The Mystery Guest

“You are not allowed to take any books from the fourth wall,” she commands. “You may take books from this wall, that one, and the other, but you are never, ever to touch the wall in front of you. Is that clear? Those volumes are precious collector’s items, and I won’t have you ruining them the way you ruined our Fabergé.”

I stare up at her pinched face, which resembles a crumpled paper bag. I can’t find my voice, so I nod in response.

“You may read in here for a few hours. After tea, you will return to your duty of polishing silver downstairs. Make use of your time, Molly. A good mind is a terrible thing to waste. Opportunities for self-improvement are precious.”

With that she turns on her heel, marches down the damask hallway, and descends the main staircase as the lights above dim in her wake.

Once she’s gone, I survey the luminous library. I can’t believe my good fortune. How is it that I’m allowed to sit here and read? I walk over to the far wall, one of the three I’m allowed to touch. I run my hands along the spines. Murder on the Orient Express, The Hound of the Baskervilles, Great Expectations. I pry out Great Expectations with my index finger and carry the heavy indigo tome over to the chaise longue, where I sit down, crack open the cover, and begin.

I’m acquainting myself with an unfortunate young orphan named Pip when I hear it—creaking footsteps from beyond the fourth wall. There’s an audible click, and then light spills through the crack in the wall, throwing a long shadow on the floor in the library.

Rat-a-tat-tat-tat.

The sound of a typewriter yet again.

“Bloody bugger and tarnation! Rubbish and gibberish!” I hear, the growl of a hungry troll on the other side of the forbidden wall.

I put down my book and tiptoe toward the voice. I know I shouldn’t. I’ve been told not to touch that wall, but I lay my hand on the Oxford dictionary and press my ear against the Atlas of the World so I can hear the troll more clearly. No sooner does my hand make contact than something gives way. The wall springs open.

“AHHHhhhhhhhh!” I scream as I jump back in surprise.

“Wahhhhhhh!” I hear in deep echo.

Before I can even process what’s happened, I’m standing in front of a lean, rickety man seated at a colossal mahogany desk between two looming stacks of Moleskine notebooks. His salt-and-pepper hair is wildly unkempt, his steely blue eyes are drilling into mine with a look that, if I’m not mistaken, betrays either cannibalistic intent or abject confusion.

My hand trembles on the Oxford dictionary, but I cannot let it go because the entire bookcase is in fact a hidden door that I’m propping open with my hand.

“Who in the dickens are you?” asks the being before me as he clutches a black-and-gold fountain pen, wielding it above his head like a knife. I cannot quite tell if he’s going to stab me or take notes, but when I look at his hand, I notice I’m not the only one trembling.

“Speak!” he booms. “What are you doing here?”

I fear my very life depends on my answer, and yet I’m not sure what to say.

“I’m…I’m sorry to have interrupted you,” I say. “I mean no harm.”

“Who are you?” he growls. “To whom do you belong?”

“To my gran?” I say. “She works here.”

“The maid?” he asks.

“Yes. The maid. I’m her granddaughter. My name is…” I suddenly remember that Gran expressly forbids me from telling strangers my name.

“Call me Pip,” I say, punctuating this with a wobbly curtsy.

“In that case,” he replies, “I shall expect great things from you.”

I look at him for a moment, afraid that doing so might convert me to dust. “Are you a troll or a man?” I ask, my voice trembling.

“How refreshing. Never have I been asked that question so directly. I’m a bit of both, I suppose,” he says. “I’m what’s known as a misanthrope.”

“Misanthorpe,” I repeat. “M-I-S-A-N-T-H-O-R-P-E.”

“Incorrect. You’ve confused it with Grimthorpe. You’ve reversed two letters.”

I look carefully at the being before me. He’s thin and lithe, with no facial hair at all. His skin is pale and smooth. His teeth are straight and clean, not pointed, bloodthirsty fangs. His hair is unruly and might be possessed, but he himself is dressed neatly in a button-down blue shirt, pressed slacks, and monogrammed corduroy slippers. My eyes flitter around the spartan room, taking in the details. There’s a reading chair in the corner piled with newspapers. There’s the desk, with the looming piles of black Moleskines stacked on top. There’s also a bookcase on the far wall, every spine sporting the name J. D. Grimthorpe. Though the study is far from tidy, there are no bones of children or other small mammals strewn about. There is no evidence whatsoever of overt monstrosity.

“You’re not a troll,” I say. “You’re a man. You’re Mr. Grimthorpe, the very important writer who should not be disturbed.”

He crosses his arms and scrutinizes me. “Is that what she told you? My wife?”

I nod.