The Stone Child

“Nathaniel Olmstead,” said Eddie. “Ronald was about to run away from the monster lake-dogs.”

“The monster lake-dogs?” said Mom. “Sounds scary.”

“Once he makes it back to the mansion, he feeds them leftover chicken bones and escapes, so it all turns out okay,” said Eddie.

“I never realized that leftover chicken bones worked so well at getting rid of monster lake-dogs.”

“They’re easily distracted,” said Eddie, shrugging. “If you read the book, you’d know.”

“Maybe I should read those books,” said Mom. “I mean, if this town is cursed, I probably need to prepare myself.” She rolled her eyes. “Can you believe that guy from the garage?” she said. “I was nervous to leave your father alone with him. Creepy.”

Eddie laughed. “I thought he was sort of cool.”

“Cool?” said Mom. “If serial killers are cool, then sure, that guy was very cool. Come on, let’s go inside. You can help me find the pots and pans.”

“But I wanted to find my books. They’re all mixed up out here.”

Mom sighed, glancing around at the mess. She nudged an open box with the toe of her boot. “Here… what about this one?” She reached inside and pulled out a leather-bound book. She tossed it to Eddie. He was surprised when he actually caught it.

Eddie had never seen it before. It was unlike the well-worn paperbacks for which he’d been searching.

The cover of the book was sturdy. The leather was tight but slightly worn around the edges. From the side, Eddie could see that the book was not thick, maybe 150 slightly yellowed pages. The gold lettering stamped directly onto the brown leather read The Enigmatic Manuscript. Despite its size, the book was heavy. When Eddie lifted the cover, it creaked, snapping at him as the old glue bent. Inside, Eddie found words scrawled in black ink in the center of the first page. When he read them, he gasped. A story by Nathaniel Olmstead.

Underneath the author’s name was a strange symbol.

Eddie didn’t know what it was supposed to mean. “The Enigmatic Manuscript? What is this?” he said.

“Isn’t it one of your books?” said Mom.

Shaking his head, Eddie held it open and showed it to her.

Realization washed across her face. “Oh,” she said, “I remember now… I picked up that book when your father and I came down for the Black Hood Antiques Fair a few months ago. I thought it looked interesting, like an old-fashioned artifact. We didn’t know what it was, but your father thought it might be worth something. Isn’t it odd Nathaniel Olmstead’s name keeps coming up today?”

Odd is an understatement, Eddie thought. He suddenly felt as if this entire day could have been written by the missing author himself. A piece of the man seemed to be everywhere Eddie looked.

But the author’s name on the first page was nothing compared to what was on the next page.

Eddie nearly dropped the book on the floor when he read:

VSP IYU POY PLY LDG UDM HUV HFP

WYF SYZ GYP FMG YHS PIY ZDU YFS

GDM RSF SYO DDG RPF YHK YYO VHD

LFS YIY GRY DTZ PFP HFG DAS YPL OVG

YPN VCY LDK FSP FVF VHU ETP MNF

Puzzled, Eddie flipped through all of the pages. He found the rest of the book to be the same: filled with three-letter, nonsense words. He showed the book to his mother. “What does it mean? Is it a sort of code or something?”

“Whatever it is,” said Mom, heading back toward the house, “you’ve got a day to figure it out before school starts.”

“Do you think Dad will mind if I hang on to it?”

“We’ll ask him at di

“Wow!” said Eddie. “This is so cool! Thanks!”

After di

“I’ll try,” Eddie said as she closed the door. “Good night.”

Like the rest of the quaint bungalow, Eddie’s new bedroom on the second floor was a mess. Empty boxes, crumpled pieces of newspaper, and piles of clothes littered the floor, a mess he’d managed to make since coming in from the barn. Much of the room lay beneath the tilt of the roof, but there was still plenty of space to stand. A gabled window with a southern view over the town cut into the sloping ceiling. The sun had set, and the sky was indigo.

Eddie picked up the book his mother had found in the barn. It smelled awful, like dirt or mold. Weird. He opened to the first page again. The strange symbol leapt out at him. Eddie placed the book onto his quilt and scrambled under his covers.

He reached out and ran his index finger down the spine of the book, feeling the impression of the title stamped vertically onto the cover. A story by Nathaniel Olmstead?

What if The Enigmatic Manuscript was in fact a handwritten Olmstead book? A new novel that no one had read before? It was possible. After all, his parents had found the book only a few towns away. Nathaniel Olmstead’s name on the first page might actually be his signature! But if it was an unpublished novel, why would he have written it in a code language? Whatever the reason, Eddie was certain that there was something inside the book its author hadn’t wanted anyone to know.

Eddie stared at the ceiling, his shoulder throbbing faintly where the seat belt had caught him. It had been such a weird day. Leaving his old house behind and driving from Heaver-hill would have been unusual enough, but then his father had to go and hit that creature in the road.

Its gash of a mouth lolled open when Eddie shut his eyes for a moment. He shuddered and sat up, propping his pillows against his headboard.

After the accident, seeing the author’s house and learning about the supposed Olmstead Curse only added to the day’s peculiarity. Eddie knew that every town has its legends, but before he’d even had a chance to look around Gatesweed, it seemed as though, in a way, the spirit of Nathaniel Olmstead had come to haunt him. The fu

Like the characters in Nathaniel Olmstead’s books, Eddie had several questions: What exactly is the Olmstead Curse? Why do people move out of Gatesweed but not in? What exactly had happened to Jeremy, Sam’s childhood friend?

This last question left Eddie feeling queasy instead of excited, the way he felt about the others. Strangely, this third question was the one he was most afraid of answering.

Where should he begin?

Eddie looked down at the book in his lap.

In The Rumor of the Haunted Nu

Shouldn’t be too hard, he thought. After reading all of Nathaniel Olmstead’s books several times, he’d become pretty good at figuring out stuff like this. One more day until school? Plenty of time, he thought with a smile.