Ahead, orange light lit the library from the sidewalk below. Long black shadows stretched from where the window ledges stuck out, making the building look like a storyteller holding a flashlight underneath his chin. Flipping down his kickstand, Eddie parked himself next to the large rhododendrons beside the wide front stairs.

As he waited for Harris, Eddie listened to the evening sounds. The wind rustled the leaves of the trees. Across the park, a car cruised by the darkened bookstore. Where was Harris? The library would be closing soon. Who knew how much longer he’d have before they turned off the lights? The more he thought about it, the more Eddie wanted to wait for daylight to make the journey into the Gatesweed Hills. What was the rush? Nathaniel Olmstead’s house wasn’t going anywhere, was it?

Wham!

Something banged nearby and Eddie nearly fell into the bushes. He tentatively glanced around and realized he was still alone on the sidewalk.

The noise had come from around the side of the building.

“Harris?” Eddie called. “Is that you?” Peering around the corner, he could see the library stretch all the way to the other end of the block. A small spotlight illuminated a narrow cement walkway that hugged the building. Beside the walkway, a small patch of grass extended to Market Street on the left. No one was there.

Wham!

This time when the noise came, like a gunshot, Eddie felt as if something inside himself had exploded. His breath caught in his throat. “H-hello?” he struggled to say, though at this point, he wasn’t sure he wanted an answer.

Creee…

A new sound called out-sustained and high-pitched like the wail of a child. Then-

Wham!

Pinpricks danced across Eddie’s skin. “Harris, if you’re fooling around…,” he called out. It felt good to make noise, as if the quiet itself was dangerous. Stepping around the corner of the building, he noticed a railing that jutted out from the library three-quarters of the way back. Beyond the railing, a stairwell led down to the library’s basement. A gust of wind whipped along the side of the building, rustling Eddie’s hair.

Suddenly, the high-pitched sound came again. That nerve-shattering bang followed a few seconds later.

Eddie jumped.

The sounds were coming from the stairwell. Creeping along the side of the library, he was finally able to catch a glimpse of the door at the bottom. It opened slightly, revealing a small gap of pitch darkness on the other side.

Creee, sang the rusty hinge. Then the door closed with a soft ffudd. The wind hadn’t slammed it as hard this time.

His mother’s voice ran through his head: I wish my imagination were half as wild as yours, Edgar. I’d be a bestselling novelist by now.

Eddie sighed and clutched at his hair. “So stupid!” he whispered to himself. “Someone must have accidentally left it open.” To prove to himself that he had no reason to be frightened, he followed the path to the top of the cement stairs, which lay perpendicular against the side of the building. Five steps down, a shadow cut across the stairs where the orange spotlight could not reach. The battered door hid in a dark archway at the bottom. When the wind caught it again, the door opened outward. Only then did the light catch the top of it, before it slammed shut.

Wham!

Even though he now knew what it was, the sound still made Eddie jump. He shook his head and was about to head back to the front steps when he saw something shift in the shadows at the base of the stairs. In the center of a small circular storm drain, dark weedy tendrils grew, flopping in the breeze. Weeds usually wouldn’t catch Eddie’s attention, but for a brief moment, he was sure he’d seen something else down there as well. Curious, he took a couple steps down. That’s when he was certain.

Amid the weedy tendrils grew a small purple flower.

Could it be…?

He felt his bones flood with an excited, electric feeling. Had he really found another of Nathaniel Olmstead’s inspirations? If so, might there be some sort of clue at the bottom of the stairs? He cautiously made his way down for a better view. The smell of mildew grew pungent. The bottom step was almost entirely covered in greenish-black slime. Balancing on the edge of the stair, Eddie bent down and examined the flower. About an inch in circumference, it consisted of seven deep-purple velvety petals. Six of the petals clung to a seventh, larger petal. The seventh petal hugged the pistil and stamen before lolling away from the bottom of the flower, its color growing black at its sharp, almost barblike tip.

Creee…

The wind opened the basement door slightly as Eddie reached out and touched the stem. It felt like any ordinary flower, but it didn’t look like any ordinary flower. Unless he was mistaken, Eddie didn’t know of any botany book in which Gremlin’s Tongue was actually listed. The only book in which Eddie had ever heard of the flower was Nathaniel Olmstead’s. This flower certainly fit the description.

“Eddie?” Harris’s voice sounded far away.

Looking up briefly, Eddie called, “I’m down here! I think I found something!” Suddenly, the wind whipped down the stairs. Inches away, the door slammed shut. Wham! Startled, Eddie slipped on the wet moss, and he tumbled face-first onto the ground next to the storm drain.

Moments later, he heard stifled laughter above him. When he looked up, Eddie saw Harris’s amused face peering at him over the railing. “Are you all right down there? What the heck are you doing?”

Eddie felt like he didn’t have time to be embarrassed. He scrambled to his feet. “You have to see this.”

“See what?” said Harris, walking around to the top of the stairs.

“Look,” Eddie said, pointing to the storm drain.

Harris came down a few steps. He squinted. “What am I supposed to be looking at?”

When Eddie looked at the drain again, the flower had disappeared. All that remained of the plant were the leaves poking through the slimy metal bars. “But it was just here…”

“What was just here?” Harris met Eddie at the bottom of the stairs.

“The flower,” said Eddie. “I saw it… It looked just like…”

“Like this?” said Harris, bending over. The purple flower lay crumpled near the wall, severed from the rest of the plant. When Eddie saw it, his stomach began to hurt. Harris picked up the flower and handed it to Eddie.

His heart thumping, Eddie held the flower’s stem between his thumb and forefinger. It seemed to squirm as the breeze rustled its petals. An awful scent oozed from it-like old food left in a sink of dirty dishes. “Oh no,” he whispered. He had a feeling that he’d just made a huge mistake. He squeezed his eyes shut. “I must have accidentally broken the stem when…”

“What’s the big deal?” said Harris. “It’s a flower. Let’s get out of here. We’ve got stuff to do.”

“Look closely,” said Eddie, holding the flower out for Harris to see.

“If I look any closer, it’s gonna poke me in the eye! What are you getting at?”

Frustrated, Eddie took a deep breath. “Doesn’t it look like a Gremlin’s Tongue?” he said.

Harris took the flower back again. He looked closely, then held it up to his nose and sniffed it. “Like the ones from Nathaniel Olmstead’s book?” He wrinkled his nose.

“Am I crazy for thinking that?” said Eddie, embarrassed. “Or is something really strange going on here?” The hinges began to screech again as the door slowly opened. A small dark gap appeared between the door and the frame. The awful smell grew stronger-rotting food mixed with the scent of musty old books.

Creee…

“Ugh! They need to fix this thing,” said Eddie, glaring at the door. He brought his foot back, then kicked the door as hard as he could. It swung, but before it could slam shut, it stopped with a dull thud. Something just inside the basement archway cried out in a loud, rough shriek. This new sound was not squeaking hinges.