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She extends the book back to me.
“Um, sure,” I say, accepting it. Only… “Where do you think I should shelve it?”
Moira raises her eyebrows at me. “Where doyouthink it should go, Hope?”
Oh, great. It’s a test.
I bite down on my bottom lip, thinking it over. “It says it’s a ‘grimoire’ so that makes me think it belongs with our books on the occult. It’s definitely foreign, and since I can’t translate it, I’m not sure if it really belongs in the fiction section. Then again, it’s really old, obviously, so maybe out of print?”
My boss nods in approval.Phew. “Good choices, all of them. But let’s go with that first one, shall we?”
The occult. That’s what I figured. “Sure thing, Moira. I’ll do it right away.”
And if I can sneak my phone out of the drawers where the staff is supposed to keep them while on duty so I can check up on Whiskey Rose… well, the occult section is in the back of the library where few patrons rarely go, isn’t it?
I just hope the shadows don’t startle me again.
CHAPTER3
GRIMOIRE DU SOMBRA
HOPE
So, good news first.
After sneakily reading a few articles between the stacks, I’m pretty sure there’s a good chance that my concert won’t be canceled. Whiskey Rose’s reps put out a statement that she’s resting privately, will be reevaluated constantly, and is eager to rejoin her tour.
Even better news: it doesn’t look like there was another break-in last night, either.
For some strange reason, Westfield and the neighboring towns of Clark, Edison, and Iselin have all been plagued by home invasions and burglaries since the end of summer. It’s mid-October now, and there has even been a few in my part of town, including one in the cul de sac at the end of my street.
I live alone. I don’t have the extra cash for an alarm system or even a doorbell camera, though I try to be careful to lock my door behind me whenever I remember to. It doesn’t matter. I’ve been stalking the local news for weeks now, waiting for the cops to announce that they caught the guy or gal responsible so that I don’t have to keep fixating on it.
Unfortunately, there’s nothing yet, but at least the media coverage might be putting a little pressure on the culprit. It’s good to see that no one was burgled last night, and while I know I don’t really have anything that a thief would want, that doesn’t stop my brain from insisting that I’ll eventually be a target.
It’s just how I’m wired, I guess. Anxiety is a bitch, and when you add that to my other neurodivergent tendencies, it’s a miracle I can make it on my own as it is. Considering I almost burned my house down last winter because I left the gas burner on overnight, even I question myself.
I’m stubborn enough to keep at it, though.
My dad always tells me that I can move back in with him and my stepmom if I want to, and Johanna would turn her husband’s office into a guest room for me if I decided to stay with her family, but I like my house. It’s something that’s mine which is probably why I’m so worried about someone breaking into it.
And, of course, there’s that strange suspicion I can’t shake that it’s suddenlyhauntedor something…
My home isn’t very big. A narrow two-story house nestled between a row of similar structures, I have a small backyard, a tiny porch, and pale pink shutters I painted myself so that it stands out from the more natural colors that my neighbors have. There’s an oak tree standing proudly between my land and the Wilkins next door, with a mess of orange leaves and scattered acorns everywhere now that it’s fall.
I have a whole pumpkin sitting on the far end of my porch, using my summer chair as a perch. If it’s still firm by Halloween, I’ll carve it; if the unseasonable warmth followed by the rain we just can’t seem to shake makes it mushy, I’ll chuck it and get another one from the nearby Stop and Shop. We have countless squirrels in our neighborhood, and I’ve caught one or two eyeing my pumpkin, but it’s still untouched, the only decoration I’ve gotten around to setting out for the impending season.
Speaking of squirrels…
Because my house is within walking distance to the library, I get my steps in when the weather’s nice; it saves me gas money, too, leaving my car parked along the street while I stroll to and from the library. It’s brisk out today, cooler than it has been, and I’m eager to get back inside where I can warm up since I totally blanked on grabbing a jacket this morning.
Pulling my house keys out of my purse, I’m jogging up the three stairs that lead to my porch when my sneaker falls on a pile of acorns gathered in front of my door. I didn’t see them there, and I’m freaking lucky I don’t slip and fall backward down the steps, but—youch—does that hurt when my instep gets pummeled by the rock-like nuts.
The Westfield squirrels have been working overtime. This isn’t the first time I’ve found acorns strewn across my porch. At first, I wondered if the wind had a way of knocking the acorns loose before they landed on my property, but I’ve given up trying to figure it out. Squirrels gathering the acorns and abandoning them in front of my door is as good an explanation as any, especially since—no matter how often I get rid of them—there’s always more.
Today, I’m not pressed to go inside, grab my broom from my coat closet, and come back to sweep the acorns onto the leaves I keep meaning to rake. And maybe I’m still peeved at the bruise I’m probably going to get along my instep, but I take my annoyance out on the nuts by toeing them off the porch with the tip of my shoe.
There. At least, later, when I leave my house again, I won’t have to worry about tripping over these acorns.
