The library turned out to be a massive Gothic structure, completely different from any other building in town. To Jeremy, it looked as if it had been plucked from a hillside in Romania and dropped in Boone Creek on a drunken dare.

 

The building occupied most of the block, and its two stories were adorned with tall, narrow windows, a sharply angled roof, and an arched wooden front door, complete with oversize door knockers. Edgar Allan Poe would have loved the place, but despite the haunted house architecture, the townsfolk had done what they could to make it seem more inviting. The brick exterior—no doubt reddish brown at one point—had been painted white, black shutters had been put up to frame the windows, and beds of pansies lined the walkway out front and circled the flagpole. A friendly, carved sign with italicized gold script welcomed all to boone creek library. Still, the overall appearance was jarring. It was, Jeremy thought, kind of like visiting a rich kid’s elegant brownstone in the city, only to have the butler meet you at the door with balloons and a squirt gun.

 

In the cheerfully lit, pale yellow foyer—at least the building was consistent in its inconsistency—sat an L-shaped desk, the long leg stretching to the rear of the building, where Jeremy saw a large glassed-in room devoted to children. To the left were the bathrooms, and to the right, beyond another glass wall, was what appeared to be the main area. Jeremy nodded and waved to the elderly woman behind the desk. She smiled and waved back before returning to the book she was reading. Jeremy pushed through the heavy glass doors to the main area, proud that he was getting the hang of the way things worked down here.

 

In the main area, however, he felt a surge of disappointment. Beneath bright fluorescent lights were only six shelves of books, set relatively close together, in a room that wasn’t much larger than his apartment. In the nearest two corners were outdated computers, and off to the right was a sitting area that housed a small collection of periodicals. Four small tables were scattered throughout the room, and he saw only three people browsing the shelves, including one elderly man with a hearing aid who was stacking books on the shelves. Looking around, Jeremy had the sinking suspicion that he’d purchased more books in his lifetime than the library had.

 

He made his way to the reference desk, but not surprisingly, there wasn’t anyone behind it. He paused at the desk, waiting for Lex. Turning around to lean against it, he figured that Lex must have been the white-haired man putting the books away, but the man didn’t make a move toward him.

 

He glanced at his watch. Two minutes after that, he glanced at it again.

 

Another two minutes later, after Jeremy had cleared his throat loudly, the man finally noticed him. Jeremy nodded and waved, making sure the man knew he needed help, but instead of moving toward him, the man waved and nodded before going back to stacking books. No doubt he was trying to stay ahead of the rush. Southern efficiency was legendary, Jeremy observed. Very impressive, this place.

 

In the small, cluttered office on the upper floor of the library, she stared through the window. She’d known he would be coming.

 

Doris had called the moment he left Herbs and told her about the man in black from New York City, who was here to write about the ghosts in the cemetery.

 

She shook her head. Figures that he would have listened to Doris. Once she got an idea about something, she tended to be pretty persuasive, with few concerns about the possible backlash an article like this could cause. She’d read Mr. Marsh’s stories before and knew exactly how he operated. It wouldn’t be enough to prove that ghosts weren’t involved—and she had no doubt about that—but Mr. Marsh wouldn’t stop there. He’d interview people in his own charming way, get them to open up, and then he’d pick and choose before twisting the truth in whatever way he wanted. Once he was finished with the hatchet job that would pose as an article, people around the country would assume that everyone who lived here was gullible, foolish, and superstitious.

 

Oh, no. She didn’t like the fact he was here at all.

 

She closed her eyes, absently twirling strands of her dark hair between her fingers. The thing was, she didn’t like people traipsing through the cemetery, either. Doris was right: it was disrespectful, and ever since those kids from Duke came down and the article showed up in the paper, things had been getting out of hand. Why couldn’t it have just been kept quiet? Those lights had been around for decades, and though everyone knew about them, no one really cared. Sure, once in a while, a few people might head out to take a look—mostly those who’d been drinking at the Lookilu, or teenagers—but T-shirts? Coffee mugs? Cheesy postcards? Combining it with the Historic Homes Tour?

 

She didn’t quite understand the whole reason behind the phenomenon. Why was it so important to increase tourism around here, anyway? Sure, the money was attractive, but people didn’t live in Boone Creek because they wanted to get rich. Well, most of them, anyway. There were always a few people out to make a buck, beginning first and foremost with the mayor. But she’d always believed that most people lived here for the same reason she did: because of the awe she felt when the setting sun turned the Pamlico River to a golden yellow ribbon, because she knew and trusted her neighbors, because people could let their kids run around at night without worrying that something bad would happen to them. In a world growing busier by the minute, Boone Creek was a town that hadn’t even attempted to keep up with the modern world, and that’s what made it special.

 

That’s why she was here, after all. She loved everything about the town: the smell of pine and salt on early spring mornings, the sultry summer evenings that made her skin glisten, the fiery glow of autumn leaves. But most of all, she loved the people and couldn’t imagine living anywhere else. She trusted them, she talked to them, she liked them. Of course, a number of her friends hadn’t felt the same way, and after heading off to college, they’d never returned. She, too, had moved away for a while, but even then, she’d always known that she would come back; a good thing, it turned out, since she’d been worried about Doris’s health for the past two years. And she also knew she would be the librarian, just as her mother had been, in the hope of making the library something that would make the town proud.

 

No, it wasn’t the most glamorous job, nor did it pay much. The library was a work in progress, but first impressions were deceptive. The bottom floor housed contemporary fiction only, while the top floor held classic fiction and nonfiction, additional titles by contemporary authors, and unique collections. She doubted whether Mr. Marsh even realized the library was dispersed through both stories, since the stairs were accessed in the rear of the building, near the children’s room. One of the drawbacks to having the library housed in a former residence was that the architecture wasn’t designed for public traffic. But the place suited her.

 

Her office upstairs was almost always quiet, and it was close to her favorite part of the library. A small room next to hers contained the rare titles, books she’d accumulated through estate and garage sales, donations, and visits to bookstores and dealers throughout the state, a project her mother had started. She also had a growing collection of historic manuscripts and maps, some of which dated from before the Revolutionary War. This was her passion. She was always on the lookout for something special, and she wasn’t above using charm, guile, or simple pleading to get what she wanted. When that didn’t work, she stressed the tax deduction angle, and—because she had worked hard to cultivate contacts with tax and estate lawyers throughout the South—she often received items before other libraries even found out about them. While she didn’t have the resources of Duke, Wake Forest, or the University of North Carolina, her library was regarded as one of the best small libraries in the state, if not the country.

 

And that’s how she viewed it now. Her library, like this was her town. And right now a stranger was waiting for her, a stranger who wanted to write a story that just might not be good for her people.

 

Oh, she’d seen him drive up, all right. Seen him get out of the car and head around front. She’d shaken her head, recognizing the confident city swagger almost immediately. He was just another in a long line of people visiting from someplace more exotic, people who believed they had a deeper understanding of what the real world was like. People who claimed that life could be far more exciting, more fulfilling, if only you moved away. A few years ago, she’d fallen for someone who believed such things, and she refused to be taken in by such ideas again.

 

A cardinal landed on the outside windowsill. She watched it, clearing her head, and then sighed. Okay, she decided, she should probably go talk to Mr. Marsh from New York. He was, after all, waiting for her. He’d come all this way, and southern hospitality— as well as her job—required her to help him find what he needed. More important, though, she might be able to keep an eye on him. She’d be able to filter the information in a way that he’d understand the good parts about living here, too.

 

She smiled. Yes, she could handle Mr. Marsh. And besides, she had to admit that he was rather good-looking, even if he couldn’t be trusted.

 

Jeremy Marsh looked almost bored.

 

He was pacing one of the aisles, his arms crossed, glancing at the contemporary titles. Every now and then he frowned, as if wondering why he couldn’t find anything by Dickens, Chaucer, or Austen. If he asked about it, she wondered how he would react if she responded with “Who?” Knowing him—and she readily admitted she didn’t know him at all but was simply making an assumption here—he’d probably just stare at her all tongue-tied like he had when she saw him earlier in the cemetery. Men, she thought. Always predictable.

 

She tugged at her sweater, procrastinating for one last moment before starting toward him. Keep it professional, she reminded herself, you’re on a mission here.

 

“I suppose you’re looking for me,” she announced, forcing a tight smile.

 

Jeremy glanced up at the sound of her voice, and for a moment, he seemed frozen in place. Then all at once he smiled as recognition set in. It seemed friendly enough—his dimple was cute—but the smile was a little too practiced and wasn’t enough to offset the confidence in his eyes.

 

“You’re Lex?” he asked.

 

“It’s short for ‘Lexie.’ Lexie Darnell. It’s what Doris calls me.”

 

“You’re the librarian?”

 

“When I’m not hanging out in cemeteries and ignoring staring men, I try to be.”

 

“Well, I’ll be,” he said, trying to drawl the words like Doris had.

 

She smiled and moved past him to straighten a few books on the shelf that he’d examined.

 

“Your accent doesn’t cut it, Mr. Marsh,” she said. “You sound like you’re trying out letters for a crossword puzzle.”

 

He laughed easily, unfazed by her comment. “You think so?” he asked.

 

Definitely a ladies’ man, she thought.

 

“I know so.” She continued straightening the books. “Now, what can I help you with, Mr. Marsh? I suppose you’re looking for information on the cemetery?”

 

“My reputation precedes me.”

 

“Doris called to tell me you were on the way.”

 

“Ah,” he said. “I should have known. She’s an interesting woman.”

 

“She’s my grandmother.”

 

Jeremy’s eyebrows shot up. L-I-B, he thought, keeping it to himself this time. But wasn’t that interesting? “Did she tell you about our delightful lunch?” he asked.

 

“I really didn’t ask.” She tucked her hair behind her ear, noting that his dimple was the kind that made little kids want to poke their finger in it. Not that she cared one way or the other, of course. She finished with the books and faced him, keeping her tone steady. “Believe it or not, I’m fairly busy at the moment,” she asserted. “I’ve got a load of paperwork that I need to finish today. What type of information were you looking for?”

 

He shrugged. “Anything that might help me with the history of the cemetery and the town. When the lights started. Any studies that have been done in the past. Any stories that mention the legends. Old maps. Information on Riker’s Hill and the topography. Historical records. Things like that.” He paused, studying those violet eyes again. They were really quite exotic. And here she was right next to him, instead of walking away. He found that interesting, too.

 

“I have to say, it’s kind of amazing, isn’t it?” he asked, leaning against the shelf beside her.

 

She stared at him. “Excuse me?”

 

“Seeing you at the cemetery and now here. Your grandmother’s letter, which brought me down here. It’s quite a coincidence,

 

don’t you think?”

 

“I can’t say I’ve given it much thought.”

 

Jeremy was not to be deterred. He was seldom deterred, especially when things were interesting. “Well, since I’m not from around here, maybe you could tell me what people do for relaxation in these parts. I mean, is there a place to get some coffee? Or a bite to eat?” He paused. “Like maybe a little later, after you’re off?”

 

Wondering if she’d heard him right, she blinked. “Are you asking me out?” she asked.

 

“Only if you’re available.”

 

“I think,” she said, regaining her composure, “I’ll have to pass. But thank you for the offer.”

 

She held his gaze steady until he finally raised his hands.

 

“Okay, fair enough,” he said, his tone easy. “But you can’t blame a guy for trying.” He smiled, the dimple flashing again. “Now, would it be possible to get started with the research? If you’re not too busy with the paperwork, I mean. I can always come back tomorrow if it’s more convenient.”

 

“Is there anything you’d like to start with in particular?”

 

“I was hoping I might read the article that appeared in the local paper. I haven’t had a chance yet. You wouldn’t happen to have it around here, would you?”

 

She nodded. “It’ll probably be on the microfiche. We’ve been working with the paper for the last couple of years, so I shouldn’t have any trouble digging it up.”

 

“Great,” he said. “And information about the town in general?”

 

“It’s in the same place.”

 

He glanced around for a moment, wondering where to go. She started toward the foyer.

 

“This way, Mr. Marsh. You’ll find what you need is upstairs.”

 

“There’s an upstairs?”

 

She turned, speaking over her shoulder. “If you follow me, I promise to show you.”

 

Jeremy had to step quickly to catch up with her. “Do you mind if I ask you a question?”

 

She opened the main door and hesitated. “Not at all,” she said, her expression unchanged.

 

“Why were you in the cemetery today?”

 

Instead of answering, she simply stared at him, her expression the same.

 

“I mean, I was just wondering,” Jeremy continued. “I got the impression that few people head out there these days.”

 

Still she said nothing, and in the silence, Jeremy grew curious, then finally uncomfortable.

 

“Aren’t you going to say anything?” he asked.

 

She smiled and, surprising him, winked before moving through the open doorway. “I said you could ask, Mr. Marsh. I didn’t say that I would answer.

 

As she strode ahead of him, all Jeremy could do was stare. Oh, she was something, wasn’t she? Confident and beautiful and charming all at once, and that was after she’d shot down the idea of going on a date.

 

Maybe Alvin had been right, he thought. Maybe there was something about southern belles that could drive a guy crazy.

 

They made their way through the foyer, past the children’s reading room, and Lexie led him up the stairs. Pausing at the top, Jeremy looked around.

 

L-I-B, he thought again.

 

There was more to the place than just a few rickety shelves stocked with new books. A lot more. And lots of Gothic feeling, too, right down to the dusty smell and the private-library atmosphere. With oak-paneled walls, mahogany flooring, and burgundy curtains, the cavernous, open room stood in stark contrast to the area downstairs. Overstuffed chairs and imitation Tiffany lamps stood in corners. Along the far wall was a stone fireplace, with a painting hung above it, and the windows, narrow though they were, offered just enough sunlight to give the place an almost homey feel.

 

“Now I understand,” Jeremy observed. “Downstairs was just the appetizer. This is where the real action is.”

 

She nodded. “Most of our daily visitors come in for recent titles by authors they know, so I set up the area downstairs for their convenience. The room downstairs is small because it used to be our offices before we had it converted.”

 

“Where are the offices now?”

 

“Over there,” she said, pointing behind the far shelf. “Next to the rare-book room.”

 

“Wow,” he said. “I’m impressed.”

 

She smiled. “Come on—I’ll show you around first and tell you about the place.”

 

For the next few minutes, they chatted as they meandered among the shelves. The home, he learned, had been built in 1874 by Horace Middleton, a captain who’d made his fortune shipping timber and tobacco. He’d built the home for his wife and seven children but, sadly, had never lived here. Right before completion, his wife passed away, and he decided to move with his family to Wilmington. The house was empty for years, then occupied by another family until the 1950s, when it was finally sold to the Historical Society, who later sold it to the county for use as the library.

 

Jeremy listened intently as she talked. They walked slowly, Lexie interrupting her own story to point out some of her favorite books. She was, he soon came to learn, even more well read than he, especially in the classics, but it made sense, now that he thought about it. Why else would you become a librarian if you didn’t love books? As if knowing what he was thinking, she paused and motioned to a shelf plaque with her finger.

 

“This section here is probably more up your alley, Mr. Marsh.”

 

He glanced at the plaque and noted the words supernatural/ witchcraft. He slowed but didn’t stop, taking time only to note a few of the titles, including one about the prophecies of Michel de Nostredame. Nostradamus, as he’s commonly known, published one hundred exceptionally vague predictions in 1555 in a book called Centuries, the first of ten that he wrote in his lifetime. Of the thousand prophecies Nostradamus published, only fifty or so are still quoted today, making for a paltry 5 percent success rate.

 

Jeremy pushed his hands into his pockets. “I could probably give you some good recommendations, if you’d like.”

 

“By all means. I’m not too proud to admit I need help.”

 

“You ever read this stuff?”

 

“No. Frankly, I don’t find the topic all that interesting. I mean, I’ll thumb through these books when they come in, looking at the pictures and skimming some of the conclusions to see if they’re appropriate, but that’s about it.”

 

“Good idea,” he said. “You’re probably better off that way.”

 

“It’s amazing, though. There are some people in town who don’t want me to stock any books on these subjects. Especially the ones on witchcraft. They think they’re a bad influence on the young.”

 

“They are. They’re all lies.”

 

She smiled. “That may be true, but you’re missing the point. They want them removed because they believe that it’s really possible to conjure up evil and that kids who read this stuff might accidentally inspire Satan to run amok in our town.”

 

Jeremy nodded. “Impressionable youth in the Bible Belt. Makes sense.”

 

“Don’t quote me on that, though. You know we’re off the record here, right?”

 

He raised his fingers. “Scout’s honor.”

 

For a few moments, they walked in silence. The winter sun could barely pierce the grayish clouds, and Lexie paused in front of a few lamps to turn them on. A yellowish glow spread through the room. As she leaned over, he caught a flowery trace of the perfume she was wearing.

 

Jeremy absently motioned toward the portrait above the fireplace. “Who’s this?”

 

Lexie paused, following his gaze. “My mother,” she said.

 

Jeremy looked at her questioningly, and Lexie drew a long breath.

 

“After the original library burned to the ground in 1964, my mother took it upon herself to find a new building and begin a new collection, since everyone else in town had written off the idea as impossible. She was only twenty-two, but she spent years lobbying county and state officials for funds, she held bake sales, and she went door-to-door to the local businesses, pleading with them until they gave in and wrote a check. It took years, but she finally did it.”

 

As she spoke, Jeremy found himself glancing from Lexie to the portrait and back again. There was, he thought, a resemblance, one that he should have noticed right away. Especially the eyes. While the violet color had struck him immediately, now that he was close, he noticed that Lexie’s had a touch of light blue around the rims that somehow reminded him of the color of kindness. Though the portrait had tried to capture the unusual color, it wasn’t close to the real thing.

 

When Lexie finished with her story, she tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear. She seemed to do that a lot, he noticed. Probably a nervous habit. Which meant, of course, that he was making her nervous. He considered that a good sign.

 

Jeremy cleared his throat. “She sounds like a fascinating woman,” he said. “I’d love to meet her.”

 

Lexie’s smile flickered slightly, as if there was more to say, but instead, she shook her head. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I suppose I’ve rambled on long enough. You’re here to work and I’m keeping you from it.” She nodded toward the rare-book room. “I may as well show you where you’ll be cooped up for the next few days.”

 

“You think it’ll take that long?”

 

“You wanted historical references and the article, right? I’d love to tell you that all the information has been indexed, but it hasn’t. You have a bit of tedious research ahead of you.”

 

“There aren’t that many books to peruse, are there?”

 

“It’s not just books, although we have plenty of those you might find useful. My suspicion is that you’ll find some of the information you’re looking for in the diaries. I’ve made it a point to collect as many as I can from people who lived in the area, and there’s quite a collection now. I’ve even got a few dating back to the seventeenth century.”

 

“You wouldn’t happen to have Hettie Doubilet’s, would you?”

 

“No. But I do have a couple belonging to people who lived in Watts Landing, and even one by someone who viewed himself as an amateur historian on the local area. You can’t check them out of the library, though, and it’ll take some time to get through them. They’re barely legible.”

 

“I can’t wait,” he said. “I live for tedious research.”

 

She smiled. “I’d be willing to bet you’re quite good at it.”

 

He gazed at her archly. “Oh, I am. I’m good at a lot of things.”

 

“I have no doubt about that, Mr. Marsh.”

 

“Jeremy,” he said. “Call me Jeremy.”

 

She raised an eyebrow. “I’m not sure that’s such a good idea.”

 

“Oh, it’s a great idea,” he said. “Trust me.”

 

She snorted. Always on the make, this one. “It’s a tempting offer,” she said. “Really. And I’m flattered. But even so, I don’t know you well enough to trust you, Mr. Marsh.”

 

Jeremy watched with amusement as she turned away, thinking that he’d met her type before. Women who used wit to keep men at a distance usually had a sharp edge to them, but somehow with her, it came across as almost . . . well, charming and good-natured. Maybe it was the accent. The way she sang her words, she could probably talk a cat into swimming across the river.

 

No, he corrected himself, it wasn’t just the accent. Or her wit, which he enjoyed. Or even her startling eyes and the way she looked in her jeans. Okay, that was part of it, but there was more. It was . . . what? He didn’t know her, didn’t know anything about her. Come to think of it, she hadn’t said much of anything about herself. She talked a lot about books and her mother, but he knew nothing else about her at all.

 

He was here to write an article, but with a sudden sinking sensation, he realized that he’d rather spend the next few hours with Lexie. He wanted to walk with her through downtown Boone Creek or, better yet, dine with her in a romantic, out-of-the-way restaurant, where the two of them could be alone and get to know each other. She was mysterious, and he liked mysteries. Mysteries always led to surprises, and as he followed her toward the rare-book room, he couldn’t help but think that his trip down south had just become a lot more interesting.

 

The rare-book room was small, probably a former bedroom, and was further divided by a low wooden wall that ran from one side of the room to the other. The walls had been painted desert beige, the trim was white, and the hardwood floor was scuffed but unwarped. Behind the wall were tall shelves of books; in one corner was a glass-topped case that looked like a treasure chest, with a television and VCR beside it, no doubt for tapes that referenced North Carolina’s history. Opposite the door was a window with an antique rolltop desk beneath it. A small table with a microfiche machine stood just off to Jeremy’s right, and Lexie motioned toward it. Going to the rolltop desk, she opened the bottom drawer, then returned with a small cardboard box.

 

Setting the box on the desk, she riffled through the transparent plates and pulled one out. Leaning over him, she turned the machine on and slid the transparency in, moving it around until the article was front and center. Again, he caught a trace of her perfume, and a moment later, the article was in front of him.

 

“You can start with this,” she said. “I’m going to spend a few minutes looking around to see if I can find some more material for you.”

 

“That was fast,” he said.

 

“It wasn’t that hard. I remembered the date of the article.”

 

“Impressive.”

 

“Not really. It appeared on my birthday.”

 

“Twenty-six?”

 

“Somewhere around there. Now, let me see what else I can find.”

 

She turned and headed through the swinging doors again.

 

“Twenty-five?” he called out.

 

“Nice try, Mr. Marsh. But I’m not playing.”

 

He laughed. This was definitely going to be an interesting week.

 

Jeremy turned his attention to the article and began to read. It was written just the way he’d expected—heavy on hype and sensationalism, with enough haughtiness to suggest that everyone who lived in Boone Creek always knew the place was extra special.

 

He learned very little that was new. The article covered the original legend, describing it in much the same way that Doris had, albeit with some minor variation. In the article, Hettie visited the county commissioners, not the mayor, and she was from Louisiana, not the Caribbean. What was interesting was that she supposedly passed the curse outside the doors of the town hall, which caused a riot, and she was brought to the jail. When the guards went to release her the following morning, they discovered that she’d vanished, as if into thin air. After that, the sheriff refused to try to arrest her again, because he feared that she would put a curse on his family as well. But all legends were like that: stories got passed around and altered slightly to make them more compelling. And he had to admit, the part about vanishing was interesting. He’d have to find out if she’d actually been arrested and if she’d really escaped.

 

Jeremy glanced over his shoulder. No sign of Lexie yet.

 

Looking back at the screen, he figured he might as well add to what Doris had told him about Boone Creek, and he moved the glass plate housing of the microfiche, watching as other articles popped into view. There was a week’s worth of news in a total of four pages—the paper came out every Tuesday—and he quickly learned what the town had to offer. It was scintillating to read, unless you wanted coverage of anything happening anywhere else in the world or anything that might even keep your eyes open. He read about a young man who landscaped the front of the VFW building to earn the right to be an Eagle Scout, a new dry cleaner opening on Main Street, and a recap of a town meeting where the top of the agenda was to decide whether or not to put a stop sign on Leary Point Road. Two days of front-page coverage were devoted to an automobile wreck, in which two local men had sustained minor injuries.

 

He leaned back in his chair.

 

So the town was just what he expected. Sleepy and quiet and special in the way that all small communities claimed to be, but nothing more than that. It was the kind of town that continued to exist more as a result of habit than any unique quality and would fade from existence in coming decades as the population aged. There was no future here, not long-term, anyway . . .

 

“Reading about our exciting town?” she asked.

 

He jumped, surprised he hadn’t heard her come up behind him and feeling strangely sad about the plight of things here. “I am. And it is exciting, I must admit. That Eagle Scout was something. Whew.”

 

“Jimmie Telson,” she said. “He’s actually a great kid. Straight As and a pretty good basketball player. His dad died last year, but he’s still volunteering around town, even though he has a part-time job at Pete’s Pizza now. We’re proud of him.”

 

“I’m sold on the kid.”

 

She smiled, thinking, Sure you are. “Here,” she said, setting a stack of books beside him, “these should be enough to get you started.”

 

He scanned the dozen or so titles. “I thought you said that I’d be better off using the diaries. All of these are general history.”

 

“I know. But don’t you want to understand the period they were set in first?”

 

He hesitated. “I suppose,” he admitted.

 

“Good,” she said. She absently tugged at the sleeve of her sweater. “And I found a book of ghost stories that you might be interested in. There’s a chapter in there that discusses Cedar Creek.”

 

“That’s great.”

 

“Well, I’ll let you get started, then. I’ll be back in a while to see if there’s anything else you need.”

 

“You’re not going to stay?”

 

“No. Like I said earlier, I’ve got quite a bit of work to do. Now, you can stay in here, or you can sit at one of the tables in the main area. But I’d appreciate it if you didn’t remove the books from the floor. None of these particular books can be checked out.”

 

“I wouldn’t dare,” he said.

 

“Now, if you’ll excuse me, Mr. Marsh, I really should go. And keep in mind that even though the library is open until seven, the rare-book room closes at five.”

 

“Even for friends?”

 

“No. I let them stay as long as they want.”

 

“So I’ll see you at seven?”

 

“No, Mr. Marsh. I’ll see you at five.”

 

He laughed. “Maybe tomorrow you’ll let me stay late.”

 

She raised her eyebrows without answering, then took a couple of steps toward the door.

 

“Lexie?”

 

She turned. “Yes?”

 

“You’ve been a great help so far. Thank you.”

 

She gave a lovely, unguarded smile. “You’re welcome.”

 

Jeremy spent the next couple of hours perusing information on the town. He thumbed through the books one by one, lingering over the photographs and reading sections he thought appropriate.

 

Most of the information covered the early history of the town, and he jotted what he thought were relevant notes on the pad beside him. Of course, he wasn’t sure what was relevant at this point; it was too early to tell, and thus his notes soon covered a couple of pages.

 

He’d learned through experience that the best way to approach a story like this was to begin with what he knew, so . . . what did he know for certain? That the cemetery had been used for over a hundred years without any sightings of mysterious lights. That lights first appeared about a hundred years ago and occurred regularly, but only when it was foggy. That many people had seen them, which meant that the lights were unlikely to be simply a figment of the imagination. And, of course, that the cemetery was now sinking.

 

So even after a couple of hours, he didn’t know much more than when he started. Like most mysteries, it was a puzzle with many disparate pieces. The legend, whether or not Hettie cursed the town, was essentially an attempt to link some pieces into an understandable form. But since the legend had as its basis something false, it meant that some pieces—whatever they were— were being either overlooked or ignored. And that meant, of course, that Lexie had been right. He had to read everything so he wouldn’t miss anything.

 

No problem. This was the enjoyable part, actually. The search for the truth was often more fun than writing up the actual conclusion, and he found himself immersed in the subject. He learned that Boone Creek had been founded in 1729, making it one of the oldest towns in the state, and that for a long time, it was nothing more than a tiny trading village on the banks of the Pamlico River and Boone Creek. Later in the century, it became a minor port in the inland waterway system, and the use of steamboats in the mid1800s accelerated the town’s growth. Toward the end of the nineteenth century, the railroad boom hit North Carolina, and forests were leveled while numerous quarries were dug. Again, the town was affected, due to its location as a gateway of sorts to the Outer Banks. After that, the town tended to boom and bust along with the economy of the rest of the state, though the population held steady after around 1930. In the most recent census, the population of the county had actually dropped, which didn’t surprise him in the slightest.

 

He also read the account of the cemetery in the book of ghost stories. In this version, Hettie cursed the town, not because the bodies in the cemetery had been removed, but because she’d refused to step aside and into the road when the wife of one of the commissioners was approaching from the opposite direction. However, because she was regarded as an almost spiritual figure in Watts Landing, she escaped arrest, so a few of the more racist townsfolk took matters into their own hands and caused a great deal of damage in the Negro cemetery. In her anger, Hettie cursed the Cedar Creek Cemetery and swore that her ancestors would tread the cemetery grounds until the earth swallowed it whole.

 

Jeremy leaned back in his chair, thinking. Three completely different versions of essentially the same legend. He wondered what that meant.

 

Interestingly, the writer of the book—A. J. Morrison—had added an italicized postscript stating that the Cedar Creek Cemetery had actually begun to sink. According to surveys, the cemetery grounds had sunk by nearly twenty inches; the author offered no explanation.

 

Jeremy checked the date of publication. The book had been written in 1954, and by the way the cemetery looked now, he figured it had sunk at least another three feet since then. He made a note to see if he could find surveys from that period, as well as any done more recently.

 

Still, as he absorbed the information, he couldn’t help glancing over his shoulder from time to time on the off-chance that Lexie had returned.

 

Across town, on the fairway of the fourteenth tee and with his cell phone sandwiched against his ear, the mayor snapped to attention as he listened to the caller though the hissing static. Reception was bad in this part of the county, and the mayor wondered if holding his five-iron above his head would help him make sense of what was being said.

 

“He was at Herbs? Today at lunch? Did you say Primetime Live?”

 

He nodded, pretending not to notice that his golf buddy, who was in turn pretending to see where his most recent shot had landed, had just kicked the ball from behind a tree into a better position.

 

“Found it!” his buddy yelled, and began setting up for the shot.

 

The mayor’s buddy did things like that all the time, which frankly didn’t bother the mayor all that much, since he’d just done the same thing. Maintaining his three handicap would have otherwise been impossible.

 

Meanwhile, as the caller was finishing up, his buddy launched his shot into the trees again.

 

“Damnation!” he shouted. The mayor ignored him.

 

“Well, this is definitely interesting,” the mayor said, his mind whirring with possibilities, “and I’m very glad you called. You take care, now. Bye.”

 

He flipped the phone closed, just as his buddy was approaching.

 

“I hope I get a good lie with that one.”

 

“I wouldn’t worry too much,” the mayor said, pondering the sudden development in town. “I’m sure it’ll end up being right where you want it.”

 

“Who was that on the phone?”

 

“Fate,” he announced. “And if we play this right, just maybe our salvation.”

 

Two hours later, just as the sun was dropping below the treetops and shadows began to stretch through the window, Lexie poked her head into the rare-book room.

 

“How’d it go?”

 

Glancing over his shoulder, Jeremy smiled. Pushing back from the desk, he ran his hand through his hair. “Good,” he said. “I learned quite a bit.”

 

“Do you have the magic answer yet?”

 

“No, but I’m getting closer. I can feel it.”

 

She moved into the room. “I’m glad. But as I said earlier, I usually lock up here about five o’clock so I can handle the after-work crowd when they come in.”

 

He stood from the desk. “No problem. I’m getting a little tired, anyway. It’s been a long day.”

 

“You’ll be in tomorrow morning, right?”

 

“I was planning on it. Why?”

 

“Well, normally, I put everything back on the shelves daily.”

 

“Would it be possible to just keep the stack the way it is, for now? I’m sure I’ll go through most of the books again.”

 

She thought for a moment. “I suppose that’s okay. But I do have to warn you that if you don’t show up first thing, I’ll think I misjudged you.”

 

He nodded, looking solemn. “I promise I won’t stand you up. I’m not that kind of guy.”

 

She rolled her eyes, thinking, Oh, brother. He was persistent, though. She had to give him that. “I’m sure you say that to all the girls, Mr. Marsh.”

 

“No,” he said, leaning against the desk. “Actually, I’m very shy. Almost a hermit, really. I hardly ever get out.”

 

She shrugged. “Shows me what I know. Being that you’re a journalist from the big city, I had you figured as a ladies’ man.”

 

“And that bothers you?”

 

“No.”

 

“Good. Because, as you know, first impressions can be deceiving.”

 

“Oh, I realized that right away.”

 

“You did?”