What follows is part 10 of the re-serialization of Westville Book 1. New parts drop every Monday, Wednesday and Friday
If you’re new to Westville and want to dive in, you can get the books on Amazon or signed copies direct from my website:
32
The Pray Memorial Library was situated in an old yellow brick historic home and was about as claustrophobic as it could get before reading a book required a contortionist’s agility to open it between shelves, book carts, and chairs. For as much as she had teased Millie for her over-assiduous study habits, which she secretly admired, she wished that her friend could see her here now. Olivia had never been the kind of kid to make a beeline for the books immediately after school let out, but today she was indistinguishable from an advanced placement junkie. As she pored through pages of Holt County historical accounts though, her mind drifted to the grim reality that maybe all of this was in vain.
Maybe Millie was dead and gone. Killed that night and left somewhere to rot.
She pinched at the skin of her forearm, a habit when she was stressed, leaving little white nail marks, almost to punish those thoughts as she read something about the fires of 1902 in old Westville.
A loud clap and shake of the table made her jump back and take the good Lord’s name in vain.
“The legend of the Ottawa Treasure,” Kyle announced, having dropped a timeworn book onto the table.
“My grandpa said that might’ve been exaggerated.”
Kyle shrugged. “So are all legends. Doesn’t mean they aren’t based on something real.” He flipped through the brittle pages, his finger skimming across faded print. “Says here when the settlers bought the land from the Odawa people…”
His eyes rolled up at Austin, a smirk tugging at his lips.
Austin returned a flat stare, followed by a swift middle finger.
Olivia sighed. “Just keep reading.”
“Alright, alright. The chief worried his tribe would squander the money, so he hid it away. They tortured him to death trying to find it.”
“Solid plan,” Olivia muttered.
“Then they realized the error of their ways and buried him sitting upright, so he’d always look out for them even in death. When they were digging things out for the new sewer systems in town back in the ’30s, they found the skeleton. Upright.”
Olivia frowned. “Was the treasure ever found?”
Austin leaned back in his chair. “Probably in the records if someone got stupid rich.”
Kyle tapped the book. “Depends. Maybe they just didn’t want anyone to know. Or maybe the tribe did eventually find it. Thoughts?”
“Let me guess. Because I’m half Indian, I should know about that?”
“No, because your grandpa is, like, Jedi-level with all this weird local history.”
“Kyle, I swear to God…”
“Alright,” Olivia interrupted before they could launch into another verbal war. “Let’s focus.”
They hauled over stacks of books, flipping through crinkled pages and faded type. Olivia pored over one thick volume, tracing the lines of an old town charter.
“Westville was originally named Dansville. After a Daniel Thompson.” Her stomach twisted. “Think this guy is related to Millie?”
“Probably.”
“Maybe he started the mill?”, said Austin.
Olivia shook her head. “No. That was someone else.” She turned the book, pointing. “Thomas Prince.”
“I wondered why it was named PRINCE Milling.”
“Says here that Arthur Thompson, Daniel’s son, bought the mill from Prince in 1903. Prince had been his father’s business partner.” Olivia’s throat felt tight. “He bought it right after a huge fire burned the original mill to the ground.”
“And half the town with it,” said a voice behind them.
Olivia heard a shuffling behind her and whipped around to see a thin boy hobbling over, grinning despite the crutches tucked under his arms.
Eli.
“Hey guys,” he said cheerily.
Kyle scowled. “What are you doing here?”
“Returning books and getting new ones,” Eli said. “That is what people do at a library.”
Kyle bristled. “Yeah, but…”
Eli waved him off. “Turns out it’s just a sprain. Guess I’m tougher than I look. After the woods…” His face went paler, and his lips quivered.
Olivia glanced at the others and saw the memory of Halloween cast a darker pall over them as well, one she felt deep in her bones.
“Anyway,” Eli said, “it gives me a good excuse to read more.”
Kyle groaned. “Of course it does.”
Eli ignored him, peering at their pile of books. “Oh, good ones! I’ve read them a few times.”
Austin cocked his head. “You’ve read all of these more than once?”
“Sure. Good to know about where you live, right?”
Olivia’s interest sharpened. “So you know a lot about Westville’s history?”
“I guess you could say that.” Eli grinned, then glanced down at the book Kyle had brought over. “What do you want to know?”
“The Ottawa Treasure,” Olivia said. “We’ve been trying to…”
“Ah, classic,” Eli said, rocking back on his crutches. “Well for starters…”
“Let me just stop you right there, big guy,” Kyle said, slapping his cousin on his frail back so that he toppled a little. “We already know about the chief hiding the money and getting killed and stuff.”
“Oh. So I take it you already know they also murdered an exiled shaman?”
Kyle stammered, and Olivia stepped in front of him.
“No… We didn’t.”
“Well it’s a crazy story, the kind of thing you’d never think of a little town like ours. But I guess things were different back in those days. The tribe had exiled their shaman because they blamed his vision for tricking them into killing their chief. When no one could find the treasure, they figured maybe the shaman had taken it for himself, so a group of people from the town and some of the Odawa tribesmen beat him to death too, and buried him under a foundation of some building in Westville. No one knows where for sure, but… yeah. Fun story.”
“Fun is one way of putting it,” Olivia breathed.
“What’s with all these people buried in sewers and under buildings?”
“They believed the chief would watch over them,” Austin said, “buried somewhere undisturbed and upright. As for the shaman under a foundation, they probably didn’t want him… coming back.”
“What, like a zombie?”
Austin shook his head. “I mean, kind of. That’s sort of the legend of the Skadegamutc.”
“Alright,” Kyle started, “so who found the treasure?”
Eli flipped a few pages forward in the book and pointed. “According to Nicholas Graham, the first mayor of Westville, he did. And already being from a wealthy family, he used it to invest back into the town.” His voice lowered slightly. “But hard to say for sure. A lot of accounts say he’s just a blowhard who took credit for it. Others say Arthur Thompson made some kind of deal with the shaman before he was killed, and others that no one ever…”
“Wait, Arthur Thompson?” Olivia blurted.
“Made a deal…” said Austin, a heavy silence settling over them as he looked to her.
Olivia swallowed and felt a cold knot tighten in her chest.
“Skadegamutc.”
The grandfather clock chimed from across the library and rattled through Olivia’s ribs like a heartbeat. Sharp, hollow. The Thompsons. The Ottawa Treasure. The fire. It was all connected. They just had to figure out how.
Eli adjusted his grip on his crutches. “You know if you really want to dig deeper, you could check the microfilm.”
The dim light of the reader cast a pale glow over Olivia’s face as she leaned in, fingers poised on the crank, scanning each faded page and trying to get the stupid thing to focus already.
Kyle slumped beside her, flipping through a battered notebook, while Austin perched on the edge of a chair, arms crossed, looking between the reader and stacks of film reels.
“Are we sure it actually works?” Kyle muttered, fiddling with the machine’s knobs.
Olivia slapped at his hands. “I’ve almost got it.”
“Of course it works.” Eli beamed from across the table, carefully threading another spool into place. “This is my favorite part of coming to the library.”
Kyle snorted. “And me with my dumb PlayStation at home.”
Olivia ignored them, turning the crank slowly. “October 17, 1902,” she read. “Great Fire Devastates Westville: PRINCE Mill Reduced to Ashes.”
Austin straightened. “Anything about how it started?”
Olivia continued, eyes narrowing as she traced the article’s delicate script and continued to read: “Westville awoke in terror as flames swept through the town’s core in the early morning hours. PRINCE Milling Company bore the brunt of the destruction… two men killed, several others injured. The origins of the fire remain shrouded in suspicion.”
She hesitated. “No accelerants found. No evidence of arson. But some people believed it wasn’t an accident. Something about Sanborn Fire Insurance Maps.”
Kyle tapped his pen against his notebook. “Alright. So the mill burns down. What next?”
Eli perked up, pulling a new spool from the pile. “Maybe not next… but before. Here. Swap this in.”
Olivia slid the reel into place, turning the crank with quickened precision. Headlines blurred past until…
Gambling Ring Busted at Dawkin’s Tavern. Just two doors down from the library.
Austin leaned in. “What is it?”
“Arthur Thompson, once a respected figure in Westville’s burgeoning mill industry and son of the town’s original founder, has been named among several individuals involved in an illicit gambling ring… accrued significant debts.”
Kyle let out a low whistle. “Yeah. That’d do it.”
“There’s more.” Olivia scrolled further, her pulse quickening. “Auction to be Held for Thompson Family Estate, December 1898. Following financial troubles, the Thompson family announced an auction of their remaining assets… Arthur Thompson has not been seen in public since.”
Austin exhaled slowly, shaking his head. “That explains how things fell apart.”
Eli, already anticipating the next step, swapped in another reel.
Olivia turned the crank again, her stomach twisting as the next headline surfaced.
“September 1902. Arthur Thompson Acquires PRINCE Milling Company.” The article showed a picture of Arthur Thompson shaking hands with Thomas Prince, the latter looking less than enthused but both looking oddly solemn in the way people often did in turn-of-the-century photos. In his other hand, he clutched a golden pocket watch.
Kyle frowned. “Hold on, wasn’t he broke? How did he afford to buy back the whole mill?”
Olivia shook her head, scanning the article. “Despite the significant financial burden, Thompson has pledged to rebuild the mill. When questioned about his sudden wealth, he attributed foresight and frugality.”
Kyle gave a loud scoff. “Guess the foresight didn’t apply to placing bets.”
Silence settled between them.
Olivia read more, her voice low. “Rumors swirl in Westville following Arthur Thompson’s acquisition of PRINCE Milling. Once destitute, Thompson has risen seemingly overnight to reclaim his family’s lost prestige.”
Kyle sat back. “The Ottawa Treasure.”
Austin nodded grimly. “Maybe he did find it. Maybe because of whatever deal he made with that shaman.”
The overhead lights flickered off for a moment, and the microfilm reader powered off and on again.
“What was that?” Olivia said, startled.
“My dad worked on the electrical in this building,” Kyle said. “Said it was a mess.”
The grandfather clock in the corner struck five-thirty, each chime sharp and hollow, rattling through Olivia’s chest.
She stared at the screen, her thoughts spinning.
If Arthur Thompson had made a deal to restore his family’s fortune. If he’d bound himself to whatever ‘bad spirits’ Austin’s grandpa mentioned. That hunger. Maybe it lurked somewhere in Westville.
Maybe Millie’s disappearance wasn’t random. It was part of something much older. Something that was still feeding.
A wave of unease crawled through her. She checked the clock again. 5:35. Kathy would kill her if she wasn’t home before her shift ended, but she couldn’t walk away from this.
She’d already let too much time slip by.
Millie had been gone for over a week now.
That fresh realization struck Olivia like a punch to the ribs, sharp and breath-stealing. In the frantic momentum of their research, she’d let it blur into a problem to be solved, a puzzle with missing pieces. But in the stillness of the library, it crashed back into focus.
Millie was still out there.
Maybe alive. Maybe not.
But someone or something had taken her.
And in her worst nightmares, Olivia saw it: red light and bone-thin shadows, some amorphous jaw stretched wide, and harsh, slicing whispers:
You’re the guilty ones…
Her chair scraped against the floor as she shot to her feet.
“I’ll see you at school,” she said, ignoring their protests and questions.
She needed to talk to someone who could actually do something about this. Someone who might believe her.
The payphone by the vestibule was old, the buttons stiff beneath her fingers with something sticky she didn’t want to know about. She flipped through the directory, skimming quickly past rows of names until she… didn’t find it.
Benson, Casey wasn’t listed. She couldn’t call Aly for his number or his address. Who would have been working the restaurant right now. Because Kathy could answer the phone instead and also her sister would be likely to raise the alarm given Olivia was technically grounded. Technically, because she hadn’t been locked and chained down in her room like some princess in a fairy tale, which was messed up now that she thought about it.
Focus, Liv.
Thinking of the restaurant, she remembered one Sunday morning last year when they’d been having breakfast with the Thompsons at the restaurant after a church service, which Olivia had very much not wanted to go to being only a few weeks removed from Dad dying, knowing full well the well-intended sympathies that would be doled out upon her. And it was, and she wanted to climb down into the gaping sewer grate by the cement stairs up to the sanctuary, right about where they’d found that Indian chief’s bones.
Eyes on the prize, she reminded herself.
She recalled Casey leaving Fischer’s that morning, and not getting in a car. He just walked down the sidewalk, passed the old ‘Roll-Time’ skating rink and turned on the street a block past. And she knew he drove the rusty silver boat of a car (a Monaco something?). If she could just find it, she’d find him.
Olivia closed the fat phonebook, and when she looked up she noticed a golden placard above the payphone.
In memory of Gerald H. Pray, who believed in a brighter future.
She’d read enough about rich old guys to last her a while.
She turned and walked straight into the cold November dusk, striding beneath the marquee of the old Smith Theater, which probably would have been the place to go chasing ghosts given all the superstition around it, whose sign presently was plastered with STAY STRONG WESTVILLE.
Olivia didn’t think some worn-out blocky letters were going to do anyone any good, and as she passed Dawkin’s Saloon and glanced through the windows at the crowd, she thought maybe most people were just finding their own little ways to forget it all.
But Olivia wasn’t going to forget about it. She hoped Casey wouldn’t either.
Because she had a lot to explain.