11

In school the next day, Eddie heard his classmates whispering to each other. He wondered how the rumor had spread so quickly that he’d held a flower under his tongue and spoken a strange language to a monster in the library. How many of his classmates had seen something similar in Gatesweed? Eddie tried to ignore the kids who looked at him funny. He had more important things to worry about than a few people who thought he was a freak.

As the clock ticked toward the final bell, Eddie felt his hands start to go numb. Part of him was excited to see Nathaniel Olmstead’s house from the inside, but another part of him was terrified. As the past few weeks had proven, Gatesweed was a weird place, and the possibilities for encountering danger were much greater than they’d been in Heaverhill. Having now seen a gremlin, the dogs, and the creepy Watching Woman graffiti, Eddie worried more than ever about Nathaniel Olmstead’s fate… and his own.

Eddie and Harris met at the bike rack after school. In his book bag, Eddie had brought a flashlight in case the house was dark, a hammer in case they needed protection from any strange creatures, and, of course, The Enigmatic Manuscript.

Before they unlocked their bikes, Harris reached into his bag and showed Eddie everything he’d brought too-a flashlight, a notebook, a pen-but when Harris revealed the final item that he’d tucked into his backpack that morning, Eddie couldn’t keep from laughing. In his hands, Harris sheepishly held a small bent piece of wood that had a smiling white kangaroo painted on it. “My mother got it as a gift from a customer,” he explained.

“That’s nice, Harris, but what are we going to do with a boomerang?” said Eddie.

“Hit something,” said Harris sharply. “It’s better than a stupid hammer. At least I can throw a boomerang.”

“Right. But let’s hope you don’t need to,” said Eddie.

Twenty minutes later, they’d made it to Nathaniel Olmstead’s estate. They laid their bikes near the road, climbed through the hole in the fence, and hiked up the long driveway. The sun sat low in the sky, painting the long cirrus clouds pink.

Once the boys reached the top of the hill, they walked around the corner to the back door of the house. It was nailed shut with a few horizontal planks of wood. “On the count of three,” said Harris, clasping the middle board in his hands.

Eddie glanced over his shoulder, making sure no one, or nothing, was watching, but the hillside was empty. The orchard trees bristled as the breeze plucked at their barren branches. Eddie imagined the statue standing alone in the woods. The thought of her made him nervous.

“One. Two. Three!” said Harris. The wood ripped clean away from the nails holding it in place. It left a two-foot gap between the top and bottom board. Inside the gap was the doorknob. Harris turned it and pushed. The door swung open with a soft squeak.

Without hesitation, he lifted a leg and carefully stepped over the bottom board. He gripped the door frame, ducked his head under the top board, and swiveled the rest of the way inside. Eddie followed, swinging his first leg through, then his head and body. When he lifted his other leg over the bottom board, a nail caught his pant cuff. He fell face-first into Nathaniel Olmstead’s kitchen with an oomph. It didn’t quite hurt, but it took him a moment to catch his breath. Behind him, Harris quietly shut the door.

“Careful there,” said Harris.

“I’m okay,” said Eddie as he stood up. Only then did Eddie realize he was actually inside Nathaniel Olmstead’s house. His heart was racing, for so many reasons. “Wow,” he whispered, and glanced at Harris, who looked as fascinated as Eddie felt. Even though the afternoon was sunny outside, inside the house was dark. Both boys reached into their bags, took out their flashlights, and flicked them on.

“Characters in Nathaniel Olmstead books are always checking under rugs and knocking on walls in case there are hollow spots,” said Harris, stepping forward into the gloom. “Keep your eyes open for stuff like that.”

Eddie made his eyes really wide and said, “I will.”

Harris chuckled nervously.

They wandered to the doorway of the crumbling dining room. Heavy curtains hung over all the windows, shutting out the light. Harris’s flashlight crisscrossed the floor and sent rainbows leaping toward the ceiling and walls. A small chandelier had crashed onto the circular table in the center of the room, scattering its crystals across a damp and molding rug.

In awe, the friends silently wandered through the dining room into the long room at the front of the house. The ceilings were so low that Eddie wondered if Nathaniel Olmstead ever bumped his head. They shone their flashlights everywhere, in case something was hiding in a dark corner. The light painted the shadows with circles of white.

The house was a mess. Strange old stuff had tumbled every which way, as if the place had been plundered by thieves. A sun-and-moon grandfather clock lay on its side next to the front window. Its smashed cogs and winches were rusting as time pulled itself away from this place. An entire bookshelf was filled with spindly black antique typewriters whose wiry black keys seemed to have been wrenched apart by violent hands. Eddie desperately wanted to take one home to show his father, but he kept his hands to himself. A dusty globe had fallen onto a stained velvet couch. Victorian statues of sad and dramatic women nestled behind jumbled stacks of books on the floor.

“Where the heck is the basement?” said Harris. “I don’t see a door anywhere.”

“Check the floor,” said Eddie. “That’s where Gertie found the hatch.”

They continued to search. The house was bigger than it looked from outside. Eddie wondered if Nathaniel Olmstead would have disapproved of them. Two kids… breaking into his house, running from monsters, searching for answers… No, thought Eddie, Nathaniel Olmstead would not have had a problem with this. He probably would have written this story.

In the corner of the living room, Eddie discovered a doorway that led to a crooked stairway upstairs. He knocked the bottom step with the heel of his sneaker to see if it was hollow like the one Ronald Plimpton found in The Rumor of the Haunted Nunnery. But the step seemed to be ordinary. He glanced at Harris, who nodded him forward. Eddie took each creaky step slowly, in case the wood had rotted. At the top of the stairs was a dark hallway. Anything might be hiding in the shadows. He stopped, afraid to move.

Harris scooted past him into the hallway. “Harris,” Eddie whispered, “wait!” But Harris turned into one of the bedrooms before Eddie could stop him.

“What’s wrong?” Harris said calmly from inside the room.

When Eddie followed hesitantly, he half expected to see the horrible face of the Wendigo hovering outside the window, watching through the dirty glass for trespassers such as themselves. But there was nothing except more furniture, shadows, and dust. He shook his head, convinced he’d officially read one scary story too many.

“This is so cool,” said Harris, rushing forward to the big bed. He bounced on it. Dust billowed up in clouds around him. “This must be where he slept.”

Reluctant, Eddie joined his friend, removing his bag and lying next to Harris for a few moments, staring at the ceiling, and listening to the creaking of the old house.

Something thumped downstairs. “What was that?” asked Eddie, sitting up and looking into the hallway. Harris sat up too. They listened for a moment.

Then Harris said, “It’s probably nothing… Right?”

Eddie hopped off the bed and clutched his bag, feeling the weight of his father’s hammer at the bottom. Suddenly, he felt foolish. What good would a hammer be against the gremlin they’d met last night… or against something worse?