelled like bug spray would be at school tomorrow. It was possible that they might even be in the same classes. If he could get up the nerve, Eddie would have another chance to ask for his help. As he went downstairs for dinner, he decided that’s what he would do.
5
The first day of school, Eddie kept embarrassing himself.
During homeroom, Ms. Phelps made him introduce himself. As he’d already learned, new kids were rare to Gatesweed. Everyone already seemed to know each other. Eddie was so nervous and spoke so quietly, Ms. Phelps forced him to repeat everything he said. Twice! His face burned when his new classmates rolled their eyes at him.
In the cafeteria line, Eddie meant to ask the lunch lady for a tuna melt, but he stammered when he ordered and accidentally called it a tuba melt. Everyone behind him started laughing; one boy made farting noises.
Finally, after lunch, he bumped into a girl, knocking her book bag off her shoulder. He’d been thinking about the code and didn’t see her coming around the corner. “I’m so sorry!” said Eddie, helping pick up the bag. He half expected her to start complaining, but instead she barely looked at him.
“It’s fine. I can get it,” said the girl.
She wore a faded black T-shirt, worn-out black jeans, and boots that looked as if they’d been boiled. Her stringy hair hung down either side of her face, tucked behind her big ears. Her skin was pale, but her eyes were dark circles. She looked like a character he imagined would live in a Nathaniel Olmstead book. He realized he was staring, and he felt his face turning red. But before he could introduce himself, the girl blinked at him, fixed her bag, and walked briskly away.
“Nice one,” said someone from across the hallway.
When Eddie turned, he saw the blond boy from the bookstore standing near Eddie’s locker with his arms folded across his chest. He wore a navy blue polo shirt and dark jeans; he no longer smelled like bug spray. Eddie felt his stomach clench. Last night, he’d imagined that the boy would be here at school, but after yesterday, Eddie thought he would have to track him down to ask for his help. Now he felt unprepared.
“You might want to stay away from her,” said the boy.
“Who—who is she?” said Eddie as he put away the textbooks he’d been given that morning.
“Freaky Maggie Ringer. She lives up near the Olmstead estate.”
Eddie blushed. “Why do you think she’s a freak?”
“Look at her.”
“Because she dresses in black?”
“Well … yeah. And she doesn’t have any friends.”
Eddie knew what that felt like. “That doesn’t mean she’s a freak.”
“If you say so,” said the boy. He tugged at his belt loop anxiously. After a moment, he said, “I’m Harris. Harris May. From the bookstore yesterday?”
“Uh, yeah, I remember you,” said Eddie. “I’m Eddie.”
“Why didn’t you tell me you lived here?” said Harris. “In Gatesweed,” he added.
“I didn’t really have time,” said Eddie. “You sorta took off.”
Harris blushed. “Yeah. Sorry about that. I never saw you before. Everyone knows everyone else in this town, but sometimes weird people pass through. … I thought you were—”
“One of them?” said Eddie. “Gee, thanks.”
Harris laughed. “I didn’t mean it like that. It’s just … Wally was watching you.”
“Wally?” said Eddie.
“The one cop this town can afford to keep on its force,” said Harris. “He doesn’t like Olmstead hunters.” “Olmstead hunters?”
“Fans. They’re my mom’s biggest customers. Nobody else e
ver really comes to Gatesweed. When you mentioned the Olmstead Curse stuff …” He sighed. “Wally had stopped by in the morning, before you showed up. He spent, like, an hour interrogating me about the new graffiti in the park. He thinks I had something to do with it.”
“Did you?”
Harris smirked. “No,” he said simply. “It’s actually really annoying. Every few months something else appears. Wally usually blames me.”
“‘The Woman Is Watching’ … Does the graffiti have something to do with the Olmstead … Curse?” Since Harris just mentioned the word, Eddie figured it was okay to say it now too.
“That’s sort of hard to explain … and the bell’s about to ring,” Harris said, glancing down the hallway. “Which way are you walking?”
Eddie shrugged. “Not sure. Mr. Weir’s English class?”
Harris nodded. “This way. Come on.”
Eddie closed his locker and spun the combination. His heart raced, partly because he thought he might start finding answers to his Olmstead questions, but also because Harris actually seemed pretty nice. He didn’t want to screw things up by saying something stupid like “tuba melt” again.
Leading them down the hallway, Harris continued, “So you really don’t know anything about the stuff written in that book you showed me?”
“No,” said Eddie. “Other than the fact that it’s some sort of code I can’t figure out by myself. I showed it to the librarian in town yesterday. She started acting really weird.”
“What did she do?” said Harris, surprised.
“She said she couldn’t help me,” said Eddie.
“Did you show it to anybody else?”
“Only my parents. They’re the ones who gave it to me,” said Eddie. “Do you know anything about the code?”
Harris shook his head. “Not the code …” He paused for a few seconds, then quickly and quietly said, “You have to promise not to tell anyone I said anything. It’s really important, because I could get in a lot of trouble. … Some people in town don’t like that my mom still sells Olmstead books. They’d rather just forget Nathaniel Olmstead ever existed. Stupid. Sort of hard when his books are, like, everywhere. There’s been talk about shutting down the bookstore. Wally’s looking for any excuse.”
Eddie didn’t hesitate before answering, “I won’t say anything to anyone about anything.” The hallways were starting to empty. He noticed the room number he was looking for on the door to his right.
“You don’t have anything to do after school today, do you?” said Harris.
“Not yet.”
“Good.” Harris smiled. “I hope you rode here on that bike I saw you riding yesterday. You’re going to need it.”
6
After the last bell, Eddie called his mother and told her he was hanging out with a friend, then the two boys rode their bikes up into the Gatesweed Hills. Black Ribbon Road carved a twisted path through their dark valleys. They headed in the direction from which his family had come on moving day. Eddie wasn’t sure where Harris was taking him, but at this point it almost didn’t matter—he was having fun. In Heaver-hill, the roads had never zigzagged like this, and the kids had never asked him to come along.
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.
