The Library looked like something out of the nineteenth century. There was a musty smell, as if the books had been there a very long time. The shelves were wooden, and the lights hanging from the ceiling were gas-burning flames.
“Did I go back in time?” I asked.
“Time has little meaning here,” Everett replied.
That wasn’t the answer I wanted. It only made the place feel eerier.
He walked behind a long, highly polished wooden counter that was probably the circulation desk. There were several stacks of old books on top. As Everett talked, he checked the title page of each book and divided them into piles.
“The collection is divided in two,” he explained. “No Dewey Decimal system here.”
He gestured to my right, where several aisles of books stretched deep into the darkness. There had to be multiple thousands of volumes, all with red, black, or brown leather bindings. None had the colorful paper jackets that you see on modern books. They looked as though they belonged in some stuffy old library where Charles Dickens hung out.
“Those volumes are all complete,” he explained. “Every one of ’em has an ending.”
“Don’t all books have endings?” I asked.
“Not all,” he said, and gestured to the aisles on my left. There were fewer books on that side, but there still had to be thousands.
“The stories contained in those volumes have yet to be completed.”
“You mean they’re, like, cliff-hangers?” I asked.
“Some,” he replied as he continued sorting his books. “But they weren’t intended as such. These stories were all meant to be finished, and someday they will be.”
“Why would you put unfinished books in a library?”
“Because the stories in ’em haven’t played out yet,” he explained as he gestured for me to follow him down one of the aisles of unfinished books.
I looked at the rows of books with renewed wonder.
“You mean they’re not made up?” I asked.
“Not a one. All these stories actually happened. Some are still happening.”
“But if there’s no ending, why did somebody write them?”
Everett looked back at me and winked.
“Because stories need to be finished,” he said, and walked on.
My brain was hurting.
“Your answers don’t make sense.”
“Aye, that’s the crux of it,” Everett said. “These stories don’t make sense. That’s exactly why they’re here.”
“Still not understanding,” I said, getting frustrated.
“Follow this, lad. There are forces at work in this world that we know little about. Situations come up all the time that defy the normal rules of science and nature. Strange things. Oddities. Unexplainable phenomena. The people whose stories are in these books have found themselves in situations like that. Sound like anybody you know?”
“Well…yeah. I’ve been dealing with some strange stuff lately.”
“Indeed you have.”
Everett walked to the end of an aisle where there was a wooden podium with a single book on it.
“When there’s a chance of finishing a story, the book gets put right here.” He put his hand on the book and said, “I know what’s been happening to you, Marcus. I know you were being haunted and how you got the Paradox key.”
“How?” I asked, stunned.
“Because I read the book, of course,” he said, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. He picked the book up, flipped to the last page, and read:
* * *
“NEVER, EVER COME UP here again, do you understand?” Lillian Swenor scolded.
“I won’t have to,” her son, Alec, replied. “I gave the key to Marcus. I think it’s where it belongs now.”
The two looked to Marcus O’Mara, who stood over them, trying to catch his breath. He lifted up the Paradox key and held it in his open hand.
“I don’t know what that key is,” Mrs. Swenor said, “or why it’s so important. But your father wanted Michael to give it to you, so it’s yours now.”
“Thank you,” Marcus said.
“Promise me one thing?” Mrs. Swenor asked.
“What’s that?”
“Be very, very careful.”
Michael Swenor had delivered the key as he promised his best friend he would. The Paradox key was finally where it belonged.
* * *
Everett looked up at Marcus and said, “Sound familiar?”
“How is that possible?” I exclaimed while sparks flew through my brain. “It happened just a couple of hours ago.”
“I told you, time has little meaning here.”
Everett glanced down at the open book and said, “This was Michael Swenor’s story. Now that it’s complete, this book can go to the other side of the Library and…”
His voice trailed off as his expression grew dark. He flipped over the last page of the book, then flipped it back again, as if searching for something.
“What’s the matter?” I asked.
“I don’t quite know,” he said, his eyebrows pinched with concern. “I’ve been following this story. I thought for sure it would end once you were given the Paradox key. But I’m not seeing the two most important words.”
“What words are those?” I asked.
“The end. That’s what we’re always working toward here. The end.” He snapped the book shut and added, “Oh well, so much for my powers of prediction. Seems as though Michael Swenor’s story isn’t quite done yet.”
He placed the book back on the podium.
“So what does that mean?” I asked.
“It means your days of being haunted aren’t done either,” he said. “Sorry.”
I backed away from the old man and banged into a shelf of books, knocking several onto the floor.
“No, I don’t want anything to do with this!” I shouted at him.
“I’m afraid you don’t have a choice, Marcus,” Everett said with a shrug. “There’s more to Michael’s story, that’s for certain. What we don’t know is how much more.”
“Yeah, we do,” I said. “I know exactly how it ends. Marcus O’Mara leaves the story, you get the key, and Michael Swenor gets to rest in peace, never to bother anybody ever again. Especially me. The end.”
I threw the key at him, and he caught it awkwardly.
“You can’t make up an ending,” Everett said. “This ain’t fiction. It has to play out for real.”
“Says you,” I shot back.
When I got to the door, I grabbed the knob but hesitated for one long second, fearing that when I opened the door, I’d be stepping into the nineteenth century and would get run over by a horse and buggy or something. I closed my eyes and pulled the door open to see…
…my bedroom.
“Yes!”
I jumped through and slammed the door behind me.
“Marcus!” Mom yelled from the other side. “Please open the door.”
I immediately pulled the same door open again to see…
…my mom standing there in the hallway. My hallway. The Library was gone.
I was totally confused. I must have been in that library for at least fifteen minutes, but there was my mom, standing at my door, peeved, as if we were still in the middle of the argument we were having when I first got home.
“We need to talk,” she said, obviously upset. “We can’t sweep this under the rug.”
Was it true? Did time have no meaning in that library? In “the Library”?
It took everything I had to pull my head together and focus on my mother.
“Uh, yeah. You’re right. Absolutely. Just not now, okay? I’m not, uh, I’m not feeling so hot.”
“Fine,” she said with a resigned sigh, and backed away. “But we can’t let this go.”
“We won’t,” I said, and closed the door.
I thought for a second, then yanked it open again to see…
…the hallway. I closed
the door again, then quickly reopened it to make sure. All was back to normal. I closed the door for the final time and backed into my room. I was shaking, probably from nerves or adrenaline or maybe just plain fear. What had happened? I wanted to tell myself that it was my imagination, or that I had been given some kind of hallucination-causing drug. As unlikely as either of those explanations was, they made more sense than a key that could open any door into a mysterious library full of unfinished paranormal stories.
I decided then and there that I’d never set foot in that place again. It didn’t matter that I was the star of some cosmically written, unfinished drama. Mine was one story that would never be finished.
Besides, I had no way of getting back there. I had thrown the key at Everett. Maybe that was the end of Michael Swenor’s story. Once I gave up the key, the tale was complete, and I could live happily ever after, ghost-free. Yeah, that sounded good.
I went to my bed and plopped down hard. All I wanted to do was sleep and maybe have a dream that made sense, like realizing I was at school wearing only underwear, or having to take a test I never studied for. I didn’t even bother putting on my pajamas. I just rolled over onto my side, ready to welcome the Sandman…
…and found myself staring square at the Paradox key.
It lay on my pillow, inches from my nose.
It was mine, whether I liked it or not.
And, whether I liked it or not, it looked as though my part in this story wasn’t done.
Lu and Theo stared at me with wide eyes and open mouths, as if I had just revealed to them that I was planning to grow a second head. Or maybe that would have been more believable than the story I had spun about a magical key, ghostly hauntings, and a library filled with unfinished stories.
“Well,” Lu finally said, “that’s something you don’t hear every day.”
“Can I see it?” Theo asked, his voice sounding raspy, as if he hadn’t swallowed the whole time I was talking.
We were huddled on the far side of the cafeteria during a packed lunchtime.
I had the key on the leather cord around my neck, under my shirt, letting it dangle like a big old pendant necklace. I pulled it out and held it up for them to examine.
“It’s pretty,” Lu said. “You should polish it.”
“I thought about that,” I replied. “But with my luck a genie would show up.”
“It’s old,” Theo said, shifting into analytical mode. “Well over a hundred years. They don’t make keys like this anymore.”
“And how would you know that?” Lu asked skeptically.
“Because I’m smart” was Theo’s simple, typical answer.
“What do you guys think?” I asked while tucking the key back under my shirt. “Easy answer is I’m crazy, but I don’t feel crazy. After that, I’ve got nothing.”
“All righty,” Theo said while squeezing his earlobe. “There could be a few explanations. We talked about stress. People can imagine all sorts of things while under duress.”
“That goes back to being crazy,” I said. “Next.”
“You mentioned hallucinogens. There are some powerful drugs that could cause you to see things, but why would anybody do that to you?”
“And I feel fine,” I said. “It’s not like I’m loopy or anything.”
“Then I suppose there’s the possibility that someone’s playing an elaborate prank,” Theo said. “But, given what you’ve told us, elaborate would be an understatement.”
“That leaves just one possibility,” Lu said.
“Please, tell me!” I exclaimed.
She scratched her neck nervously and said, “It could all be true.”
I jumped out of my chair, then sat back down again. Then stood up. The nervous energy was hard to control.
“Do you know what that means?” I said. “All the stuff we see in movies and read in books, all the ghost stories and magical stuff and weird, unexplainable craziness, would be possible. That changes…everything!”
“No, it doesn’t,” Lu argued. “All it means is sometimes things happen that we can’t explain.”
“Everything can be explained,” Theo said with authority.
“Okay, sure,” Lu shot back at him. “The explanation is, it can’t be explained. It’s like psychic people or people who have memories of past lives. There’s no scientific explanation for those things, but they’re real.”
“There are most definitely explanations,” Theo said stubbornly. “They’re hoaxes.”
“Could you just try to open your narrow mind for once?” Lu snapped. “Not everything can be calculated scientifically.”
“Yes, it can,” Theo replied with total conviction.
“Then how do you explain what’s happening to Marcus?” she asked, folding her arms.
Theo started to answer quickly but stopped himself.
“I can’t,” he admitted. “But I will. If there’s one thing I’m completely certain of, it’s that there is nothing supernatural going on here. There’s no such thing as ghosts. Or curses. Or magical libraries. That’s just not how the world works. When you’re all willing to discuss this logically, I’m available.”
He picked up his books and his lunch tray and stormed off.
“Why’s he so bent?” I asked. “He’s not the one hallucinating.”
“He doesn’t like it when his orderly world turns out to be not so orderly,” Lu said.
“I don’t like it much either.”
“Maybe you should tell your parents.”
“No,” I said quickly. “They’re the last people I want to tell.”
“Why?”
I didn’t answer right away. I’d never shared my feelings about my parents with anybody.
“What’s going on with you and your folks, Marcus?” Lu asked.
“They wish they hadn’t adopted me.”
“What? No! Why do you say that?”
“Because they wanted a certain kind of kid…and I’m not it. My mother even said so.”
“She did not.”
“Yeah, she kind of did. It’s not like it was a surprise. They spend a whole lot of time telling me about all the things I do wrong and how disappointed and frustrated they are. It gets old, you know?”
“All parents do that,” Lu said. “My mom hates that I play roller derby. She wants me to be a cheerleader. Can you see that? I don’t do pep.”
“This is different. They’re angry all the time, and the more we talk about it, the worse it gets. I’m not saying I’m perfect, but I know they wish they’d adopted somebody else. To be honest, sometimes I wish that too.”
“Don’t say that.”
“At least one good thing came from this key. I got to learn a little about my real parents.”
The bell rang, and kids immediately started flooding out of the cafeteria.
Lu and I didn’t move as kids hurried past.
“I don’t know about this library thing,” Lu said, “but the one thing I do know is that your real parents are the people you’re living with right now.”
I grabbed my books and stood up. “Here’s something I know. I’m never putting this key anywhere near a door again.”
Lu reached forward, stuck out her finger, and touched the key through my shirt.
“Don’t be so quick to say that,” she said. “There might be all sorts of things you could learn in a library like that.” She gave me a smile and said, “Just sayin’.”
—
That afternoon I served my third day of detention. Ms. Holden was the monitor again, and this time she didn’t leave me alone. That was fine by me. I welcomed the company. Or the protection. I tried to negotiate with her, saying how my day of being suspended should count against my detention, but she didn’t buy it. Though I did get a smile out of her for trying.
The detention period passed without any spooky business. It gave me hope that my part in Michael Swenor’s story was done after all. I didn’t live far from school, so every day I walked ho
me along the sidewalks of suburban Stony Brook. Since school had been out for an hour, all the buses and frantic moms in SUVs were long gone. The street in front of the building was deserted. It was so quiet I didn’t bother walking to the corner to cross. I looked both ways to make sure all was clear, and I was about to step off the curb when I looked to the far side—to see that the street wasn’t empty after all.
Standing on the sidewalk directly across the street from me was Michael Swenor.
No mistake. It was him. The pajamas and bathrobe were gone. He looked just as he did in the newspaper picture, wearing a dark firefighter’s uniform. He stood there alone, looking straight at me with an eerily blank expression.
My brain locked. I was staring at a ghost, and the ghost was staring back. What did he want?
The guy slowly raised his arm. I thought he was going to wave at me, but instead he held the palm of his hand toward me in a stop gesture, as if telling me not to move.
No problem. I didn’t want to go anywhere near him.
A second later, a large pink rubber ball bounced past me from behind and rolled into the street. My first impulse was to run after it, but I didn’t. I was still in shock.
A little girl ran past me from behind. She had long red hair that fell over her shoulders, and she wore a cute little-girl pink party dress. She bounded right into the street without a care, chasing after the ball.
“Hey, careful!” I shouted.
A car came screaming around the corner. It turned so quickly that its wheels squealed on the pavement. It straightened out and accelerated…headed right for the little girl.
Instinct took over. I ran into the street, scooped the girl up, and kept running. It wasn’t a very close call, but my heart was beating like crazy just the same. The car sped past, filled with high school guys hanging out the windows.
“Get out of the road, idiot!” one shouted as they flew past.
“Slow down!” I yelled after them.
They didn’t, and sped off.
“You gotta be careful,” I said to the girl as I put her down on the far sidewalk. “Where’s your mother?”
The girl looked up at me, and my knees buckled.
Her face wasn’t real. It was a plastic doll’s face, framed by long red hair. But it wasn’t just any doll’s face. It was the face of the old woman. Her wild eyes looked right at me as the doll’s hinged mouth moved to speak.
Curse of the Boggin (The Library Book 1) Page 7