The Mystery Guest

I traverse the hallway, and the lights overhead turn on as if by magic. I pass bedroom after luxuriously appointed bedroom, taking a quick peek in each—the four-poster bed in one; the brass bed in the next that looks straight out of Bedknobs and Broomsticks. At last, I find a washroom. I close and lock the door behind me. After taking care of my necessities, I lather and bathe my hands under water from the gold taps, then I dry them on a hand towel so plush it might be a cloud. I unlock the door and exit, much relieved.

I know I should creep down the stairs and get back to work on the silver, but as I stare down the hallway, I see that a door is open to an expansive room that takes my breath away. It’s the library, which Gran has described to me before, but nothing could have prepared me for the sight of it in real life. Even from a distance, I can see that it’s filled with floor-to-ceiling bookshelves and sumptuous leather volumes in red and blue, gold and green.

There are times when my feet have a mind of their own, and this is one of them. They tiptoe all the way down the hallway, the overhead lights beckoning me forth. Before I know it, I’m standing on the threshold of the awe-inspiring library. There’s a velvet chaise longue in a corner by the window, and beside it a reading lamp, the shade held by a brass nymph frozen in mid-frolic. A tall ladder with wheels on the bottom leans against the far wall. It can reach the highest volumes all around the room.

Entranced, I step past the threshold. Some of these books I’ve heard of or seen at the public library. Others are new to me, including the ones with J. D. Grimthorpe’s name on the spines—Dead Man’s Secret, Poison & Punishment, The Mystery Guest. I reach out and trace a shelf of jewel-toned leather volumes with my fingertips—The Count of Monte Cristo, Grimms’ Fairy Tales, The Turn of the Screw. I want nothing more than to fish out a book, curl up on the chaise longue, and lose myself in the pages.

Rat-a-tat-tat-tat.

The sound of typing again, much closer now. It’s then that I see it, a thin shaft of light coming from a crack in the bottom of the nearest book-lined wall. I move closer to the beam.

Then I hear footsteps. Someone is walking on the other side of the wall.

“Confounding! Rubbish, all of it. A pox on every word!” It’s a man’s voice, a dark and husky growl. The footsteps become stomps, and then something thuds against the floor. I can feel the vibrations beneath my own feet.

A shadow falls across the shaft of light on the floorboards. I take a few tentative steps closer, but as I do, the boards creak beneath my feet.

“Who’s there?” I hear, a thunderous boom.

To my young ears, it’s unmistakable—the ornery, bloodthirsty voice of a troll.

“Answer me!” the troll demands.

I begin to tremble because I can see him in my mind’s eye—hunchbacked and hairy, with protruding fangs and bloodshot eyes. He’ll pick me up by the strings of my apron and pop my wriggling body straight into his gaping, voracious mouth.

I don’t move or run away or even investigate further, because Gran always says that curiosity kills cats, and in this case, I do not wish to be a feline.

The room goes quiet, and I’m terribly relieved. But then my feet disobey me again. Suddenly, I’m creeping forward and crouching down. I can’t stop myself. I’m lying horizontally on the floor so I can look through the ominous crack in the wall and into the room next door. I’m on my side at eye level. I pull myself, closer, closer to the crack until…an eye—a steely blue troll’s eye—is staring back at me from the other side of the wall.

“AHHHHHHHHhhhhhh!” I scream, which sends adrenaline coursing through my entire body. I hurry to my feet and run out of the library and down the long corridor just as I hear the front door of the mansion opening and Mrs. Grimthorpe ordering Gran to bring in all the bags from outside.

I hurtle down the main staircase, taking the steps two by two until I’m standing breathless at the entrance, trying to appear perfectly ordinary in every possible way.

“Molly?” Gran says as she puts an armful of shopping bags on the floor. “You look like you’ve just seen a ghost.”

I cling to the banister in a valiant attempt at normalcy. “Not a ghost,” I reply. “Not that exactly.”

Chapter 8

In my dream, I’m foraging in an enchanted forest just down the path from our gingerbread cottage.

A strange-looking sheep asks me what I’m doing. “Collecting medicines for Gran,” I reply.

“You better hurry before it’s too late,” the sheep says as it trots down the path.

When I arrive at our cottage, Gran is tucked in bed, the sheets pulled tight to her chin. “I’ve got your medicines. Everything’s going to be okay.”