by Hillary Avis
“Do you think they’re going to do this every night?” she asked Pogo, grinning. He yawned, uninterested in the bedroom habits of the people in Remembrance. “They probably are. Good thing I picked the back bedroom, or these would keep me awake.”
She closed the glass door, her gaze lingering on a slim pink volume labeled First Real Kisses. Of course it was a small book—everyone had just one. It’d be easy to find her first kiss with Paul. Her fingers itched to open the case and take out the book, but she stopped herself.
She already had that memory. It was etched into her brain like the day it happened. The light streaming through the front windows, the flour swirling up through the sunbeams during the quiet moments before the bakery doors opened. She was only twenty, home from college for summer break, and her boss was the handsomest man she’d ever seen up close. She couldn’t help watching him when he rolled out the dough, the way his biceps bulged slightly around the edges of his T-shirt sleeves before his capable hands began to form the day’s croissants, deftly rolling and pinching the dough into shape.
He caught her staring at him and grinned. She bit back her own smile and studiously directed her attention back to the napkin dispensers she was supposed to be filling.
“Want to learn?” Paul had asked her, gesturing to the dough. She didn’t care about how to make croissants, not really. The bakery job was just for the summer so she could make a little spending money for the next semester. But she’d agreed so she could stand closer to him and pretended not to notice when his fingers brushed against hers as he corrected her work, even though every touch was like an electric shock.
But he must have noticed, too. When they were finished, the croissants proofing on the rack, he reached out and brushed her cheek.
“You have flour on your face,” he said awkwardly. “Listen, I know it’s strange, but—”
She shook her head, cutting him off. “Just kiss me and get it over with, already.”
And he did. That was the beginning of the end—or the end of the beginning—of their love story. Allison didn’t need a book to help her remember how it felt. She didn’t need proof that it had happened, even though she and Paul were the only ones who’d witnessed it and he didn’t remember it anymore. It was strange to think that she was the sole keeper of the memory, other than this library. She slid down to the floor of the closet and leaned against the wall.
“As long as I’m alive, our marriage exists,” she told Pogo. Pogo whined and put his chin down on his paws, settling into the carpet. “I just have to find a way for Paul to see it.”
She stared at the bookcase, drowsily watching as more books came to life in the wee hours of the morning, bumping on their shelves behind the glass doors. Who knew so many things happened at night in this sleepy little town—secret rendezvous and rowdy parties. Stolen kisses, stolen hearts. Stolen lives.
Allison’s blood chilled. Of course. Why hadn’t she thought of it before? The library might not hold Gertrude’s memories of the night she died, but they still held the murderer’s memories—whether that was Lilian or someone else. Somewhere in this library, the memory of Gertrude’s death was stored on the pages of a book. And like First Real Kisses, the book had to be a slim volume. There were only so many murders in Remembrance. If she could just find the book, she could see who killed Gertrude—and why—right there in plain black ink.
She pushed herself to her feet and looked around the bedroom uneasily. Lit only by the closet bulb, the stacks of books she’d pulled out from under the bed earlier cast long, eerie shadows across the floor.
“Do you see any murder books, Pogo?” she whispered, glancing over her shoulder as if she might catch the book slinking away in the night. “Where would someone shelve a book like that? Definitely somewhere out-of-the-way.”
She knew it wasn’t under the bed—she’d already gone through all those. But maybe in the back bedroom. Her bedroom. She shivered and headed down the hall, flipping on every light switch she could find. If she was going to look for creepy books, she was not about to do it in the pitch dark.
“Pogo!” she called. It couldn’t hurt to have a dog with her, either. Though a little guy like Pogo wasn’t going to fight off a killer, he’d at least sound the alarm if something ugly hopped out of a book. She wasn’t sure what the books could do, now that she’d seen the pulsing, torrid volumes in the front bedroom closet.
Pogo trotted after her to the back bedroom, settling on the foot of her bed to supervise. She lifted the quilt so she could see underneath the bed, careful not to disturb him, and started pulling out likely candidates. She left the biggest books under the bed—the ones about sharing a room with siblings or about cats sleeping under the covers or about making the bed. She knew a book of murders in Remembrance could only contain a few pages. It’d be a pamphlet at best—a very dark and creepy pamphlet.
She shivered and grabbed the thinnest volume she could see. Dreams About Flying. She put it to one side and read the next one. Grandmother’s Favorite Jewelry. She sighed.
“This is going to be a long night.”
Chapter 13
Sunday
Hours later, her fingers gray with dust and her back aching, Allison gave up and went downstairs to make breakfast. It was time to feed Pogo—she didn’t want the troops getting restless. She started the coffee pot and then, dismayed, realized that she was almost out of the dog food she’d brought from the apartment.
“I’ll have to hit the Dynomart later,” she said aloud. She needed to stock the fridge, anyway. She couldn’t live on Myra’s peanut butter forever. While Pogo crunched his kibble and the coffee perked, Allison blearily checked the books in the pantry. There were lots of recipe books, kitchen foibles, and even some fires, but no murders.
Could it be that murders were so rare that nobody had thought to make a book for them? Allison’s forehead creased. Who made the books, anyway? Myra had said the paper was milled from the Founders Tree, and that meant that someone had turned the paper into books. The books didn’t just pop out of the library like tadpoles out of a puddle. Well, those didn’t just pop out, either, but Allison was too tired to think of a better metaphor.
The point was someone had chosen titles for the books that would hold all the memories. Could they have simply forgotten about murder?
Allison shook her head. The murderer must remember their actions, so the memory had to be stored somewhere. If not in a murder book, then in another set of memories. Worst Mistakes, maybe. Biggest Regrets.
She poured herself a cup of coffee and decided to sit out on the front porch to enjoy the morning while she drank it. She settled on the bench and looked out over the garden, where the morning sunbeams were gently waking the bees and butterflies. The insects made their lazy rounds of the vegetable beds, and for the first time, it felt like home. Her home.
The feeling was bittersweet. She’d never really had a home without Paul or her parents, unless you counted her tiny college dorm room. She sipped her coffee and made space on her lap for Pogo. He jumped up on the bench and then curled on her knees, cementing the dual feeling of home—the home she’d lost, the one with Paul and the memories of Tiny, and the home she was building here.
“Of course, I’ll forget most of this in a few years,” she mused, stroking Pogo’s back. He gave a deep sigh. “Don’t worry, by then you won’t remember it, either. You’ll have a new home and a new life with your forever people.”
He looked up at her, his eyes reproachful.
“What?” she asked. “That’s how this fostering thing works. You stay with me temporarily—just until we find you the right family. That’s it. You know what they call it if I keep you? A foster fail.”
She grinned at him. She was going to miss the little guy. As much as she’d like to give him a permanent home, she had no idea what her life was going to look like in three years. Right now, she had a great lifestyle for owning a dog, but down the road, when she was working full-time, living alone in
a big city...well, she couldn’t commit to a dog.
Not to mention, it seemed more and more likely that she was going to be the suspect in a murder investigation. Unless she could find the memory of the murder and confirm that the killer was Lilian, she had to tell Officer Lee about the open window at some point. The longer she waited, the more suspicious she looked. And with her fingerprints on everything, she could even end up in jail if she didn’t find some alternate explanation of the crime. She had to find that book.
“Where would something seriously creepy be hidden around here?” she asked aloud, casting her eyes up at the cheerful, sky-blue porch ceiling.
“The basement.” The voice came from behind her. Allison jerked her head around to see who’d been spying on her, but no one was there. The voice came again from the branches of the oak tree. “Or maybe the attic. But I think basements are creepier.”
It was the kid from the yellow house next door, Taylor, up in the tree as usual. Allison chuckled under her breath. “I don’t think this house has a basement.”
“Sure it does.” Taylor poked his head out of the leaves and frowned at her. “I’ll show you.” He dropped down from the lowest branch of the tree into her front yard and marched along the fence. Pogo grumbled as she dislodged him from her lap and followed Taylor into the side yard.
He stopped in front of a pair of cellar doors and pointed up at his own house. “I can see them from my window,” he explained.
She nodded, surprised she hadn’t noticed them before. “Good eye. Thanks.”
He crossed his arms and stared up at her until she started to get uncomfortable. Finally, he asked, “What are you looking for?
“Answers,” she said evasively, giving him what was probably a patronizing wink to cover up the thread of panic that was cinched around her throat. She really needed to work on her cover stories if she was going to guard this library for the next three years. “Boring adult stuff.”
He squinted at her. “You said it was something creepy. That doesn’t sound boring.”
“Well, sometimes adults exaggerate. Do you know what ‘exaggerate’ means?”
He scoffed. “It means lies.” He turned away from her and jumped, using the rails of the fence to pull himself atop it. He looked down on her with a disgusted expression as he balanced on the top board like a tightrope walker.
“You’re right, in a way,” she said, but he’d already disappeared into the oak tree. She turned her attention back to the cellar doors. They were latched but not locked, so she cautiously creaked open the right one. Narrow cement stairs led into blackness, framed by wisps of cobwebs.
Allison shuddered. She tossed back the last few swallows of coffee and set her mug down in the grass. What were a few spiders when she was looking for a killer, after all? She flicked on her phone’s flashlight mode and held it out in front of her like a shield as she descended the stairs.
It was almost worse with the light on. Things scurried to escape the beam of light. She was only vaguely comforted by the mouse-ish size of them. A mouse-sized mouse was one thing, but a mouse-sized spider was quite another.
When she reached the bottom of the stairs, she panned her phone light around the basement. It was a humble, dirt-floor kind of space, musty, with rustic shelves lining the foundation walls. Some shelves were stacked with paint cans and old windows and rusty tins of pesticides marked “Poison.” Others held moldering Christmas decorations that must have been thirty years old.
“I have a feeling Myra didn’t come down here. It doesn’t look like anyone’s been down here in a generation!” At her words, Pogo yipped from the top of the stairs. She could see him silhouetted against the rectangle of bright morning light, prancing in place as he decided whether or not to brave the basement. “Stay there, buddy,” she cautioned him. “There’s too much to get into down here...I don’t want you to get hurt.”
He sat down obediently, and she gave the basement another once-over. She didn’t see any books on the shelves at all, which was a bit surprising given how every nook and cranny inside was crammed with volumes. Of course, a damp, dirt-floor basement wasn’t ideal book storage space, either.
She shrugged and turned to go back outside, but something on a lower shelf caught her eye. It was a cardboard box. Smallish, with printing on the side in black block letters. She shone her light on it to make out the words: SINISTER STORIES. A chill ran up her spine, and it wasn’t from the basement damp.
She looked over her shoulder reflexively but was discomfited by the thought of all the mouse-ish things staring at her, so she grabbed the box and ran up the stairs, toward Pogo and the bright sun. Whatever the sinister box contained, it would be more manageable in the light of day.
She dropped the box in the grass next to her coffee mug and, swiftly moving Pogo aside, closed and latched the cellar doors. Then she felt something on her arm and quickly brushed it away, only to feel something on her neck. Panicked, she brushed herself off from the top of her head down to her ankles until she was satisfied that it was only her skin crawling and nothing else.
Then, realizing she was doing the heebie-jeebie dance in the middle of a Sunday morning, she glanced around to make sure none of the neighbors had witnessed her freak-out.
“I told you it was creepy.” Taylor’s voice drifted down from the tree.
“You were right,” she said. She hoisted the box to her hip and, setting her mug on top, headed for the porch, where she planned to sort out the box before she brought it—and any resident mouse-sized critters—inside. But then, conscious of Taylor’s rustling in the big oak, she thought better of displaying the books where he could see and moved toward the front door.
But before she could go inside, Taylor poked his head out again. “Don’t read those. They’re not like regular books. I think that’s why they put them in the basement.”
Allison froze. “Who put them there?”
“How should I know?” Taylor’s voice was irritated. “Whoever.”
“Did you read these?” she asked carefully, but there was no answer from the tree. “You really shouldn’t go into other people’s houses without asking. Not even the basement.”
Taylor didn’t respond. Maybe he hadn’t heard her. Or maybe he had, and he just didn’t want to admit that he’d been trespassing. Allison pushed open the front door and, bumping the door closed with her hip, set the box carefully on the floor of the foyer.
It seemed likely that Taylor had read the books inside the box—books so sinister that they weren’t even stored inside the house. And if he’d read them, that meant he knew the darkest darkness that Remembrance had to offer, a darkness that even Allison was fearful to encounter.
Should she tell his parents? She tried to slow her breathing, her heart thudding. No, of course she couldn’t tell them everything—then she’d lose her guardianship of the library and all hope of finding Gertrude’s killer. She couldn’t reveal what he had read.
If he’d read it. Maybe he’d just peeked at the label on the box and decided the basement was creepy based on that alone. Surely, the dark basement and the spiders would creep any kid out, right?
No, he’d said they’re not like regular books. So he read the first page at least. He might not realize that the books were real memories of real people in town, but he knew they weren’t just books.
“How can I keep the library a secret if someone already knows the secret?” she asked Pogo. He turned his head this way and that, conscious that she was asking him a question and trying to puzzle out the answer.
Allison sighed. She wished, not for the first time, that she hadn’t followed Myra’s instructions to the letter. If she had just kept the pages she’d torn out of the Guardians book instead of burning them, she might be able to find answers to all her questions in Myra’s memories—questions like what she should do about a kid next door who might know the library’s secret.
Chapter 14
This called for another cup of coffee. She refil
led her mug and sat down on the floor of the foyer. She gingerly pried open the lid of the cardboard box and, keeping an eye out for creepy-crawlies, picked up the book on top.
Stalkers and Peeping Toms.
Ugh. At least it wasn’t a very large book. That was slightly comforting. The next one was titled Military Secrets. She quickly put that aside, too. The next one was Killing Animals, Volume One.
Her stomach churned. Allison wasn’t a vegetarian and she knew farmers and butchers and hunters killed animals for food all the time. Sometimes pets and wild animals were hit by cars. That was just a sad part of life. Still, she couldn’t help thinking that some of the killings recorded in the book might have been for fun. These were sinister stories, indeed, and she felt sick at the thought that Taylor might have delved into a book like this.
She had to stop dwelling on the titles and focus on what she was looking for, or she was never going to get through this box. She quickly passed over Drug Overdoses, Domestic Violence, and the second volume of animal killings.
“Don’t look at that,” she admonished Pogo, mostly to distract herself from thinking about all the terrible things that had happened right here in town. She opened the hall closet and grabbed a jacket and spread it over the growing pile of books so that she didn’t have to stare at the titles, then took a deep breath and dove back in.
The next book she picked up was light, so light that at first she thought it might not have any pages between the tan leather covers. Then the title caught her eye.
Homicides.
She held the book gingerly by the corners, hardly daring to take a breath. Fortifying herself with another slug of coffee, she opened to the table of contents, bracing herself for what she might find there.
Rather than a gruesome list of murder methods, as she had feared, the table of contents was a simple list of five names, arranged alphabetically by surname. “Winter, Gertrude” was last on the list, on page fifteen. She located the right page and began to read.
