him the appearance of a kind, creative soul. Under his picture, a brief biography explained that Nathaniel Olmstead lives in a small town in northwestern Massachusetts. He is an amateur astronomer, an ancient history buff, and a fan of monster movies. When his parents finished looking at the picture, they stared at him, confused.

“Look …” Eddie pointed down the road.

“Hey!” said Dad, finally noticing the house on the hill.

Eddie had read somewhere that it had been empty for close to thirteen years, but it looked more like thirty.

“Isn’t that odd …?” said Mom.

“Is Gatesweed the town where Nathaniel Olmstead lived?” asked Eddie.

“I don’t know,” said Dad, distracted. “Who’s Nathaniel Olmstead?”

“Dad! He’s this guy!” Eddie pointed at the picture again. “He wrote all my favorite books. The Revenge of the Nightmarys. The Wrath of the Wendigo. The Ghost in the Poet’s Mansion. The Curse of the Gremlin’s Tongue. And tons more. Phantoms. Spirits. Creepy stuff like that.”

“So that’s why you thought you saw a monster in the road,” said Mom, taking the book from him and examining the cover.

Eddie blushed. “Maybe.”

“This Olmstead person couldn’t possibly still live in that house,” said Dad.

“Well, supposedly,” Eddie said, “he disappeared, like, thirteen years ago. No one knows what happened to him, or whether he’s even still alive. But his books are really popular. I’ve read all of them. At least twice.”

“So his house is empty?” said Mom, glancing through the trees.

“Certainly looks empty,” said Dad. “In that condition, who would live there?”

“I don’t know,” said Mom. “Possibly people stuck on this road come nightfall.”

“Very funny,” said Dad.

“Might be inspiring for someone who writes spooky stories,” Eddie suggested.

“Yeah,” said Dad, “if you don’t use water or electricity, you could get all the inspiration you’d ever need.”

A police car came speeding around the corner in front of them. It screeched to a halt next to Dad’s car, facing the opposite direction. A frazzled old man in a wrinkled uniform sat behind the wheel. Long wisps of thin white hair struggled to hide his nearly bald head. His pinched eyes glared at them through thick glasses. He rolled down his window and motioned for Eddie’s father to do the same. “You folks all right?” he said.

“We are, but the car’s not,” said Dad. “You want to take a look at it?”

“Uh-uh.” The old man shook his head so hard his glasses went crooked. “Tow truck’s comin’. He’ll take care of you.” He grabbed a clipboard from the passenger seat and held it through the window. A sheet of paper was attached to it. Eddie’s father reached out through his own window and took it from him. “Fill this out for your insurance company. Drop it at the town hall when you get a chance.”

“Well …,” said Dad, flustered, “I suppose I could just fill it out and give it to you now.”

The old man shook his head again. “Tow truck’ll be here soon. I can’t wait around. … Got stuff to do.” The police car shuddered as he put it into gear. Without saying goodbye, he rolled up the window and jerked his car up the road into a fast k-turn. When he had turned the police car around, he sped back down the hill.

Eddie’s parents stared at each other. “Could he have gotten out of here any faster?” said Dad.

“Don’t worry about him,” said Mom, patting her husband’s arm. “Remember when we came down for the house closing, honey? That nice woman we met in that pretty little bookstore said Gatesweed was peppered with eccentric people. All part of the charm, right?”

Through the windshield, Eddie watched the leaves in the forest flash white, their undersides whipped into a frenzy by the breeze. The trees parted and the house on the hill appeared again. It seemed to hold its breath, as if keeping a secret.

A few minutes later, a beat-up black tow truck rumbled into view behind the blue station wagon. A young guy, who looked to be in his late twenties, hopped out and sauntered up the road on the driver’s side. He was tall and skinny. His tight black leather jacket was open, revealing a Metallica concert T-shirt. When he leaned toward Dad’s open window, his scraggly black hair hung below his shoulders. Eddie could smell him from the backseat—a mixture of lingering cigarette smoke and vanilla air freshener. Eddie’s parents cringed. The driver raised an eyebrow and smiled. “So … what did you hit?”

2

They all waited on the side of the road as the