The Ghost and the Dead Man's Library

Don’t you wish I could warm it, honey?

“I know what you’re doing, you know?”

What?

“You’re trying to make up for those comments about that nurse.”

I’m a sucker for angels of mercy. Maybe someday I’ll tell you that story—

“There’s the gate to the Chesley house,” I said, cutting Jack off. I slowed the Saturn but didn’t make the turn onto the driveway. There was no point.

“Brainert was right about the place being locked up. The gate’s closed—”

And padlocked.

I rolled to a halt on the shoulder of the road about a hundred yards past the gate. I parked parallel to the stone wall surrounding the manor then cut the engine and lights. Silence and darkness descended like an eerie blanket. When I opened the door, a damp chill cut through my flimsy jacket. I popped the trunk and found my big Maglite. It was just like the one my dad used to carry on the job, the one that could easily double for a nightstick. The flashlight was heavy, and the weight felt comforting.

Jack laughed.

“What’s so funny?”

That’s how I felt about my gat.

“Your what?”

My gun, baby. I carried a Browning .45, the same service weapon I’d used as an army officer. When I’d been a flatfoot before the war, I carried a .38. The .38 was lighter, easier to carry, but the Browning had real stopping power. Like you with your flashlight, the .45’s weight was a comfort.

I moved across damp, unkempt grass to the seven-foot stone wall. As I’d hoped, it was crumbling from age and neglect. Better still, it was covered by thick, twisted ivy. Between the roots and the crumbling joints, there were plenty of places for me to grip. I shoved the flashlight into my belt and began to climb.

Good play, baby. Not too many dames from my time would pull an Edmund Hillary—

“Who?”

Who? You don’t know the guy who climbed Everest?

“Don’t get testy. I just forgot. This isn’t Jeopardy!, you know.”

I disagree. You could very well be in jeopardy. You know that.

“No! Not jeopardy with a small j…Oh, forget it,” I said, continuing to climb. “Anyway, women in your day were hampered by high heels, garter belts, stockings, and skirts. I’m wearing slacks and flat shoes—though now I wish I had my sneakers. And by the way, Jack, lots of ‘dames’ make the trip up Everest now.”

I swung over the wall and clambered down the other side. I landed on the uneven ground and steadied myself. I had a few new scrapes and bruises, but nothing to fret about.

I’m impressed, baby.

“Thanks,” I said, proud as a peacock.

But I’m wondering why you went to all the trouble.

My proud expression dropped. I now saw what Jack meant. There was a hole in the shattered wall I could easily have walked through not twenty feet from the spot I’d climbed.

“Now I feel stupid.”

And the night is still young…

Across an overgrown lawn, the manor house loomed massively. In the distance, I heard the waves crashing against the rocky shore. Through the twisted trees I could see the dull gleam of light in the gothic-style portico. But I didn’t head toward the entranceway. This time I was going in through the back door, just as soon as I found one.

The rain that threatened during the drive up here now began to fall. I shivered as I followed a dark overgrown trail around the back of the estate.

“Talk to me, Jack,” I begged. “I’m getting scared.”

No, you’re not, honey. Just keep moving. Don’t lose your momentum and you won’t lose your nerve.

Using my flashlight, I found a stone path and followed it up to the walls of the bleak, decaying mansion. I found a ground-floor door a moment later. It was made of wood with six small windows. I jiggled the knob. No surprise, it was locked.

“Well, what now?” I asked.

Are you talking to me?

“Jack, I have to get in. Aren’t you going to show me how to pick the lock or something?”

No.

“You won’t help me get in?”

Picking a lock is an art. You can’t master it in a few minutes.

“So how do I get in?”

Break the window and turn the knob from the other side.

“Okay.” I raised the Maglite to smash the glass.

Not like that! Jack cried. With finesse. And real quiet like.

“How do you break a window quietly?”

I heard Jack sigh. Strip off that jacket, he commanded.

“What?”

You heard me. Take the coat off and wrap it around the end of the flashlight. Then gently tap the window until it breaks. There’ll be some noise, but not much.

“It’s kind of funny, isn’t it?”

What’s funny?

“I’m breaking into a spooky house with help from one.”

Real cute, baby. You’re a laugh riot. Now get to work.

I did as Jack instructed. The window broke on the third tap. The glass made what seemed like a lot of noise to me, but Jack thought I did fine. I reached through the broken window frame, fumbled for the knob. I turned it and the door opened.

“This is working!”

Don’t get cocky. This joint looks like there’s not even an echo inside, but if someone is home, you’re an intruder and if they’re armed they could drill you, all nice and legal like.

That revelation sobered me in a hurry. I swung the door open and entered silently, careful not to kick around any glass. I found myself in a dark and silent kitchen and realized Peter Chesley’s makeshift bedroom was just next door. I played the flashlight around until I found the exit. A minute later I was in a hallway that I recognized.

“The library is just ahead,” I said.

I felt an eerie case of deja vu as I entered Peter Chesley’s library. The space looked much the same as it had the night Peter died, only darker and scarier because the lights were out and the fireplace cold. The only sound I heard was the ticking of the Poe clock, hidden in the shadows.

“I know we’re looking for an oval portrait. I better get to it,” I whispered.

I moved cautiously through the gloomy library, using the flashlight’s powerful beam to penetrate the shadows. I brushed against a standing lamp, and it began to topple. I lunged to catch it with one hand before the lamp crashed to the floor. My body swept across a desktop in the process, scattering dozens of Peter Chesley’s meticulously kept logs. I steadied the lamp, then crouched to pick up the notebooks.

In the flashlight’s beam, I caught a small rectangle of cobalt blue. The unique color stopped me cold, and I settled the light on the small card. I bent down and snatched it up. It was a business card, one I recognized before I even read the inscription in gold embossed letters:

PROFESSOR NELSON SPINNER

DEPARTMENT OF ENGLISH