1
Package for you, Zoe." Bill Reed, my coworker at the Wessex Public Library, dropped a thick padded envelope, clearly holding a book, onto my desk. I glanced up at him. I was the reference librarian. He was acquisitions. Generally, book purchases went right to him.
Bill shrugged at the confusion on my face. "I know, but it's addressed to you and stamped Personal."
I glanced at the brown envelope. Sure enough, there was the stamp in an imperative shade of red right above the handwritten name Zoanne Ziakas-my name-and the library's address. Weirdly, there was no postmark or stamps or anything to indicate it had been delivered the usual way through the post office.
"Be careful opening it." Bill's eyes narrowed behind his wire-framed glasses. "It could be-"
He paused. Clearly his imagination had run out or he was hesitant to say bomb or poison or whatever nefarious thing could possibly be stuffed into a nine-by-twelve-inch padded envelope. Bill had the pasty complexion of a man who'd spent his adult life under fluorescent lighting. He was in his fifties, happily married to his wife, Meredith, of thirty years. They had two kids in college and spent most of their time dreaming about retirement. There wasn't much that disturbed Bill, so I was surprised by his unusual caution.
"Could be what?" I prodded.
"I don't know." He ran a hand over his thinning hair in a self-soothing gesture. "I just have a bad feeling about it."
"It's probably a catalog from a publisher or a library supply company that got misdirected to me," I said. Although, when I studied the loopy script of my name written in felt-tip pen, I felt the hair on the back of my neck prickle, and a flutter of alarm tickled my insides. I knew this handwriting. It was my mother's.
No, it couldn't be. My mother had passed away a month ago. There was no way she could have addressed this envelope from beyond the grave. It was just an unfortunate coincidence. Shaking off the unsettling feeling, I grabbed my scissors and sliced the envelope open. It didn't explode. No plume of poisonous smoke was emitted. Instead, out fell a thick black book encircled with a half-inch metal band that was engraved with a series of interlocking lines similar to a Celtic knot. The band latched into a decorative hexagon on the front cover. Fancy.
"Well, that underwhelms," Bill said. He appeared visibly relieved. "Looks like a journal of some sort. You were right. It's probably a promo item from a publisher."
I set the book down and glanced into the envelope. There was no note explaining what the book was, no flyer, nothing. I put the envelope aside and picked up the book. I pressed on the hexagon, thinking that might open the band. It didn't work. I tried turning the hexagon. It didn't budge.
"It's a pretty pricey item for a promo," I said. "Especially since I can't open it."
"Do you want me to try?" he offered.
"Go for it." I handed him the book.
Bill did the same pressing and twisting that I had. He tried to tug on the band but it was secured too tightly to give him any leverage. He handed it back and I returned it to its envelope for safekeeping.
"What we have here is a very decorative paperweight," he concluded.
I laughed. I opened my desk's bottom drawer and dropped the book inside. "I'll look at it later."
Bill headed back to his office, and I returned to my weekly report, forgetting all about the strange black book.
October was my favorite month, when the sticky humidity of summer departed and jeans-and-sweater weather returned. As I walked the half mile from the library to my cottage, I reveled in the chilly temperatures, the scent of wood fires on the air, and the satisfying crunch of leaves under my feet.
The village of Wessex, where I lived and worked, was nestled between the Appalachian Trail and the Housatonic River, in the northwestern corner of Connecticut. It was a small community known for the private boarding school that resided on the west side of the river. I had attended that school before leaving to go to university in New Haven and then doubling back here to the only place that had ever felt like home.
As soon as I stepped inside my cottage, I slipped into my pajamas while I microwaved a big bowl of mac and cheese. I flicked on the television and scrolled through the streaming channels until I found a mystery series I had yet to watch. I preferred the British ones because I loved that the actors and actresses in them looked like real people, as opposed to American television shows, where everyone looks like a supermodel pretending to be a real person.
I was halfway through my bowl of cheesy goodness and a third of the way through the first episode when I heard a thump on my front porch. I paused the show and stopped chewing, listening intently. Living in Wessex, where everyone knew everyone, I wasn't as worried about crime as I was about a neighbor dropping by to chat. It wasn't that bad things didn't happen here-of course they did-it was just that it was very rare, and usually the person who did the crime was known for having a dented moral compass, so it wasn't a big surprise.
Thump!
The noise sounded again, only more forcefully. Putting my bowl down on the coffee table, I shoved my chenille throw aside and crossed the room to the front door, switching on the outside light. I peered out the side window that looked onto the porch before opening the door. If it was a rabid raccoon looking for food, I didn't want to get into it with him. The porch was empty.
Just to be certain everything was all right, I opened the door and poked my head out. I glanced from side to side, seeing only my large potted geranium on one side and my small wicker table and two chairs on the other. Satisfied, I went to close the door and glanced down at the doormat. I gasped. Placed on the center of the mat was the same envelope that Bill had delivered to me at work. But I knew I had left it in my desk drawer. What the hell was it doing here?
I glanced around the porch to see if someone was lurking in the shadows, playing a prank on me. It wasn't really Bill's style-he was more of a dad-joke type of guy-but he was the only person who knew about the book, so logic dictated it had to be him.
"Not funny, Bill!" I called into the darkening evening. There was no answer. No one was there.
I picked up the envelope and pulled the book out, experiencing the same twinge of unease I'd felt before. A flash of green lit the porch as the envelope was immediately engulfed in emerald flames. I yelped and dropped it. In seconds the envelope was gone, leaving no ash or smoke behind. I examined my hand and noted that the weird neon fire hadn't even felt hot.
I glanced out at the street, making certain no one had seen what had just happened. Ever since my childhood, unexpected magic had always made me anxious.
I took another look around the porch and yard before I went back inside, then locked the dead bolt. I studied the aged volume more closely. It was a shade of black so matte it seemed to soak up light. The edges of the pages were jagged and uneven. And the book's hexagonal metal latch was rusted from humidity or lack of use, I couldn't tell which. I brought it to the kitchen, thinking I could open it with a knife.
Not wanting to lose a finger, I chose a butter knife. I slid it under the decorative metal band and tried to pry it loose. The metal didn't budge. I tried to pop the hexagon with the blade as well, but it held fast. I set down the utensil and glanced at the door. If it wasn't Bill who had dropped the book off and made the envelope go poof . . . nope. I refused to go there.
The pin pricked my finger and blood beaded up out of the wound. I yelped and dropped the pin. Drops of blood dripped from my middle finger and I pressed my thumb to the tip to stop the flow. Had I just stabbed myself with a pin . . . on purpose? I blinked. I glanced down, noting that I was wearing my pajamas.
Relief whooshed inside me. It was okay. It was just a dream. An awful, stupid, painful dream. I shook my head, trying to wake myself up. It didn't work. It couldn't . . . because I was already awake.
I glanced down at my kitchen counter, where small splats of blood marred the smooth surface. The battered old book that I had tucked into my shoulder bag earlier sat on the granite beneath my pricked finger.
Shit! I had almost bled on the book. I spun away from the counter and rinsed my finger in the sink. What the hell had just happened? Sleepwalking? Night terrors? Had I actually pricked myself with a pin? Why?
Grabbing a paper towel, I wiped the blood off the granite. I rinsed off the pin and returned it to the container I kept in the utility drawer at the end of the counter. I threw the towel in the trash and stood, staring at the book in confusion. What was the book doing on the counter when I was certain I had put it in my bag?
Insistent whispers sounded at the edge of my mind. Like shadows that faded as the sun rose, the words weren't quite loud enough for me to make out, but I knew. I knew without a doubt that those whispers had been in my dreams and that they had instructed me to stab myself with the straight pin. I glanced down. Goose bumps raised on my forearms as I gazed at the black book. I ran an uninjured finger over the cover, half expecting it to be absorbed into the black leather, as if it could pull me in just as it seemed to soak in the light. It didn't and I lifted my hand and noted my fingers were trembling.
I'd had a strange feeling about this mysterious volume from the moment I'd first touched it, and I knew of only one person who might be able to help me.
2
You think grief is making me lose it," I said.
During the month since my mother had passed away, Agatha Lively-my friend, mentor, and auntie all rolled into one loving yet bossy package-had repeatedly encouraged me to go to grief counseling, even though my mother and I had been estranged for years. I'd refused, feeling that I couldn't grieve a woman I didn't know. In my heart I understood that the only thing I mourned was that any chance at a relationship with my mother was now gone forever. Okay, so maybe some counseling wouldn't have been completely out of order.
"I didn't say that, Zoe." Agatha lifted the crocheted cozy that resembled a fat white goose off the delicate Haviland teapot and poured me a cup of rose hip tea. She was a big believer in its antioxidant properties. "I merely pointed out that you haven't slept properly since your mother's funeral, and this might be because you're sleep-deprived." She gestured at my finger with the Mickey Mouse bandage on it with a pointed look.
"No judgment, please. I am a meagerly paid public servant and these were on sale."
"I don't remember you being a sleepwalker. Is this a new development?" She ignored the explanation of my choice of bandage, which I wouldn't have needed except that the pinprick had been pretty deep. I was relieved to be up on my tetanus vaccination.
"No, as far as I know I've never done anything like this before." I took the teacup she offered. We were seated in the cluttered front parlor of Agatha's house. It was an old Victorian that sat prominently on the Wessex town green and had been in the Lively family for generations. Agatha was the last surviving Lively, and the house was packed to the rafters with her family's odd heirlooms, treasures, and tchotchkes. None of which she would consider parting with despite the collective mess. Having lived with her during my school vacations, I had tried to declutter it to no avail.
Sometimes I worried that Agatha would be done in by a falling stack of books or she'd trip on the variety of small cauldrons that lined the outer edge of the steps on the central staircase or, even more horrifically, she'd be eaten by one of the many sundew plants in the greenhouse. Yes, they were carnivorous and they gave me the heebie-jeebies. Although, to give credit where credit was due, she never seemed to have a problem with insects of any kind.
Agatha was short and curvy, with a deep brown complexion, white hair that fell in orderly ringlets to her shoulders, and professorial dark-rimmed glasses, which she lowered so she could peer at me with her direct deep brown eyes when she asked, "Have you tried taking valerian root?"
"Is it candy?" I met her gaze and she sighed.
"Of course you haven't. How you have survived to almost forty years of age from the nutrition found in a vending machine is beyond me."
I smiled, mostly because it was true. Not only had Agatha been my legal guardian since I was fourteen, she had also been my first boss. Like her, I was a librarian and Agatha had hired me fresh out of library school fifteen years ago when she was the director of the Wessex Public Library.
She had witnessed firsthand how I'd cobbled together my meals of Rice Krispies Treats (breakfast), Cheez-Its (lunch), and Snickers (dinner), preferably with a cola, not diet, on the side. Of course, I ate other stuff, but those were my mainstays.
"Ignoring my poor nutrition for the moment, what do you think of the book?" I asked.
Agatha sipped from her cup as if bracing herself. She set it down on its saucer atop an impressive stack of magazines. I'd sat in this room thousands of times over the years and I still had no idea what the coffee table beneath all the magazines and books looked like.
"You absolutely can't open it?" she asked.
"No. Whatever sort of lock is on it, it's impossible to crack. Believe me, I tried everything." I took the book out of the canvas bag at my feet and handed it to her.
Copyright © 2025 by Jenn McKinlay. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
