Read Online Vintage: A Ghost Story by Steve Berman - Free Book Online Page B

from some fight with another bird or perhaps in indignation at finding the town dull—perched on the broken rim and cawed loudly as we walked by.
“Shouldn’t it be flying off?”
    “They get more brazen as we near Halloween,” Trace remarked.
I nodded. It made sense, after all.
Just when I grew sick of climbing steps, we reached the hilltop. Ahead of us, the house lurked, an ugly beast of architecture, the sort of place that looked stooped and old, with fallen arches and creaking floors. In other words, I fell in love with it.
“Used to be a mansion. That was like eighty years ago. Then the owner willed the place to the town as the library.”
“ That’s the town library?” I shook my head in amazement. “Why haven’t you ever taken me here before?”
“How many books have you read since you moved here?”
Touché. “Next to none.” Compared to her, I was an illiterate slob. Besides, I preferred paging through her castoffs.
A bronze placard had been bolted into the wall beside the huge wooden door that bore a wrought-iron knocker. Years of verdigris made it hard to discern all the letters. Trace pulled open the door with a grunt before I could read it.
“C’mon,” she said, holding the way open for me.
Inside, the atmosphere was vastly different from wondrous autumn: the air had a still heaviness to it, as if silence had weight. I took a few steps before the door swung shut, keeping the outside world distant. The library seemed to be holding its breath, quiet, not serene but rather in suspense.
Moving through the foyer, we came to an immense redwood desk blocking our path. The librarian seated at it looked frail. Glass-enclosed bookcases were set against the far wall. To the right, a staircase with a worn runner led up. On our left was an open doorway to a parlor filled with old furniture.
We were about to head up the steps when someone called out to Trace. A man in his late forties walked out of the parlor, holding a magazine. He lifted it slightly as if to wave at us.
Trace murmured to me, “Mr. Algode, evil Math teacher.” She mustered a smile and headed over to where he stood.
I leaned against the banister and admired some of the paintings along the stairwell. My back became chilled, as if someone had opened the door and let in a draft. The aniseed hadn’t helped me feel any better and I began sneezing.
The librarian shushed me, bringing a spindly finger to her puckered lips. I blinked away tears brought on by the sneezes. Her head shook, her tight curls the color of dull steel. Her wardrobe with its lace collar could have been purchased in Malvern’s shop but was so worn that it was almost threadbare. “Sorry,” I said in a quiet tone.
The librarian glared at me and rapped a long finger against a stack of dusty books. She lifted a pair of wire-framed glasses to her face and started reading and I sat down on the bottom step and waited for Trace. I struggled not to cough or sneeze again, my chest feeling constricted, my back aching with stress.
She came back a few moments later, though it seemed like hours, shaking her head. “Ugh, he felt the need to remind me about my algebra deficiency. Like I really care about x and y and z.”
“I think she hates me,” I said and nodded toward the librarian.
“Oh?” She glanced that way. “Who?”
I saw that the huge desk was empty. I couldn’t think of anything reasonable to explain the woman’s disappearance. Fear left me unable to do much else but reach up and squeeze Trace’s hand.
“Again.” My voice caught in my throat. “Another ghost.”
She squatted down before me. “What? Here?” I pulled her fingers to my cheek to warm my face. “What’s wrong with me?” I did not want to suddenly start bawling. But I was afraid. Everywhere I went I seemed surrounded by spirits. I remembered the one with the knife from last night. He had been bad; suppose the next one was worse?
“Come upstairs.”
With my eyes kept low to avoid glimpses of the