The Stone Child (2 page)

Through the windshield, Eddie watched the leaves in the forest flash white, their undersides whipped into a frenzy by the breeze. The trees parted and the house on the hill appeared again. It seemed to hold its breath, as if keeping a secret.

A few minutes later, a beat-up black tow truck rumbled into view behind the blue station wagon. A young guy, who looked to be in his late twenties, hopped out and sauntered up the road on the driver’s side. He was tall and skinny. His tight black leather jacket was open, revealing a Metallica concert T-shirt. When he leaned toward Dad’s open window, his scraggly black hair hung below his shoulders. Eddie could smell him from the backseat—a mixture of lingering cigarette smoke and vanilla air freshener. Eddie’s parents cringed. The driver raised an eyebrow and smiled. “So … what did you hit?”

They all waited on the side of the road as the driver loaded the station wagon onto the tow truck’s crane. Eddie’s father explained what happened. The driver, who had introduced himself as Sam, listened, curious, nodding as Eddie’s father told him how odd the police officer had been.

“Didn’t even offer you a ride back into town?” asked Sam, opening the truck’s passenger door for them. “That’s Gatesweed for ya. Where you people from? Not around here, I bet.”

Eddie thought the guy knew more than he was saying. He climbed into the truck and perched uncomfortably across his mother’s and father’s laps. Sam got behind the wheel. He turned the key, and the engine growled to life.

“We came down from Heaverhill,” said Eddie’s father. “Upstate New York. A few hours north.”

“We’re supposed to be moving in today,” said Eddie’s mother.

“Wait one wicked second. …” Sam turned his entire body to look at her. “You’re moving
into
Gatesweed?”

“Well, yeah,” said Mom, clutching her pocketbook to her chest. “Why?”

Sam sniffed and shook his head. “Nothing. It’s just that when it comes to this town, most people move
out
, not in. My parents left when I was still in high school. I live across the Rhodes River Bridge, east of here.”

“Parts of the town seem a little …
deserted
, sure,” said Mom, “but overall, it’s such a pretty place. Don’t you think?”

Sam pulled onto the road. “Yeah. Right. Pretty.” He turned on the radio. Heavy metal music rattled the broken speakers in the dashboard—the singer was screaming something about blood. “So it was Gatesweed’s
abundant beauty
that lured you?” he asked with a smirk.

Out the window, Eddie watched as they passed a crooked iron fence on the left side of the road. Dead vines were wrapped around the rusty spikes, as if the woods were trying to drag the fence down into the dirt.

“Actually,” said Dad, “that’s sort of exactly right. … We drove out a few months ago for an antiques fair just north of the Black Hood Mountains, and my wife fell in love with the area. I’m an antiques dealer. … We thought Gatesweed might
be a great spot for collecting new pieces. We started looking and almost immediately found a deal on a beautiful house with a big barn in the backyard. … Figured, what the heck? Perfect spot to store antiques. Perfect town for my wife to start writing again.”

“You’re a writer?” Sam asked Eddie’s mother.

“Sort of. I haven’t published anything yet,” she said. “Speaking of writers, why don’t you ask about that house, Edgar?” Eddie could tell she was trying to change the subject. He blushed, embarrassed that she was drawing attention to him. “My son wanted to know if the house back there belongs to that author … Nathaniel Olmstead?”

Sam was silent for almost five seconds. Finally, he answered. “Yeah, sure. It belongs to him …,” he said, before correcting himself, “or it
belonged
to him.”

“Did you know him?” asked Dad.

“Not really. I saw him around every now and then when I was a kid,” said Sam. “Quiet guy. If anyone knows what happened to him, they ain’t talking. A mystery. Like something out of one of his books.” Sam glanced at Eddie. “I read them all when I was your age. What are you, twelve?”

Eddie nodded.

“Yeah,” Sam continued, “me and my friends were obsessed. Every time a new book came out, we would go around town looking for the places that Nathaniel Olmstead wrote about. Freak each other out and stuff.”

“Wait,” said Eddie, sitting up straight, “he wrote about places
in
Gatesweed?”

“Hell, yeah. The Devil’s Tree on Mansion Street. The old church rectory. The wood mill bridge. The statue of Dexter August in the town green. They’re all right here. His inspiration, they say. Me and my friends would hang out in these places at night. The cops used to bust us up. Said we were disturbing the peace … having too much fun. But that was before my friend Jeremy …” He turned the wheel sharply as the road curved to the right. He didn’t finish his sentence.

“Before your friend Jeremy what?” asked Eddie.

The driver sucked his teeth. “You’re an Olmstead fan. You must’ve heard the stories.”

“What stories?” said Mom.

Sam chuckled, but he did not sound amused. “The Olmstead Curse …”
Olmstead Curse?

Eddie suspected that the words were supposed to scare him, but for some reason, he felt intrigued. He’d just learned that he was moving into the town where his favorite author had written all of his favorite books—and now this guy was talking about curses? A strange, nervous warmth was growing in his stomach. The way the weird old policeman had driven off and left them stranded suddenly seemed to make sense—the man was frightened to get out of his car. Was that because of this curse? Eddie wanted to tell Sam about the
animal his father had hit, that it had looked like a monster, but he had a feeling his parents didn’t want to hear any more about it.

Eddie shook his head.

“Oh, come on!” said Sam.

“No. I haven’t heard of it,” said Eddie.

“A curse?” said Eddie’s father. “You can’t be serious.”

Sam didn’t answer.

“What kind of curse is it?” Eddie’s mother tried.

“I think I’ve already done enough damage to Gatesweed’s reputation for one afternoon,” said Sam. “I do sort of depend on this town for business. Can’t go scaring you off, especially now that you live here. If you want to know more, you can look it up for yourself.”

“You can’t say something like that and then just leave it,” said Eddie’s mother, clutching her pocketbook even closer.

The truck came around a bend in the road. Several sharp-peaked roofs bit through the treetops ahead. Then, suddenly, the whole town appeared, cupped in the small circular valley beyond the lip of the hill.

“I’d offer to check under your bed tonight for ya,” said Sam, turning up the radio, “but I don’t want to intrude.” The music shrieked and the windows of the small cab trembled. “Don’t you just love this song?”

Sam took a right onto Heights Road. The truck rose up the steep hill, shuddering as it tried to shift gears. Eddie
couldn’t believe they were almost home. So much was happening so quickly.

Every house they passed might be the one where they would stop. Strange how so many of them looked empty. Their windows were dark, the glass broken. Most of the large front lawns were unkempt and overgrown, as if no one had touched them in years. As unbelievable as it seemed, maybe the driver had been right. Maybe everyone really
had
left Gatesweed.

Were curses real? Eddie wondered.

The long truck he had last seen in Heaverhill was parked in front of a quaint gray house at the top of the road. When the tow truck stopped, his father opened the door, and Eddie leapt from the cab onto the curb. He started to run up the driveway. He was nearly at the garage when he heard his father call, “Edgar!”

Eddie turned around and called back, “I need to find my books!”

“
Here
you are,” said Mom.

Eddie sat on the dusty floor of the barn, surrounded by piles of boxes. Ronald Plimpton’s story lingered in his mind’s eye like smoke. Even after seeing his mother standing in the doorway, it still took him a moment to realize where he was. The orange overhead light bounced off the rafters above. The pitched roof of the barn was hidden in shadow. Outside, it was starting to get dark.

“I was looking all over for you,” she said. “I’m gonna make dinner. Your father called. He’ll be back from the garage in a few minutes. They gave him a loaner so he can drive himself home. … What are you doing in here?”

Once the movers had finished unloading the truck late that afternoon, Eddie had torn into the boxes they’d stacked in the barn. After seeing Nathaniel Olmstead’s house on the hill and learning about the supposed curse from the tow truck driver, all Eddie had wanted to do was find his collection of
books. Of course he’d read them all before, but, for a reason he couldn’t quite name, Eddie needed to
have
them now. He wished he’d been more organized when he’d packed in Heaverhill. He’d forgotten to label some of his bedroom boxes. The movers had placed them in the barn with his father’s antiques.

Eddie showed his mother the first book he’d found, the one he’d been reading when she’d interrupted.
The Rumor of the Haunted Nunnery
.

She pursed her lips. “Have you started on your bedroom at all? It’s getting late.”

Eddie shook his head. He couldn’t concentrate on unpacking yet. This book had captured him again.

Mom had changed into a T-shirt and sweatpants to make the work of unpacking boxes more comfortable. It had been a long day. Leaning against the wooden door frame, she looked exhausted. “School starts the day after tomorrow, you know. You’re not gonna have much more time to get organized before homework sets in.” She suddenly looked closer at the book in his hands. “Hey, isn’t that by—”

“Nathaniel Olmstead,” said Eddie. “Ronald was about to run away from the monster lake-dogs.”

“The monster lake-dogs?” said Mom. “Sounds scary.”

“Once he makes it back to the mansion, he feeds them leftover chicken bones and escapes, so it all turns out okay,” said Eddie.

“I never realized that leftover chicken bones worked so well at getting rid of monster lake-dogs.”

“They’re easily distracted,” said Eddie, shrugging. “If you read the book, you’d know.”

“Maybe I
should
read those books,” said Mom. “I mean, if this town is cursed, I probably need to prepare myself.” She rolled her eyes. “Can you believe that guy from the garage?” she said. “I was nervous to leave your father alone with him. Creepy.”

Eddie laughed. “I thought he was sort of cool.”

“Cool?” said Mom. “If serial killers are cool, then sure, that guy was very cool. Come on, let’s go inside. You can help me find the pots and pans.”

“But I wanted to find my books. They’re all mixed up out here.”

Mom sighed, glancing around at the mess. She nudged an open box with the toe of her boot. “Here … what about this one?” She reached inside and pulled out a leather-bound book. She tossed it to Eddie. He was surprised when he actually caught it.

Eddie had never seen it before. It was unlike the well-worn paperbacks for which he’d been searching.

The cover of the book was sturdy. The leather was tight but slightly worn around the edges. From the side, Eddie could see that the book was not thick, maybe 150 slightly yellowed pages. The gold lettering stamped directly onto the
brown leather read
The Enigmatic Manuscript
. Despite its size, the book was heavy. When Eddie lifted the cover, it creaked, snapping at him as the old glue bent. Inside, Eddie found words scrawled in black ink in the center of the first page. When he read them, he gasped.
A story by Nathaniel Olmstead
.

Underneath the author’s name was a strange symbol.