Grace sat back down at the microfiche reader and kept turning the knob, working backwards through time.
I know I feel less scared with him in the house than I do here, in this library, where time seems to loop, and I have evidence to prove it. Where it feels like someone is watching me.
Grace suddenly jerked her neck around. She could have sworn she saw a translucent gray shape sliding from the room. As she rose, a book fell from one of the shelves.
With shaking legs, she stood up again, telling herself the shivers were just from the fact that the archival room was set to sixty-eight degrees and she was wearing a tank top and jeansthat were fifty percent hole. As her skin became a sheet of goosebumps, she picked up the cracked red leather album and tried to see where it had fallen from. As she did, she took a quick look inside.
Land deeds and property maps. Transfer of titles and records, all seeming to be the original documents. The inside of the book bore a small white card, now yellowed with age, that explained that these old records were now obsolete and that more accurate, current records were in the digital archives maintained by the Broome County Courthouse.
Grace flipped through a few pages, and then the pages flipped ahead on their own.
The vents must have kicked on, she thought, trying not to scream.
Hilltop. Reclaimed by Broome County in 1901 after the death of James and Cynthia Cameron.
“Holy shit,” Grace whispered, and looked around, eyes scanning for telltale gray mist, the fleeting edge of a shadowy arm.
There was none this time, but the more she read, the more she was convinced that this page was meant for her.
Now she finally knew Nyx’s name and, apparently, that of his young wife.
A small clipping on the back of the page explained that Cynthia Cameron had died in the woods of Hilltop, thrown from her horse into a ravine.
And that’s why Nyx—I mean James, has never left. I bet he died of a broken heart after she had her accident in the woods. That must be why the woods feel so strange, too.
Oh. Oh my God... What if Cynthia is stilloutthere in the woods, waiting for him, and he’s trapped in the house?
Fuck, did I just commit ghost adultery?
With a groan, she shut the book, shoved it back in the only gap on the shelves, and turned off the microfiche reader.
Maybe he doesn’t remember.
Does that make it better or worse?
“It makes it a hell of a lot more awkward,” Grace sighed, trotting down the staircase.
Louisa spun around at the reference desk as one of the other librarians or volunteers scooted away with an armful of books. The librarian smiled and looked up at her. “Did you have a productive day?” she asked.
“I sure did.”A creepy, productive, fascinating day. How can I love this place and be so freaked out by it at the same time?Grace rubbed her forehead.
“Headache?”
Long time squinting into the reader, but I couldn’t stop myself. History is addictive.”
“Isn’t it, though?”
“Yeah. I might come back some—” Grace froze as she caught sight of the man with the stack of books emerging from the other side of the office, a slender figure in blacks and creams, now pushing a cart full of children’s books. “Is that Mr. Minegold? Mr. Jakob Minegold?”
Louisa looked startled. “Oh, you know him? He volunteers here several afternoons and evenings each week. He’s a great one for the children’s story hour. I suddenly want to be back in preschool whenever he cracks open a storybook.”
“He... Does he have sons?”No, no,ishe a son? Was his dad also Jakob Minegold? That’s what I meant to ask.
“Uhh. Yes. Jesse Smith and Robbie—” Louisa’s face suddenly paled. “Well. Um. You could say they’re more like adopted family. Sorry, do you know the family?”
“I saw him in the paper. A lot. Several decades in a row,” Grace said, a stiff smile on her face, her eyes roving nervouslyaround the library, trying to track Mr. Minegold—and keep an eye on the exit.
“Oh. You saw that? You’re very observant.”
