Free The Rascal by Eric Arvin

special place on a small hill. It was as historic as the rest of Wicker, though not particularly beautiful. The only thing of interest about the architecture of the structure was the little dome that bubbled up out of its center. The library reminded Chloe of a contestant’s buzzer on a game show, ready to be slammed in answer to some trivia question about film or history. Little towns are cute. They think cute things. They strut their cuteness along rivers and immaculate main streets. They do this so their secrets and acidic malevolence can be better hidden.
    Chloe still felt the eyes of the town on her. There was perhaps nothing malevolent about the township’s gaze toward her in particular, but there was a difference in how she and Jeff were seen by Wicker (as its newest residents) and how the average tourist was seen. At some point, she surmised, the town would have to decide whether or not to let her in on all of their little secrets. In the meantime, they just smiled pleasantly.
    The history of the town and the surrounding county was public record, but Chloe found very little about the hill on which she and Jeff lived. The census, while going back many years, offered her only a small amount of information other than the surnames of the land owners. The only mention Chloe could find about the hill itself in the archives was when Lana Pruitt had moved there years earlier:
    FAMOUS ACTRESS MOVES TO BAD LUCK HILL
    Bad Luck Hill. She wasn’t certain it was the proper name of the place. There wasn’t anything to confirm or dismiss it as such. But Chloe acknowledged that, from her experience there so far, it was an appropriate sobriquet. As far as where that particular nickname had come from, again, there was no clue. At last, she sat back in her chair and breathed deeply in frustration, disappointed her search had turned up nothing.
    Her attention was caught up and drawn to the window as a small stream, a parade, of people dressed in black took to the street. They passed the library, not a smile among them. Eight tall and thin pallbearers carried a casket at the front of the mourners, and leading them all was the quiet sister Chloe had seen at the store named Alma. Other townsfolk watched the parade from the sidewalks, stopping in shows of respect.
    The town librarian, a Mr. Craft, balding, with deep-set eyes and an old voice, came up beside her. “It’s a sad day,” he said.
    “Was it someone very important?” Chloe asked.
    “Odette? Yes. Very important. I haven’t seen a turnout like this since the herring run. But at least the poor thing died in her sleep. That’s all we can ask for, isn’t it? That’s all any of us can ask for.”
    “I suppose so.” She was reminded to get the cream for Jeff’s rash. But would the store even be open now?
    “Did you find what you were looking for?” the librarian asked as she readied to leave. She had been watched. It was a disconcerting feeling that was becoming all too familiar here and something she realized she would need to get used to.
    “Not really,” she said, slipping back into her jacket.
    Mr. Craft had a mortuary look about him—tall and thin, with long fingers that could easily navigate delicate situations. His head, like the rest of him, was narrow, as if pressed.
    “I was looking for information on my new home,” Chloe said. “Just as a project. But there doesn’t seem to be anything here about the cottage, or even the hill, that can help me.”
    “There was a fire here a few years ago that wiped out nearly all the older books and archives.” He looked very interested in her project. It was as if his eyes came forward from their deep-set positions in his head. He wore a slight grin that made him appear like a wilting jack-o’-lantern. “My cousin, Mary Beth, is the town archivist. She comes in once a week if you’d like to meet with her. I’m sure she’d be happy to help you with your research. Our family has run the library since Wicker was