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Chapter One
New-Librarian Day
There was once, in the Pernicious Valley, a strange little town by the name of Widowsbury. It wasn’t marked on any map. No roads led in or out of it. Only by train could one reach this forgotten place, but few who knew of it ever dared. The engineers spoke of ghosts in the hills, and they called these hills the Devil’s Thimbles.
Just outside the Thimbles, at the point where the highway ended, was a sign that a vandal had altered to read if you lived here, you’d regret it by now. No one ever bothered to fix it. There wasn’t much point, and anyway, it was true. Widowsbury was dreadfully cursed.
But even the most dreadfully cursed places were not always so.
There was a time when Widowsbury was the Plum Pie Capital of the World. The skies were still blue in those days. Colorful gardens decorated each storybook house. Laughter and music drifted from the square. City folk would come for the famous springtime parades and say, “What a delightful little town. Perhaps I’ll retire here one day.” But that was before the roads were sealed off. Before everything went wrong.
They say it was a storm that ruined Widowsbury. Some say it wasn’t a storm at all but evil’s kettle boiling over. And when it ripped through the town for twelve straight days, it tore open a gate through which escaped all sorts of foul, rotten things. There were such things as vampires. There were such things as ghosts. There were absolutely such things as mad scientists who reanimated the dead. The once-perfect little haven became a beacon for everything bad in the world. Nothing and nobody unfamiliar would ever be trusted again, for one could never be sure what secrets waited under the surface.
There was peace again for a few years after the storm. And then, one gray December morning twelve years to the day, a most troublesome stranger came to town.

Adelaide Foss slouched at the breakfast table, her cheek resting in one hand as her other hand poked at the eggs on her toast with fingernails that were just a bit too long. In fact, Adelaide’s nails were alarmingly pointy, much like her ears, which she kept hidden behind twin black braids. At the front of the dining hall, the headmistress, Mrs. Merryweather, gave the Breakfast Lecture. It was an ordinary day at Madame Gertrude’s School for Girls. Which, for awkward Adelaide, meant it would probably be a bad one.
“Posture is of the utmost importance in the civilized world,” Mrs. Merryweather droned. “For a true lady must be recognized as such before she even utters a word!”
Adelaide heard the sound of fabric as someone slid across the bench to her. Without even looking, she knew it was Becky Buschard. One of the older girls.
“What’s the matter with your eggs?” Becky whispered. “Not bloody enough for you?”
There was a smattering of muffled giggles as Becky slid back to her friends.
“Ah-ooooooooh!” one of them softly howled. Adelaide pretended not to hear, though it hardly did any good. In truth, she possessed a freakish ability to hear absolutely everything, sometimes even a mile away.
“A woman without balance in her step is a woman without balance in her life,” Mrs. Merryweather lectured. With her hooked nose and her long black gown, she looked like one of Widowsbury’s crows. Adelaide often wondered how she blinked at all with her silver hair pulled back in such a tight knot.
Adelaide stared off to the right, doing her best to ignore the faces made at her from the left. At the end of her table sat Maggie Borland, with two feet of empty space between her and the others. Nobody ever sat close to Maggie. Her wild brown hair made her look like Medusa, and her jumper was always stained. At the moment, she seemed wholly absorbed in her toast, which she carved into smaller and smaller pieces for no apparent reason. Every once in a while, she stabbed an egg, pounding the tines of her fork into a useless sculpture with each blow. Adelaide was fascinated. But then Maggie glanced up, and Adelaide hurriedly looked away.
There were rumors that Maggie had tossed a teacher through a window at her old school, and that the teacher only survived by catching on to the sill. Adelaide didn’t know if it was true, but she kept a safe distance all the same. This proved difficult, as Maggie was always in detention whenever she was, and Adelaide was in detention every day.
“When greeting new acquaintances, a lady must be reserved with her initial affection,” Mrs. Merryweather went on.
Adelaide turned her attention to the other girl she saw in detention on a daily basis: Beatrice Alfred. Beatrice, simply put, was weird. She looked like a porcelain doll come to life—pale and tiny, with unnaturally dark eyes and short black hair topped with an oversized bow. She was in the Nines class, but she was only seven. Adelaide wondered if this explained Beatrice’s peculiarities. Weren’t really smart people supposed to be kind of odd?
Even now, Beatrice appeared to be whispering to something in her front pocket. Who does she think she’s talking to? thought Adelaide with a shiver.
“Which brings me to my announcement,” the headmistress continued. “Today we are expecting the arrival . . .”
Adelaide’s breath caught in her throat.
“. . . of a new . . .”
Please don’t say what I think you’re going to say! she prayed.
“. . . librarian,” Mrs. Merryweather concluded.
“Oh no,” Adelaide groaned aloud.
“She is not from Widowsbury,” Mrs. Merryweather explained, “but I assure you she has many references, and she is quite safe. She will, I hope, be joining us shortly, and I would like for you all to be on your very best behavior!”
Adelaide’s palms began to sweat. This, under no uncertain terms, was Very Bad News.
“But there is one more thing!” said Mrs. Merryweather.
Her eyes narrowed. Her jaw clenched. She raised a long, bony finger and pointed.
Here it comes, thought Adelaide.
“You!” Mrs. Merryweather hissed at her.
She did the same to Maggie and Beatrice.
“You three are to be isolated from the others! You will be separated from the other students. You will be separated from each other. I will not give you any opportunity to frighten away this librarian before she even begins!”
Adelaide heard snickering behind her and felt her face grow hot.
“Don’t think I’ve forgotten for an instant what you did to the others,” said Mrs. Merryweather as she moved between the tables. “The incident with the chair . . .”
She glared at a scowling Maggie.
“The little present you left for Mrs. Elise.”
She paused at a cowering Beatrice.
“Your campaign of terror against Mrs. Elizabeth!”
She watched Adelaide for a long time. Adelaide reddened. I was only trying to warn her! I’m not the one who put the spiders in her bed! Not that she didn’t deserve it, she thought but could not say.
“No, I haven’t forgotten,” snarled Mrs. Merryweather, “and for that reason, I will make an example of each of you! I will show our new arrival that you can and will be controlled!”
Some of the other girls began to laugh.
“Quiet, ladies!” snapped Mrs. Merryweather. “Do not reward these children with your attention. For that is what they are. What they will always be. Rude. Spiteful. Wicked. Children. Their unwillingness to adhere to the vision of the great Madame Gertrude—may she rest peacefully—well, I dare say it scares me.”
Yes, but you scare everybody, thought Adelaide.
“Miss Alfred!” said Mrs. Merryweather. “I want you to move to the small table at the far right corner. Miss Borland! To the table in the far left corner. And you, Miss Foss. To the table in the front center!”
The dining hall erupted with the cackles of three hundred schoolgirls, and this time, Mrs. Merryweather made no attempt to silence them.
“Scary childrennnnnn!” sang Becky as Adelaide marched to her seat in humiliation.
Yes, it was going to be a rotten day. New Librarian Day always was. Librarians were supposed to read a lot and help you find the books you wanted. But all they ever did for Adelaide was force her to write punishment sentences until her hands turned red. Or yell at her for sneezing. Or make her sit as still and quiet as she possibly could with nothing to distract her from all the little sounds of the old building filling her head like a hundred symphonies playing different tunes at once. For Adelaide, librarians were torturers, and each new one was worse than the last.

Directly across the street was a squarish tower of red bricks that housed Rudyard School for Boys, the town’s only other school since Widowsbury School had fallen victim to a sinkhole for the sixth time. Outside it stood Steffen Weller, the son of the Rudyard School cook. Today was his ninth birthday, and he was spending it by himself, doodling on the many flyers that were tacked to the wall. Know your surroundings! Report anything different to the council at once! they said. He saw these flyers everywhere, and it seemed like fresh ones were being pasted over the old ones every day. They usually included Mayor Templeton’s official seal beside a photo of the mayor looking very stern. Steffen drew glasses on him and grinned, pleased with his work.
Then he heard a sound like someone dragging their feet. Or perhaps a body. Zombies! he thought with a thrill. He had always wanted to meet a zombie. But it was only a woman coming up the road, her boots caked in mud. She carried a large black leather suitcase upon which she had pasted pictures of flowers. It looked as if it weighed more than she did.
Steffen had never seen her before.
Most Widowsburians feared newcomers, but Steffen never understood this. New people were exciting! Not quite as exciting as zombies, but Steffen’s father said those had all been “dealt with” a long time ago. He supposed he’d never see one now.
“Hello,” said Steffen, but the clearly exhausted woman did not appear to hear him.
He watched her for a while as she trudged wearily toward the enormous white cathedral of the girls’ school. Then he shrugged and went back to drawing on flyers. Remember the storm! said this one. Known is good. New is bad!
He was drawing a mustache on it when he heard another commotion coming from the opposite end of the road. Steffen turned around and saw a man in a straw hat and a pink-and-white-striped apron approaching, dragging behind him a large wooden cart. The man looked young. Certainly older than any of the Rudyard boys, but definitely younger than Steffen’s father. His cart was full of crates, jars, various tools, stakes, and something that looked like an oversized clock.
“Are you new in town, too?” Steffen asked the man. He hadn’t meant to be rude, but two newcomers in one day! It was unheard of.
The man stopped and held up his hands. “I don’t want any trouble!” he explained. It sounded as if he’d already gotten his share of it.
“Then what are you doing in Widowsbury?” asked Steffen.
“It . . . seemed like as good a place as any?” said the man uncertainly.
Steffen, remembering his manners, walked over and extended a mittened hand.
“Sorry. I’m Steffen Weller,” he said. “What’s your name?”
The man smiled and shook Steffen’s hand with both of his.
“Zoethout’s the name! Lyle Zoethout! Purveyor of sweets, treats, and delicious delights!” he said cheerfully. “And gosh, I’m glad to hear a friendly voice. Yours is the first I’ve heard since I got in on the midnight train!”
Steffen gaped. “The Midnight? Really?” he gasped, for the midnight train was a thing of legend in Widowsbury. It first passed through about six years ago and had done so every night since. No one ever saw the train, but anyone awake at that hour could hear its clanging and its chugging and that lost, lonely whistle. His dad said it was all nonsense, of course, and that people would see it if they only went outside, but tales of the Midnight still held Steffen’s imagination fast.
Lyle Zoethout didn’t appear to know about those tales. He just blinked in confusion and then got right to his point. “Say, I’m setting up my stand today,” he said, “and I sure could use an extra pair of hands. Do you know anyone who’d be willing to help? I can’t pay except in candy right now, but it’s the best candy there is, and that’s my guarantee.”
Steffen thought for a moment. The only person he could possibly ask would be his own father. But as skeptical as the senior Weller was about Widowsbury’s superstitions, even he didn’t care for new folk. He probably wouldn’t like Steffen hanging around one, either, but he was busy with the day’s lunch preparations, and that was never a good time to bother him.
“I guess I’ve got some time,” said Steffen. He was relieved when Mr. Zoethout didn’t laugh at him. Instead, the latter asked, “How are you with a hammer?”
“I was practically born holding a hammer!” Steffen said proudly.
“Fantastic!” Mr. Zoethout exclaimed. “Pleased to make your acquaintance, by the way. You can just call me Mr. Z. What sort of candy do you like, Mr. Weller?”
“Oh. Um,” Steffen began, fidgeting with his jacket buttons. “I don’t really like candy that much. It makes my stomach hurt. I’d much rather have peanut butter any old day, but that’s okay. You don’t have to pay me anything.”
Mr. Zoethout gawked at Steffen.
“You don’t like candy?”
“I—I’m sorry,” Steffen stuttered. “I’m sure it’s very good!”
“What kind of kid doesn’t like candy?” Mr. Zoethout murmured to himself. Then he shrugged and chuckled.
“Never mind about that,” he said. “I’m just glad to have your help. Say, maybe I’ll come up with a new line of peanut butter treats! I’ll call them Steffens.”
Steffen laughed. He liked this newcomer, and it didn’t matter if he got paid for his work or not. He was just pleased as punch to be of use to someone other than his father for once.