Crooked Hills by Cullen Bunn Page A

wooden card catalog stood in the corner, but it was also covered in books and looked like it hadn’t been used in decades. I didn’t see any sign of a computer, and I wondered how anyone could find what they were searching for amidst all the clutter.
    “This is the library?” I asked. “It looks more like the place where old books go to die.”
    But Marty had already vanished, probably slipping through one of the side doors to search for Hardy Boys Mysteries in a junky chamber. I continued down the hall into the main room, looking for any sign of books on local legends and true ghost stories. I figured in a town as haunted as Crooked Hills, there had to be plenty of books on the subject.
    A large wooden counter—again piled with books—dominated what must have once been the living room. The leaning towers of mismatched paperbacks and hardbacks stretched like curvy columns almost to the ceiling. I couldn’t see behind the counter, the books were stacked so tall and close together.
    “May I help you?” said a man’s voice from the other side of the wall of books.
    I stopped in my tracks and craned my neck to get a look at the speaker.
    One of the tall piles of books slid across the countertop. It looked ready to teeter over and collapse. A man stood behind the counter. He wore a tweed vest (even though it was a little stuffy) and a dark blue bow tie. His face was sweaty and red, and a pair of thick eyeglasses perched upon the bridge of his nose. He was bald on top, but on the sides his hair was thick, curly, and wiry. He looked like a stereotypical librarian, with a little bit of whacky scientist thrown in for good measure.
    He looked familiar, too, but I couldn’t quite place where I’d seen him before.
    “May I help you?” he asked again. “Is there something you’re looking for?”
    “Superstition and folktales?” I asked, certain the eccentric librarian would have no idea where to look.
    He disappeared behind the books for a second and emerged from around the side of the counter.
    “Local legends, is it?” He lead me to another room. “You’re a man after my own heart.”
    He maneuvered through the maze of books, trailing a finger along the spines until he at last came to a stop. Like a magician whipping a cloth from a table without disturbing water glasses, he yanked a thick book from the center of the stack. I couldn’t believe we weren’t crushed beneath an avalanche of paper.
    “This one might be to your liking.” He pushed the book into my hands. “I know it’s one of my favorites.”
    The book was titled Witches in the Hills, by W. D. Goodwin—the same author who wrote the ghost story book Mom bought for me. Something in my head clicked. I looked at the beaming librarian, then at the book’s byline. I opened the cover to check out the back flap of the dust jacket. The picture of the author smiled back at me—bow tie, thick glasses, wiry hair, bald forehead and all.
    “You’re W. D. Goodwin,” I said to the librarian.
    “The one and only.” The librarian seemed a little taken aback, and the volume of his voice rose in excitement. He obviously didn’t expect anyone to really recognize him. He shook my hand as I introduced myself. His voice changed in pitch from one word to the next, high and squeaky one second, low and deep the next, stretching some syllables to painful lengths. Maybe he was trying to pull off some exotic accent, but it sounded a little silly. “So, young master Charles, you know my work? You’re a reader? Dare I say, a fan?”
    “I have one of your books at home. Ozarks Ghosts and Legends.”
    “Oh, yes, one of my earlier works. That’s probably why you didn’t recognize me right away. I had a little more hair up top—” He patted his bare forehead. “—when I posed for the dust jacket photo.”
    “And you work at the library?”
    “Can you think of a better place to conduct research?” he asked, waving at all the books. “And the paycheck helps make