A fortune-telling teacher? Marty was probably right. She probably just heard I was visiting and guessed who I was. Nothing magical about that. Why would someone who could predict the future waste their time teaching? I’d be playing the lottery, myself.
The portion of the house dedicated to the Crooked Hills Post Office amounted to little more than a glass-topped display case full of stamp books, a leaning tower of cardboard boxes and unruly envelopes destined for who knows where, and a metal desk bell marked with a handwritten sign reading “ring for service.” Behind the counter, the Postmaster leaned back in his chair, his fingers interlocked above his round belly, his head tilted back, his eyes closed, and his mouth hanging open as he snored. A fat green fly circled around his head, occasionally lighting on his lips. The Postmaster stirred when the fly landed, not waking but smacking his lips like a Venus flytrap snapping at prey.
Marty held his hand over the ringer and looked at me, the sides of his mouth curling devilishly. If he slapped the bell, he’d likely scare the napping Postmaster so bad he’d out of his chair.
I shook my head and mouthed, “no.”
Marty pursed his lips as if to say “you’re no fun,” but he moved his hand away from the bell.
I let out a sigh of relief.
The rest of the house was filled with books, stacked along the hallway walls, covering the steps leading upstairs, and piled two or three books deep on the mismatched shelves. A wooden card catalog stood in the corner, but it was also covered in books and looked like it hadn’t been used in decades. I didn’t see any sign of a computer, and I wondered how anyone could find what they were searching for amidst all the clutter.
“This is the library?” I asked. “It looks more like the place where old books go to die.”
But Marty had already vanished, probably slipping through one of the side doors to search for Hardy Boys Mysteries in a junky chamber. I continued down the hall into the main room, looking for any sign of books on local legends and true ghost stories. I figured in a town as haunted as Crooked Hills, there had to be plenty of books on the subject.
A large wooden counter—again piled with books—dominated what must have once been the living room. The leaning towers of mismatched paperbacks and hardbacks stretched like curvy columns almost to the ceiling. I couldn’t see behind the counter, the books were stacked so tall and close together.
“May I help you?” said a man’s voice from the other side of the wall of books.
I stopped in my tracks and craned my neck to get a look at the speaker.
One of the tall piles of books slid across the countertop. It looked ready to teeter over and collapse. A man stood behind the counter. He wore a tweed vest (even though it was a little stuffy) and a dark blue bow tie. His face was sweaty and red, and a pair of thick eyeglasses perched upon the bridge of his nose. He was bald on top, but on the sides his hair was thick, curly, and wiry. He looked like a stereotypical librarian, with a little bit of whacky scientist thrown in for good measure.
He looked familiar, too, but I couldn’t quite place where I’d seen him before.
“May I help you?” he asked again. “Is there something you’re looking for?”
“Superstition and folktales?” I asked, certain the eccentric librarian would have no idea where to look.
He disappeared behind the books for a second and emerged from around the side of the counter.
“Local legends, is it?” He lead me to another room. “You’re a man after my own heart.”
He maneuvered through the maze of books, trailing a finger along the spines until he at last came to a stop. Like a magician whipping a cloth from a table without disturbing water glasses, he yanked a thick book from the center of the stack. I couldn’t believe we weren’t crushed beneath an avalanche of paper.
“This one might be to your liking.” He pushed the book into my hands. “I know it’s one of my favorites.”
The book was titled
Witches in the Hills,
by W. D. Goodwin—the same author who wrote the ghost story book Mom bought for me. Something in my head clicked. I looked at the beaming librarian, then at the book’s byline. I opened the cover to check out the back flap of the dust jacket. The picture of the author smiled back at me—bow tie, thick glasses, wiry hair, bald forehead and all.
“You’re W. D. Goodwin,” I said to the librarian.
“The one and only.” The librarian seemed a little taken aback, and the volume of his voice rose in excitement. He obviously didn’t expect anyone to really recognize him. He shook my hand as I introduced myself. His voice changed in pitch from one word to the next, high and squeaky one second, low and deep the next, stretching some syllables to painful lengths. Maybe he was trying to pull off some exotic accent, but it sounded a little silly. “So, young master Charles, you know my work? You’re a reader? Dare I say, a fan?”
“I have one of your books at home.
Ozarks Ghosts and Legends.”
“Oh, yes, one of my earlier works. That’s probably why you didn’t recognize me right away. I had a little more hair up top—” He patted his bare forehead. “—when I posed for the dust jacket photo.”
“And you work at the library?”
“Can you think of a better place to conduct research?” he asked, waving at all the books. “And the paycheck helps make ends meet between books.”
At least a dozen questions raced through my mind. I wanted to ask Mr. Goodwin about the ghostly dog, about the Bleeding Rock, and about Maddie Someday. But I didn’t want to seem like a gushing fanboy, so I kept the questions to myself... for now.
“Well,” Mr. Goodwin said, “I’ll let you peruse the book. I’ve got work of my own to continue. Working on a new masterpiece myself. If you need anything else, just give a yell.”
With that, the librarian turned and weaved through the canyon of books, returning to the privacy of his desk.
I didn’t see any tables or chairs nearby, so I plopped down on top of a short stack of books and started to read. Mr. Goodwin may not have been much of a librarian, but he could certainly tell a good story. The book drew me in, and I spent the next hour or so reading about spook lights and mysterious screams in the dead of night and undead things haunting deserted barns like mausoleums. I didn’t find anything about ghostly dogs, although I found an entry on “fetches and familiars” which froze my heart as solid as an ice cube in the middle of winter.
According to the book, witches summoned spirits in the form of animals—usually cats, bats, or rats, but sometimes birds or goats or even dogs—to do their bidding. Much smarter than the average beast, fetches performed all sorts of tasks—guarding lairs, searching for potion ingredients, even murder.
What if the dog isn’t a ghost at all? I thought. What if it’s a fetch working for a witch?
Maybe even Maddie Someday.
You could recognize a fetch by the brand on its body, a mark burned into its fur and skin branding it as the property of a witch. Once marked, a fetch served the witch until one—or both—died.
I closed the book. I needed to know a little more about fetches, and I figured Mr. Goodwin was the perfect person to ask. Tucking the book under my arm, I went to find the author.
Before I could find Mr. Goodwin, though, Marty jumped out from around a corner. He startled me so badly, I almost dropped the book. His face was flushed, his hair matted to his forehead.
“We’ve got trouble,” he said. “Come on.”
I put the book down and followed him.
“Hey,” I said. “What’s the idea?”
He shushed me. Standing at a window in the front room, he pointed across the street.
“Take a look.”
A black Firebird was parked next to the sidewalk, just in front of an ice cream and soda shop. Two guys sat on the hood of the car. One was Greg Crewes, his arms crossed menacingly, a smoking cigarette hanging from his lips. The other looked to be a couple of years younger, but also a little bigger and meaner. I guessed he was Greg’s brother, Hatch. He drummed his fingers on the hood in time with unheard music. Light glinted on the intersecting jigsaw pattern of the cracked rear windshield and smashed mirror.
“You think they know we’re here?” I asked.
“They look like they’re waiting for someone, don’t they?” Marty looked around. “Think there’s a back door to this place?”
Not a bad idea—
A customer stepped out of the ice cream parlor, and the Crewes boys jumped to their feet.
Of course, I recognized their prey.
Alex.
“Oh, brother,” I muttered.
ALEX WAS TOO BUSY CONCENTRATING on a double-scoop ice cream cone to notice the Crewes brothers closing in on him.
Greg Crewes stepped toward my little brother and barked something at him. Although I couldn’t hear him, I easily imagined what he was saying.
“Hey, kid! Come here!”
Alex snapped his head up and froze like a deer mesmerized by oncoming headlights. I’m surprised he didn’t drop his ice cream. He tilted his head back to look up at Greg and Hatch towering over him.
“We’ve got to get him out of there,” I said.
I hated the idea of facing the Crewes brothers—especially without Lisa’s trusty slingshot as backup. But I couldn’t just let my brother get pounded. If I stepped in now, took the bullies by surprise, maybe Alex wouldn’t get smeared across the pavement like road kill and I might get out of the scrape with nothing more than a few broken bones. I knew Marty was terrified of squaring off against even one of the Crewes boys, let alone both of them. To his credit, he barely hesitated before following me outside.
We nearly flew off the front steps, along the flower-lined path, and out the gate of the picket fence.
Hatch swatted Alex’s hand, and the cone fell to the ground, the frozen treat already melting on the hot summer sidewalk. The bullies laughed, Hatch’s bellow deep and rumbling while Greg’s sounded high-pitched and sniveling and evil.
“What’s the matter?” Hatch stepped on one of the ice cream scoops and ground the heel of his scuffed hiking boot against the pavement. Rocky Road oozed out from under his foot. “You gonna cry?”
Alex’s lower lip and chin quivered, but he held the waterworks at bay.
We ran across the street, coming up quick behind Greg and Hatch. I wanted to avoid being seen for as long as possible. As we drew closer, I kept waiting for some brilliant idea to pop into my head, some plan that might guarantee Alex’s rescue without blood being spilt.
I heard Greg ask my brother, “Where are your friends? I’ve got a bone to pick with all three of you.”
Alex stuttered, unable to form a sensible answer.
Of course I was scared, but I couldn’t let my brother get hurt.
“We’re right here.” I tried to make my voice sound deep and fearsome, but I probably sounded more like a chipmunk imitating a gorilla. “Leave him alone.”
The brothers whirled around. Greg curled his lip into a satisfied sneer, and Hatch smacked his fist into his palm like a thug straight out of a cheesy gangster movie. Up close, he looked even larger—a brick wall with a bad temper.
“You punks hiding from me?” Greg asked.
“Just leave him alone,” I said again.
Rage twisted Greg’s face into something monstrous. Hatch looked at his brother, then imitated his expression.
“Are you telling me what to do?” Greg growled. “I don’t take orders from you.”
“Y-yeah. You’re real tough—” I fought to keep my voice from shaking. “—especially when you’re picking on a little kid.”
The words didn’t sound quite right coming from me. It sounded like something Marty would say in any situation except a confrontation with the Crewes boys. Next to me, my cousin visibly trembled. He didn’t so much as bat an eye at tarantulas or ghosts or witches, but Greg and Hatch terrified him. I wondered what had happened between them to scare Marty so. For now, though, I mustered as much bravery as possible, hoping some of it might rub off on Marty—and Alex, for that matter. All I needed was for the both of them to flee in a blind panic, leaving me fending for myself against a pair of fighting-mad rednecks.
I’d never been in a real fight before, especially not with two older kids. I doubted the couple of months of Tae Kwan Do lessons I’d taken at the Y could protect me from the world of hurt awaiting me. Still, I dropped into my best martial arts stance.
While Greg faced us, Hatch moved to stand behind us.
They were trying to box us in.
“Somebody’s going to pay for what you did to my car.” Greg didn’t seem to notice my aggressive posture, but at least he didn’t make fun of it either. “But if you just tell me who it was throwing rocks, I’ll be nice and let the three of you go.”
“Nothing doing.”
I wanted to play it tough. I wanted to tell the brothers that, while everyone in Crooked Hills might be scared of them, I wasn’t from around the area. I was from a real city where a couple of backwoods bullies like them wouldn’t last ten seconds. I wanted to tell them that if they ever met a real bully, they’d probably wet their pants. But I felt like my knees might buckle at any second.
So all I said was, “Nothing doing.”
But that was enough to make Greg even more furious. He stepped closer. Instinctively, I backed away, bumping right into Marty.
My muscles tensed. How should I fight a couple of monsters like the Crewes boys? A punch to the nose? A kick to the shin? To the groin? I’d seen enough fights at school to know I’d have a better chance if I kept my distance. If they dog-piled on top of me, I was finished. In my mind, Greg’s footsteps sounded like something from a Godzilla movie. Throom! Throom! The monster approached! Citizens of Tokyo, run for cover!
Greg grabbed me by the shoulder, jerked me closer.
With his other hand, he took the smoldering cigarette from his lips. He breathed out, and smoke washed across my face.
“H-hey...” Marty stammered. “Don’t...”
Greg moved the cigarette closer to my face. I tried to pull away, but he held me tight.
Hatch snorted.
I felt the heat of the cigarette on my skin. I turned my head away. The glowing tip of the cigarette was mere centimeters from touching my face... or even my eye!