by Ian Rogers
“Who’s Lorna?” he asked.
The redhead nodded toward the door. “The librarian,” she said. “She’s also your driver.”
“My driver?”
“She’ll take you home shortly. We’re almost done here.”
“We are?”
“Yes.”
“How does she know where I live?” he asked suddenly. “I don’t even know where I live? Or who I am! What the hell is going on here? Who are you people?”
The redhead continued to smile. “What did it say to you?” she asked again.
“Can you please not do that?” He was looking at her hand, the one resting on the cover of the book. “Can you . . . take your hand away? Please?”
“Oh, I’m sorry,” she said, sounding genuinely sorry, and took her hand off the book. “Now, can you tell me . . .?”
“It said I should kill you!” the man in the bathrobe cried out in horror and shame. “It said I should open you up . . . open you up so I could see your blood.”
“Did it now,” the redhead said in a musing tone. The expression on her face was not one of fear or anger or disgust, but of thoughtful amusement. She suddenly let out a loud, full-bodied laugh and gave her head a rueful little shake, the kind that says Oh well, boys will be boys.
“Don’t worry about it,” she said. “That book has said worse things to me. A lot worse. Sticks and stones.” She glanced over her shoulder at the row of bookcases. “They all have.”
The man followed her glance. “Are they all like that?” he asked incredulously.
The strange little smile reappeared on her face. “Oh yes,” she said. “Of course, some are worse than others.”
“God,” he muttered in a low voice.
“Gods, actually,” the redhead corrected him. She shook her head in good-natured reproof. “It never fails to amaze me the number of people who think there’s only one. It’s such a small-minded view.”
“Those things . . . they’re not books.”
“Nope,” she said. “You’ve heard the expression ‘Never judge a book by its cover’? Around here it’s sort of a warning. If I could, I’d put it in neon letters about five feet high right above those bookcases.”
“Then, what are they?”
“I could tell you,” she said conspiratorially, “but then I’d have to kill you.”
“Really?”
She spread her hands and grinned. “No,” she said. “It’s difficult to explain. It helps if you think of them as phone cards.”
“Phone cards?”
“Inter-dimensional phone cards,” she clarified.
“Reach out and summon someone,” the man in the bathrobe said in a dazed monotone.
“Yes!” The redhead laughed and clapped her hands together. She picked up the book, carried it back to the stacks, and reshelved it. Then she pulled the long glass cover down and locked it back in place. “You won’t have to look at one of them ever again. I can assure you of that. I just wanted you to understand the gravity of the situation.” She saw that he was about to speak and raised her hand. “Yes, yes, I realize you don’t know what’s going on, but some part of you understands. Doesn’t it?”
The man swallowed dryly. “I suppose I do at that,” he said. “Although I don’t see what good it is to understand something I don’t know about.”
“That’s all right,” the redhead assured him. “It’s not your business to know. From time to time you will be brought here to open the Restricted Collection. Once you’ve opened the door, you’re free to wait in the outer hall. There’s a coffee machine that’s quite respectable.” She saw the look of frustration on his face and added: “You’re not going to remember any of this anyway. Clean wipe, kitty-cat. I promise.”
“Are those books . . . are they safe here?”
“This is one of the largest university libraries in the world. They’re very safe here.”
“I don’t know if I’ll ever feel safe,” the man said, “knowing those things exist.”
“Sweetie, it’s better if you don’t think about it.”
A few minutes after midnight, a man in a flannel bathrobe walked out of the Robarts Library to a car parked on the street with its engine running. He hesitated a moment, then opened the passenger door and climbed in.
“Good evening, sir,” said the old woman behind the wheel. Her name was Lorna. Lorna the librarian, the man in the bathrobe thought for no particular reason. He tried to grasp the thread of this thought, but it slipped through his mental fingers like smoke.
“Good evening,” he replied, fastening his seatbelt.
“I must apologize for the lacklustre transportation. It’s not much to look at, but it will get you where you want to go.”
“Where do I want to go?” the man in the bathrobe asked automatically.
“Why, home, dear,” Lorna said, and pulled away from the curb.
“Home,” said the man in the bathrobe. He didn’t know where that was exactly, but for some reason that didn’t bother him. Knowing wasn’t nearly as important as understanding. Knowing was highly overrated, but understanding . . . understanding was key.
THE NANNY
Jodie made the turn onto Ash Street and started looking for 823. She had one hand on the wheel, the other holding the open file in her lap. She squinted , trying to read the numbers on the houses, some of which were only half-built, but it was too dark. She finally pulled over in front of a house with no lights on, and turned off the engine.
She was about to get out when there was a sudden rap on her window. Jodie let out a frightened squeak.
“Sorry,” Brian said, looking chagrined on the other side of the glass. “I thought you saw me.”
Jodie slung her purse over her shoulder, picked up the file, and stepped out of the car. “You scared the crap out of me,” she said, with a nervous giggle. “Which is not to say that I scare easily.”
“It’s my face, I know.” Brian rubbed his unshaven cheek. “I’ve been meaning to go out and buy a paper bag for my head.”
“I hope you don’t mind me saying, Brian, but you look like shit.”
“Thank you, dahling,” he said, wrinkling his nose with theatrical indignation. “And I thought flattery was a lost art.”
Jodie smiled, but it was true. Brian Torver, normally the most dapper and well-dressed of men, looked like something that had crawled out of the gutter. His eyes were bloodshot, his cheeks were stubble-dark, and the shirt he was wearing had a yellow, lived-in look.
“This is bad, isn’t it.”
“I wouldn’t have dragged you out here to the willywags if it wasn’t.”
“How bad is it?”
“Not good, kiddo. Not for me, not for Mags, not for business.”
“What business is that?” Jodie asked. She felt a slight stab of guilt for not keeping up with Brian and Maggie’s affairs. She got their e-mails, but only glanced at them briefly, and almost never replied. It was hard to focus on anything external when she was working, and her schedule for the past two years had been rigorous, moving from site to site after the completion of each case.
“Behold!” Brian spread his arms expansively. His voice sounded cheerier, almost jovial. “My legacy.”
“Ash Street?” Jodie said.
“Ash Street, Oak Street, Maple Lane, Spruce Crescent.” He ticked them off on his fingers. “We own the whole damn subdivision. Dumped everything we have into it. Silver Woods Estates.”
“Very nice.”
“People are moving up here in droves—and not just the seniors. We’ve got lots of young professionals, some with families. Nice, hardworking people who want to raise their kids away from the cities. Peterborough is getting too big for them. Ninety thousand people, according to the last census. Silver Falls has got a population of ten thousand. Those who want real country living are coming here.”
Jodie looked up at the dark house. “Is this the one?”
/> “Yeah.” Brian jovial tone turned sullen and troubled. “The thorn in my ass.”
“Has there been any outside exposure?”
“I’ve done a pretty good job of squashing any rumours,” Brian said judiciously. “It’s not easy, what with all the houses being sold. People are having to wait for new ones to be built, so yeah, I guess there’s probably some curiosity about why this one is empty. The numb fuck who used to live here—some computer geek who works in Markham—actually went to the local press, if you can believe that. Like shooting yourself in the foot.”
“Did they believe him?”
“It didn’t matter. Bob Hardy, the editor over at the Examiner, killed the story. He lives on Maple Lane and knows what a story like that would do to property values in the area. The geek should have known better. He won’t get a good price on his house if people think it’s haunted.”
“You never know. Some people might consider it a selling point.”
Brian’s face darkened. “Yeah, well I don’t. And I don’t plan on taking any chances.” He sighed and ran a hand through his thinning hair. “I’m sorry. I’m tired and stressed out. This isn’t just our investment. Mags and I live here, too. Right around the corner. I think that’s the only reason I’ve been able to keep this thing quiet for so long. Every time something happens, I’ve been able to quash it right away.”
“Things like what?”
“The usual. Broken windows. Vandalized cars. Mrs. Bettingham, the old bat who lives next door”—Brian gestured at the house on the left side of 823—“she called me one morning and said her picket fence was missing. I came over and the whole damn thing was gone. I replaced it out of my own pocket on the condition she didn’t talk to anyone about it.”
“Are people seeing anything? Hearing anything?”
“Not too much. Some bright lights I’ve been able to explain away as construction crews working late. Some loud booming sounds that they probably think is just thunder.”
Jodie nodded. “You have been lucky.”
“Yeah, and I think it’s running out.” Brian clenched his hands into fists. “Fucking kids. I could strangle them.”
“I don’t think so,” Jodie said absently, staring up at 823 Ash Street.
“You think you can do something?”
“Only one way to find out.”
Jodie started up the cobblestone path to the house. On the porch she opened her purse and took out a pair of oversized glasses with dark lenses. An electrical cord ran from one of the bows to a small power-pack that she clipped to her belt. She checked the boost and gain levels, pressed the power button and put on the glasses.
“Knock, knock,” she said in a low voice. “Here I come.”
It was dark—darker than it was outside, where the stars had provided at least some fledgling light. Inside the blackness was total. The glasses had an infrared setting, but Jodie chose not to use it. She preferred to let her eyes adjust naturally, which took longer because of the dark lenses.
“Hello?” she called out. “Is anyone home?”
She didn’t expect a reply, and none came. She stepped forward, holding the file in one hand, while she waved the other in the air before her like a blind person. She touched something hard and spherical. The newel post at the foot of the stairs. She looked up toward the second floor and caught a flash of luminescent green in her peripheral vision. She snapped her head to the left, but it was already gone.
“I’m not going to hurt you,” she said in a carrying voice, moving toward a doorway that led into either a living room or a dining room, depending on the layout of the house. “I just want to talk to you.”
She heard something that sounded like a sharp intake of breath. She looked up and saw a glowing green shape on the ceiling.
“Why don’t you come down from there?” she said, and the glowing shape immediately fell to the hardwood floor with a thump and went running out of the room.
Jodie followed slowly, taking her time. “It’s okay,” she said. “I just want to see you.”
She looked over her shoulder and saw another green shape—this one taller than the first—peeking around the corner of the main foyer. She turned back, pretending not to have noticed, and removed the glasses, unclipping the power-pack and putting everything in her purse. She didn’t need them anymore. She could feel herself moving into the proper range. It was like stepping into a warm bath, except instead of feeling it around her body, she felt it around her mind.
She moved into the kitchen. Her eyes were beginning to adjust to the dark and she could see a bit better now. She could make out the straight edges of the counter, the dull gleam of the chrome appliances. There was a faint antiseptic smell in the air.
Crossing the room she heard a series of thumps—the sound of someone racing up stairs. She went down the main hall to the foyer, just in time to catch a glimpse of two shapes zipping down the second-floor hallway. She grinned.
“I can see you,” Jodie said in a low singsong. “Here I come.”
She went up the stairs and stood at the foot of the hallway. There were four doors, but only one of them was open. She went over and stood on the threshold. A small boy, perhaps six year old, stood in the middle of the room. He was wearing pyjamas with dinosaurs on them. There was a dark stain on the front of his shirt, as if he had spilled something on it, although Jodie knew that was not the case.
“Well hello there,” she said pleasantly.
The boy stared at her with an expression of mingled curiosity and concern. “Are you dead?” he asked.
Jodie smiled. That was a new one.
“No,” she said. “I’m afraid not.”
A female voice called from the hallway behind her, giving her a small start, and a second later she felt something brush past her, leaving the entire left side of her body numb. She lost her concentration for a moment, and the boy seemed to swim out of view. She squinted her eyes, focusing, and he came back, along with a young girl. She was about a foot taller than the boy, but she had the same wide, dark eyes. Older sister.
She spared Jodie the briefest of looks, then turned to her brother. “What are you doing?” she snapped. “Misty is waiting for us.”
“This lady,” the boy said, pointing at Jodie. “She can see me.”
The girl turned her head and gave Jodie a slightly longer look. “No, she can’t.”
“Yes, I can,” Jodie said. “I see you quite clearly. You’re wearing a nightgown with a bear on the front. The bear is wearing a bonnet and a dress. She almost said The dress is red, then stopped herself. The dress wasn’t red. It was blood, from the stab wound that had killed the girl, identical to the boy’s.
“Who are you?” he asked.
“Shut up,” his sister said sharply. She made as if to hit him, then grabbed him by the arm instead. “You know what Misty said. Don’t talk to strangers.”
“That’s good advice,” Jodie told her. “So how about if I do all the talking? You don’t have to say anything, just listen.”
“Misty knows about you,” the girl said. She fixed Jodie with a stare that she felt like an icy hand gripping her heart. “She knows all about you.”
“Really?” Jodie said. “I don’t recall ever meeting her.”
“Who are you?” the boy asked again, and his sister gave his arm a hard shake.
“I’m the new sitter. My name is Jodie.”
“There is no new sitter!”
The force of the girl’s scream seemed to hurt Jodie’s mind more than her ears. She heard the distant sound of glass breaking and knew one of the windows in the house had just been blown out.
“Okay,” Jodie said slowly, placatingly. “I apologize. I didn’t know you still had a sitter.” She gripped the file in her hands. That’s why they won’t leave, she thought. The sitter won’t let them. “Why don’t you think of me as your nanny, then?”
“What’s the difference?” the boy asked. The
girl looked like she was about to take off again, but the boy’s question seemed to catch her interest, at least temporarily.
“Oh, not much really,” Jodie said. “A sitter is someone you call when your parents are in a pinch.”
Both kids looked at her as if she had started speaking Latin. They don’t remember their parents, she realized. Sweet Christ, it is bad.
“What does that mean?” the girl asked truculently.
“It means when they’re desperate,” Jodie said. “They hire a sitter to come take care of you. On a temporary, short-term basis. A nanny is a much closer acquaintance. Sometimes they even live in the house with the kids. She’s like a mother when the real one isn’t around.”
“You’re not my mother,” the girl declared, and Jodie had to repress an urge to say Are you sure? But that wouldn’t help her case. It wouldn’t help anyone, except maybe Misty.
“And you’re not living here,” the girl added, crossing her arms for emphasis.
“That’s okay. I have friends I can stay with.”
“What does a nanny do?” the boy asked.
“Oh, all kinds of things. She takes care of the kids, plays with them, reads them stories . . .”
“Misty tells us stories,” the girl said. “Good ones.”
“I’m sure she does,” Jodie said, hoping the contempt she felt didn’t seep into her voice. She opened her purse, put the file inside, and took out a book. The faded cover showed a little girl peering into a hole in the ground.
“This is one of my favourites,” Jodie said. “It’s called Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland. Have you heard it before?”
The boy shook his head. The girl stood impassively, arms still crossed.
“It’s about a little girl who travels to another world through a rabbit hole.”
“That’s stupid,” the girl said. “Rabbit holes don’t go anywhere.”
“Not all of them, that’s true. But this one does. There are many different ways to travel to other worlds.”
