Booke of the Hidden

by Jeri Westerson

  The book-shape under my sweater beckoned, but this time, I scooped it up, sweater, Booke, and all, and hurried to the windowless back room where no prying eyes were likely to watch me.

  So, Mr. Englishman back there obviously knew about a book walled up in this shop, but finders, keepers, buddy. I’d haggle over it at Sotheby’s. I whipped off the sweater and ran my hands over the warm leather cover and binding. “Okay, let’s see what’s in a Booke of the Hidden.” I lifted the cover and opened the Booke again. Tawny sheets of parchment crackled under my fingertips. It smelled musty, of old attics and forgotten memories. Eagerly, I turned the first few pages to discover its buried secrets and my easy fortune.

  But no matter what page I turned to in this gigantic, ancient tome, I couldn’t find a single word written in it…anywhere.

  Chapter Two

  Disappointment. And pique. Disappointment that the Booke seemed, well, less than complete, which probably meant it really wasn’t worth anything. And pique because that guy really got under my skin. It was bad enough that Jeff was harassing me with calls, but how dare this guy barge into my shop, make demands, and then drop the curse of doom on me? Did people do that nowadays? Maybe they did in Moody Bog, but I also had the feeling that he wasn’t from around here. And neither was I. And then I realized with a lonely pang that I really didn’t know any locals to confer with, to ask about this stuff: Who was that guy, and why was there this big blank Booke in my wall?

  I shook my head. No more feeling sorry for myself. Despite Jeff’s gloomy forecast I wasn’t about to succumb to mawkishness and doubt. I couldn’t afford to.

  And as far as Mr. Englishman, I didn’t trust that guy. He might try to break in and steal the Booke, since he seemed so bent on it. Call the sheriff? I didn’t want to become “that person” who always panics, bothering the police.

  Funny about the allergy to tea, though. I’d never heard of that one.

  I clutched the Booke to my chest and turned off the lights. Slipping through the door to the back stairs, I locked it behind me and trudged up the stairwell.

  I locked my bedroom door, too, and stuffed the Booke, still wrapped in my sweater, under the creaky old bed. I slept on and off, disturbed by odd dreams of running through the woods with a dark shadow pursuing me.

  Once the morning dawned crisp and bright through my bedroom window, I was on the Internet with a slight wine headache and a huge mug of coffee at my elbow. Every which way I Googled it, I couldn’t find anything having to do with this particular “Booke of the Hidden,” although there were certainly many variations.

  I was about to give up, when my random search turned up something that gave me pause.

  “Magical Books and Their Provenances,” said an encouraging page. I scrolled. And there, drawn in what looked like an old engraving, was my Booke, being held to the chest of a wild-eyed woman running from…I looked closer. A handsome man all in black. The date at the bottom of the drawing said 1720.

  I blinked.

  The strangely familiar picture was accompanied by only a small paragraph:

  The eighteenth-century Booke of the Hidden is said to have unusual properties in that the person who opens it is compelled to fill its pages, or dread consequences await. Tales of this particular book have turned up in New Hampshire, Massachusetts, and Maine. The last person who purportedly owned it was sentenced to be burned as a witch, but was said to have gone mad, escaped her captors, and threw herself from a cliff.

  “Oh, nice.” I scanned the rest of the site for more information, but that single paragraph in its unhelpful brevity seemed to be it. Again, I Googled “Booke of the Hidden, Maine,” but nothing else turned up. I returned to the last page and clicked on the photo of the engraving. It gave the name of a museum in the next town over. “No freakin’ way,” I muttered, my coffee long forgotten.

  I clicked on the museum page and looked it over. Hitting the “contact” button, I sent off a quick email, asking for more information.

  “Now I really am insane. And I’m talking to myself.” Shaking out the mental cobwebs, I took my now cold coffee and headed downstairs. I still had a lot to do, not the least of which was scouring the yellow pages for a bricklayer and a plasterer.

  After a long bout of unsuccessful phoning, I decided to take a break and head to the local market. I suspected I could ask around there and get a recommendation. I kept picturing some local yokel stalling their way through long, costly hours of fixing my wall.

  I threw on my L.L. Bean jacket and closed the shop door behind me. The cold air gave me a shock, even though I was expecting it. Not like a Southern California autumn, that was for sure. I took a moment to appreciate the confetti of fall colors along the hills behind my shop and the dusting of leaves dancing and crackling in swirls at my feet. I inhaled the fresh air full of promise and savory soups soon to be on the stove. My shop stood by itself on the corner of Lyndon Road and Main Street, and there was a wood just across the way. I’d seen foxes and deer come out of its shadows from my window and loved the idea of wilderness all around. About thirty yards away the first houses sprouted up. Even though it was still September, there were several porches with bright orange pumpkins sitting proudly on their steps or railings. It looked like a holiday card to me, and I smiled.

  I turned at Main Street and walked briskly down the leaf-littered sidewalk toward the one and only market in town. Their prices were a little higher than I had expected, but they did corner the market, as it were.

  Crossing the street—without a car in sight—I stepped onto the curb, and before I entered the market’s mudroom, I thought I caught something out of the corner of my eye. I turned my head sharply to capture it. There, among the trees, I thought I had seen a lone figure…with a billowing duster coat.

  I stared, frozen on the spot, but no one was there. It had, no doubt, been the dapple of the dense canopy of leaves, the dark shadows, the straight trunks of textured bark that fooled the eye. Had to be.

  And then I heard whimpering. Maybe a dog? I looked around. Didn’t see anything. Then I heard it again, coming from the woods and dense underbrush. It sounded so pathetic I backed off the porch and took a few steps toward the sound. Maybe it was some creature caught in an animal trap. I hated those things. Cruel and barbaric. I walked faster. “Hello?” I called out stupidly, as if the animal could answer. But then I heard the whimpering again, only louder. The sharp ends of twigs caught on my coat, dragging on it as I pushed my way through the waist-high foliage. It was darker here, dense with shadows. I thought I saw something moving just beyond the grille of slender tree trunks, something pale and crouched over.

  “Hey, pup. Hey, boy. It’s okay.”

  The whimpering stopped. A low growl sounded from the shadows.

  “It’s okay, boy. I’ll get you some help. Let me just…”

  I parted the branches of a particularly thorny brake. The growl was loud, turning to a keening howl the likes of which I had never heard. The sound pierced my bones with its unnatural tenor. The pale form in the shadow looked something like a white and boney greyhound, and it suddenly lifted its head. Bright red eyes flashed, and then, in a heartbeat, the creature charged. I screamed, fell back, and something whooshed over me, knocking me down the rest of the way. It all happened so fast I wasn’t certain what I saw. I squirmed onto my stomach, looking back toward wherever it had gone…

  Nothing.

  I scrambled to my feet, mouth wide open. “What…?” I panted, barely able to stand up. That was…weird. It was a weird thing. It had been pale and thin, with red eyes. I could have sworn it had a sort of human face, but it couldn’t have. Maybe it was a dog or a mangy coyote. But I’d never seen a white one before.

  I stood a moment longer before I decided I probably shouldn’t stay there. I rubbed my arms and ran for the market, casting open the mudroom door and feeling the warmth melt my chilled cheeks almost instantly. Someone was baking a pie, or maybe cinnamon buns. The air smelled deliciously buttery
and spicy.

  The shadows of my encounter were fading, but I still felt I had to warn the hefty middle-aged woman behind the register. I knew from previous trips to the market and from her nametag that she was Marge.

  “Th-there’s something out there!” I cried.

  She cocked her head at me. “What’s wrong, hon? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

  “I…I think it was a dog. It tried to attack me.”

  “Oh, you poor dear.” She rushed from behind the counter and grabbed me, feeling my arms and searching over my face and body. “Are you all right? Did it bite you?”

  “No. No, I’m fine as far as that goes. But it was…weird. Whitish. It seemed to have red eyes.”

  “Red eyes? I’ll let the sheriff know. Could have been a dog gone rabid.” She shook her head. “That’s a shame. But a lot of folks up in the hills let their dogs loose, and next thing you know they get bit by a raccoon or squirrel and then they get rabies. Doesn’t matter how many times you tell them.”

  “Yeah. I guess.”

  “Why don’t you sit down here and just calm yourself. Do you want some water? Coffee?”

  “No, thanks. I’ll be fine in a minute. It was just a surprise, that’s all.”

  “I’ll bet. Charged right for you, huh?”

  “Yes. But it didn’t touch me, except to knock me down. Wow. That was weird.”

  “Sometimes you see a lot of weird things in these woods. It’s the shadows. There are some places in the woods that never do get any sun.”

  The more I breathed, the sillier I felt. It was just a dog after all. Of course it was. I felt foolish with Marge hovering over me, a concerned look on her face.

  “Say, listen.” I straightened my coat and brushed off the leaves. “I’m, uh, having a sort of wall issue. Do you know of anyone in town who does plastering? And maybe some brickwork?”

  She shook her head and her short gray perm never moved an inch. “I knew that place was falling apart. I hope you got a good deal. Those people have been trying to unload it for years.”

  “Really?” Not news I wanted to hear.

  “Oh, yes, it was one thing after another with that place. First the chimneys, then the drains, then the roof.”

  My heart began to jolt. “And…were those things fixed?” Maybe I should have had a lawyer look at that title.

  “Every repair man in the village has been there one time or another.”

  Everything appeared to be working now. I’d even checked the fireplace flue ahead of time.

  “So how about a plasterer? I don’t want their union feeling left out.”

  She chuckled, looking more at ease the calmer I was. “Well, that would be Doc Boone.”

  “Plaster doctor?”

  She chuckled again. “No, folks around here have to do more than one thing to make a village work. He’s a retired doctor, but he also does plastering. As a hobby. Here, I’ll give you his number.” She jotted it down on a piece of blank receipt paper.

  “What else do you do around here, then?” I was only half-joking, but she answered me seriously.

  “I work at the beauty parlor. Come on in and we’ll dye your tips. How about something fun like purple or green?”

  “No thanks. I feel with a name like ‘Strange’ I’m already asking for it.”

  “Ay-yuh,” she said with a smile.

  “Well. Thanks. I think I’ll be okay now.”

  “You sure? Do you want to wait for the sheriff?”

  “No, I’m only down the street.” I turned away, though I really didn’t want to leave the warmth and safety of the market. But I slowed as I thought of my recent visitor. “By the way, have you seen a man around here dressed all in black with an English accent?”

  “Is he good-looking?” she asked eagerly.

  “Yeah, he is.”

  “Nope. Haven’t seen anyone like that. But if I do…I’m going after him myself!”

  She laughed and I joined her warily, trying to find it amusing.

  “It’s Kylie, isn’t it?”

  I extended my hand. “Kylie Strange. I suppose we should officially meet.”

  “And I’m Marge Todd, assistant manager here, as well as beautician extraordinaire.” She chuckled again. “Nice to meet you. Sorry about that encounter. That’s a terrible way to welcome you to town. I can assure you, it doesn’t happen every day.” I nodded, trying to reassure her that I held the town in no ill will. “I just wanted to mention that we’re having a Chamber of Commerce Get-Together on Tuesday, over at the church,” she went on. “You should come.”

  “Oh. I should! I should join the chamber.”

  “Well, that was a tough sell.” She smiled. “Come to the church—it’s at the center of town with the white steeple—around five. Get to know the movers and shakers.”

  “That sounds perfect, thanks.”

  “Don’t mention it. See you there.”

  I decided I needed that apple pecan loaf that smelled so good baking. It gave me an idea, about getting some scones and a few other things to sell in my shop. She gave me the name of Bob Hitchins, the market’s owner. With his card in my hand, I thanked her and told her I’d call.

  Flush with my purchases and feeling better about things, I walked back to my shop, only looking over my shoulder about a dozen times. Standing in the middle of the street, I turned around, glancing back to the trees where I thought I saw someone before.

  Off in the distance, I heard a howl.

  I double-timed it back to the shop unharmed, hurriedly unlocked the door, and slipped inside. I was struck again at how cozy the place looked, and my fears and doubts seemed to melt away. Forget Jeff. Forget weird animals. This was going to be a great place and I’d make a good go of it.

  I set the bag down and pulled the phone number out of my pocket. As I tucked the eggs into the fridge and the pecan loaf on the counter, the hole in the wall seemed to gape at me. I trudged up the stairs to my bedroom.

  When I called the number, someone answered with an, “Ay-yuh?”

  “I’m looking for a Doc Boone.”

  “That’d be me.”

  “Oh! Hi, I’m Kylie Strange. Marge down at the Moody Bog Market told me you do plaster work?”

  “Ay-yuh.”

  I told him about my wall problem and he said he’d be right over.

  I hung up, energized. I decided to put on a big kettle of water and make a generous pot of tea for my visitor.

  Almost ten minutes on the dot, a knock came at the door. I opened it to a gray-haired man who could have been the Maine twin of Kris Kringle from Miracle on 34th Street. He was nothing but smiles as he shuffled in, wearing overalls and carrying a toolbox like it was a doctor’s bag.

  “Miss Strange, I presume?”

  “And do I call you ‘Doc’?”

  “Why not? Everyone else does.” He looked around. “This is a mighty pretty place you’ve got here. Mighty pretty. Oh! Except for that.” He headed for the hole immediately. “What happened here?”

  I pushed my bangs off my forehead and sighed. “Well, there was this shelf and I tried to pull it out and half the wall came with it.”

  “These old buildings. Tricky, sometimes.” He leaned in and stuck his head in the gap. “And this brick wall. That broken, too?”

  “I sort of made that hole on purpose. Wondered why the bricks were there.”

  He pulled his head out and looked at me. “I know it’s your place and all, but you make it a habit of just bustin’ through walls ’cause you’re curious?”

  “Not usually, no.” It had seemed perfectly logical at the time, especially with a little wine in me.

  “Want me to brick this up, too?”

  “Could you? But…uh…how much do you think this will run?”

  “Well now.” He set down his toolbox and leaned against the counter. From his pocket he pulled out a small notebook. He licked the end of a pencil and began scratching on the pages. “Gotta supply replacement bricks. Won’t
be antiques like these, but they’ll work just fine. Mortar. Hour’s work. Then plaster, another hour. Paint?”

  “I can take care of that,” I said eagerly.

  “Right. Okay. Comes to this.” He showed me the number and I wilted with relief. I expected the village to gouge the newcomer, but that price was right neighborly.

  “That looks fine. Can you get started on it right away?”

  “Ay-yuh.”

  “Would you like some tea? I have a pot steeping.”

  “I’d be much obliged. Let me bring in my supplies from my car.” As he shuffled away, I felt a giddy sense of homecoming. He was right out of Central Casting; the kind, old country doctor, mending my wall like he’d mend a broken bone. My sense of unease at Mr. Doom from the other night and the rabid dog was dissipating.

  I busied myself with painting and cleaning up the place while Doc Boone shuffled to and from his Rambler, the bell dinging over the door and wind gusting each time he came and went. I listened to the soft slap of mortar and the tap, tap of his trowel on brick as he did the masonry while I hung the curtain rods over the windows, and then I listened to the scrape of plaster as he mixed it up in a tub on the newspaper-covered floor, and then as he smoothed that over the wire mesh he’d earlier hammered in place.

  I had refilled his tea mug several times, and he thanked me each time before turning quickly back to his work.

  My phone buzzed with a text, and when I saw it was from Jeff, I clicked the phone off and stuffed it back in my pocket. When would that guy take a hint? Time to change my number.

  I hadn’t realized how many hours had passed before Doc came up to me with his bill in hand.

  “Oh!” I glanced over to the wall that was darker in color, but smooth as silk and looked like nothing had ever happened to it. “Wow! Good work there.”