But no one does. There’s nothing there.
The library is creepy. I hate the abandoned books, the blackened floorboards, the musty darkness. Plus, the weird thing is…every time I walk past it, the damn door isalwaysopen. I confronted Joe and asked him to stop opening the library door. And he said, “What are you talking about?”
He narrowed his eyes at me like I was losing it and he wanted nothing to do with my unraveling. He held up his hands and said, “I’ve never opened the damn door. Why would I?”
“Well, someone’s opening it,” I snapped. “And it isn’t me.”
I locked the library door before I went to work this morning. And there it is again.
Wide open.
I stand on the threshold, shining my little light into the darkness. Ipull my robe tighter and step inside. It stinks like stale air in here. This was Bill Campbell’s personal library. Bill the murderer. Is this where he sat and plotted his wife’s death? Did he come in here after work with a nice hot cup of tea and think,Tonight’s the night?
I shiver in the doorway and turn to leave.
Then I see it.
The book is lying facedown in the middle of the floor. It’s impossible not to see it. That’s how I know it wasn’t there this morning when I closed the door.
I step forward, shining the beam on the book. It’s very old, hardback. I squint to read the title.
Dante’s Inferno
Slowly, I bend down and pick it up. The pages are yellow and as brittle as butterfly wings. I leaf through them, not sure what I’m looking for.
Until I find it.
One sentence is underlined. I stand there in the middle of the cold library and read it over and over again.
I found myself within a forest dark,
For the straightforward pathway had been lost.
What the hell? I drop the book and half run out of the room, slamming the door shut.
I climb the stairs quickly, the passage roaring through my head. Did Bill Campbell underline that passage? Was he crazy by then? Am I? Because the funniest part is, I understand.
I understand exactly how he felt. I reach my room, shut the door, and sit heavily on my bed.
For the straightforward pathway had been lost.
Is Bill Campbell trying to tell me something? Is his ghost wandering around this bloody house?
No, of course not. But someone placed that book on the floor for me to find.
Who?
Chapter 8
May 14
SarahSlays.com
There are two graves in my backyard. Yes, in my bloody backyard. One grave belongs to a murder victim. The other, to her murderer.
Susan. Bill.
Sometimes I creep out onto my porch and stare at them. The headstones are moon silver and half-buried in moss and ivy.
