Chapter 16
Chapter
Sixteen
Deep breath in.
Deep breath out.
I knew that smell. It was the scent of aged parchment. Crisp pages tucked between leather or cloth, bound by thread and glue. Even the ink had its own distinct aroma, something intangible that made words come alive and ideas manifest within your soul.
My fingers traced the cool wooden banister that led downstairs into the library’s basement. The natural lighting coming through the upstairs windows gradually faded behind me. The only thing ahead was the glow of fluorescent bulbs that hummed quietly.
Almost everyone was enjoying the festival activities, leaving the library with a skeleton crew. Not literally, of course. Although the state of this lower level could have doubled as a perfect crypt for the dearly departed.
I could almost hear Mrs. Sampson’s voice echoing in my head as I hit the bottom step.
“All you need to know about Falston’s history can be found right here in town. The archives section downstairs is not for those chasing fairytales and rainbows.”
Fairytales, my ass. If I wanted a book that lied to me, I’d pick up a copy of my dad’s self-help guidebook, Get Bit by the Glitterbug: Starting the S.P.A.R.K.L.E. Program.
It was eerily quiet here in the basement. There were all the faint sounds of an old building that somehow magnified when you found yourself alone in unfamiliar surroundings. A leaky pipe somewhere, thermostat kicking on, or just the beating of your own heart.
For as big as the library was, this section of the basement felt unusually small. Directly ahead was a drab wooden table with two chairs, and beyond it stood four freestanding shelving units and another two along the back wall.
The egress windows allowed minimal light, muted by a tinted film applied to the glass.
I’d expect some machinery down here, a microfiche reader or copier, but I found nothing of the sort. The most technologically advanced item down here was a dehumidifier running silently in the corner.
The walls were grossly over-decorated with various awards and ribbons, photographs, and a dusty wreath made of red flowers with black centers—poppies, if I had to guess.
Plants weren’t exactly my forte after I had an incident with failing to keep my Air Plant alive. It had made a better toy to bat around with my paws than a decoration.
Slowly, I wandered the small space, being sure to check out all that it had to offer. Just behind the stairs that I had taken down here, there was a dark oak door with an arched top. It looked like something that should have been in a castle rather than inside a library.
As I reached out to test the handle, someone cleared their throat behind me.
Spinning around, I saw Malcolm Dennison standing there. His green polo shirt was one size too small on him, and his khakis bore the mark of a dried coffee stain on the thigh.
“Shit, Malcolm. I didn’t hear you come down the stairs.” I placed a hand to my chest, feeling the swift thudding of my startled heart beneath the surface.
He smiled tightly, like a man who had enjoyed striking fear into people while pretending not to.
“Sincerest apologies. Forgive me?” he asked while reaching for my hand, capturing it before I could pull it away. Malcolm sandwiched my hand between both his. “I didn’t expect anyone to be down here with all the fun going on in town.”
I tried to flash a sincere smile instead of a grimace at all the sweat on his palms.
“It’s no problem. Really. I was just looking to do a little research on Falston, trying to get into the festival spirit.” Like any good lie, it bore a grain of truth to it.
A squeeze of my hand and a couple of pats later, he finally relinquished his hold on me. I resisted the urge to wipe my damp skin on the thigh of my jeans.
Malcolm’s crooked smile flashed once before he gestured at the minimal shelves down here. “Be my guest, but the best way to learn about Falston is to experience it. These books have been written by men with snakes in their hearts and too much time on their hands.”
I stood there awkwardly, giving him an acknowledging nod while purposely tucking my hands into my back pockets. “Understood. I appreciate that, uh… helpful insight. I still think I’m going to take a look around out of professional curiosity. Old books can tell you so much just by how they’re made.”
He laughed like I had cracked a joke, leaving me feeling even more unsettled.
“You’re an absolute riot, Harlow! You won’t find audiobooks down here.”
Tilting my head, I knitted my brows together in confusion. This man couldn’t be that dense. I hadn’t meant literal talking.
Still, I played along, half-heartedly chuckling until we were both standing here staring at each other, waiting for this painful interaction to end.
Was it wrong that I secretly hoped someone dropped a house on him? A small one would suffice, like one of those tiny houses that you see advertised by minimalists who made money selling jars of air that were graced by the wings of a butterfly.
“Say, would you like to have lunch with me?” he suddenly blurted out.
My eyes widened with surprise. I was so fucking bad at controlling my face sometimes. Quickly, I reeled it in as I feigned something resembling disappointment and polite apologeticness. Yes, apologeticness, an actual word.
“That’s really nice of you, but I already have plans.”
“With who?” he asked with mild contempt loaded into the two words.
None of your damn business, bozo.
I responded with a sense of nonchalance, “Corbin and Bale.”
Malcolm’s expression hardened enough that I thought he had turned to stone. A few tense and mildly terrifying seconds passed, and then it was like he unfroze and slipped back into a carefree version of himself.
“Of course!” He clapped his hands together. “Those two are quite the welcoming pair. However, I feel duty-bound to warn you about their intentions so your honor can be protected.”
He leaned forward, and I mirrored the movement.
“Oh?” I asked with intrigue in my tone.
He lowered his voice to a whisper, like the mute books might also not be deaf.
“They’ve always been a source of trouble around town.
Ask the Sheriff, she could tell you stories.
But don’t take only my word for it. You can read all about Corbin’s family and all the trouble they’ve been responsible for over the years. ”
I matched his whisper with one of my own. “And if I were interested in such history?”
“First bookshelf on the right, the Faust family.” He jerked his thumb over his shoulder towards the referenced shelf.
Genuine surprise filled my eyes.
Corbin is related to the Fausts? The founding family of Falston. The former owners of the land my parents purchased.
Why didn’t he say something?
Snapping out of my stupor, my next question tumbled out before I could think better of it, causing Malcolm to pause in his retreating steps towards the stairs.
“What about Bale?”
He turned, considering his response for longer than made me comfortable.
“The thing about Bale is, he’s always been an enigma. Bad attitude with an even worse reputation amongst the ladies.” Shrugging, he leaned against the handrail.
The bad attitude—confirmed. Terrible reputation with the ladies? Believable. But I couldn’t help but feel like everything else about him was a product of this place, of whatever transpired in his past that shaped him into what he was today.
“Thanks for the heads up, Malcolm.”
He gave me a two-fingered salute from his temple. “Anytime, sugarplum.”
I swallowed down the sensation to gag at the pet name as I watched him continue disappearing upstairs.
Even after he was gone, there was a heaviness in the air, the type that left goosebumps on your skin and hairs on your neck standing upright. And a sickly smell of fermented honey and rotted leather.
Powering through it, I was determined to do the research I had come down here for. I approached the shelf Malcolm had referenced, where I found several books related to the first settlers of Falston, with one in particular simply titled, “Faust.”
Stacking my arms with several books of interest, I carried them to the table and sat down, prepared to mentally soak in everything I could about the town and Corbin’s family.
The Faust family was interesting, albeit ordinary. Harold Faust and his wife, Gretchin, purchased the homestead as a place to raise their son, Christopher. Living with them was Mr. Faust’s elderly mother, Cora.
Nothing really stood out, until the moment I flipped the page and staring at me was a black and white photo with the iconic smirk I had gotten to know well. Corbin’s eyes burned through the page, almost lifelike, as I stared at a slightly younger-looking version of him.
He stood there leaning against a tractor, the very same one that was on display in the courtyard.
Beneath the photo was the caption reading:
Christopher and the tractor his parents, Harold and Gretchin, gifted to him in honor of his sixteenth birthday.
The date? Over a hundred years ago.
My mind struggled to wrap around what I was seeing. It should have been easier to reconcile knowing that he was a shapeshifter, but I hadn’t ever considered the possibility of him having such… longevity. Even crows had a limited lifespan.
Drawn to learn more, I flipped through each page, hanging onto every word printed on it.
There were a few other photographs of Corbin’s family, the main residence, and the full line of apple trees the Fausts were known for growing.
Also included were a few photos of the caretakers and their home, the one in which I currently resided.
Even with all this documented information on the founding family, there was nothing regarding Bale. Given how close he and Corbin were, I expected to find something, even if it was a one-line mention.
Minutes blurred into hours, and before I knew it, noon approached. I sighed quietly as I returned the last book to its rightful place on the shelf.
Just as I turned, I heard the distinct thud of a book hitting the ground. Spinning back, I didn’t immediately notice anything out of place.
However, venturing to the back wall, there in the walkway was a book that was completely out of place. Not even in a way that I could assume it had fallen from a shelf, unless it had grown a mind of its own and pitched itself into the middle of the aisle.
Yet, no one else was down here with me.
One wary step. Then another.
Bending over, I reached out for the book that was unremarkable in terms of looks. No title on the bland brown cover, and it only looked big enough to be comparable to something an elementary schooler might be reading.
“For fucks’ sake, Harlow, it’s not going to bite,” I chided myself under my breath before taking a steadying breath and ignoring the heavy beating of my heart.
In one quick motion, I scooped the book off the floor and held it between my hands, waiting for a moment like I expected something bad to happen.
Tracing my fingers down its spine, I examined the outside cover. Light wear along the corners, a tiny indent marred the cover on the back, but nothing provided clues about what secrets were bound inside.
Opening the book, the cream-colored pages greeted me with what may have been black ink at one point but had faded to something like charcoal and ash now.
First page: Halloway.
Second page: Bloodline deceased.
On the third page, there was a rough sketch of a family tree.
At the very bottom of it were the names of Alexander and Marie Halloway.
They had two children. A daughter, Jacqueline, and a son, Baylor.
From what I could conclude from the limited details in the pages, Jacqueline had married a man named Davis Polk.
Baylor remained unmarried according to this ancestral diagram.
However, it wasn’t any of those details that stood out to me. It was that all five members on that branch died… on the same day. Each of them hadn’t lived past November 4th, ninety-nine years ago.
Hurriedly turning the pages, looking for any explanation of what happened, left me disappointed and frustrated. No mention of why the Halloway family tree ended.
I slammed the book shut with enough force to have it clap out in protest of my unusually rough handling.
Why did this town have more questions than answers when it came to, well, anything?
Determined to figure it out, I tucked the book into my tote bag on the table. Mrs. Sampson wouldn’t miss it for the short amount of time I intended to borrow it.
Slinging the bag’s straps over my shoulder, I strode to the stairs. Climbing up, I paused midway. Something faint captured my attention, or maybe it was my feline instincts.
My hearing picked up an unexpected sound. Bells, maybe? Singing? I couldn’t make out the words. They sounded much like gibberish.
Silence.
Then giggling.
A female whisper seemed to come from somewhere I was unable to pinpoint, like no part of the room wanted to be responsible for carrying the voice.
“Three go in. Two come out. One year more, they burn without.
The moon is high, the crows shall chase. But never shall they have a face.
Debts in blood, debts in sin, another harvest year begins.
Pleased and proud, the powers be. Rise and reign, ever be.”
The sing-song tune haunted my eardrums, making my inner cat poof up at whatever danger might be lurking.
Hesitantly, I looked over my shoulder. Before I could register the presence of a woman standing on the step behind me, she snapped in my face.
“Death awaits!”
I fucking ran.