Helen stared, amazed. She’d moved onto land that supposedly had its own ghost and into a town with its own “spirit circle.” She definitely wasn’t in suburban Connecticut anymore.

Helen walked in, expecting an antiquated library with an old-fashioned paper card catalog. But there were three computers on the left with instructions above for searching the online catalog. There was also a poster explaining that e-books and audiobooks were available electronically. She said hello to the woman behind the desk and did a quick walk through the library: periodicals, audiobooks, reference, nonfiction, and then fiction.

There was a mom with a toddler playing at the train table set up in the brightly painted children’s area, but they were the only other patrons. Helen went back to the computers and searched the online catalog for books about Hartsboro. The only titles she found that focused on Hartsboro itself were the VFW Ladies Auxiliary cookbook (which involved lots of maple and bacon) and a book about the flood of 1927.

She walked up to the desk. “Excuse me. I’m looking for books on Hartsboro history.”

The librarian, a middle-aged woman in a Snoopy sweatshirt, told her she should check out the Hartsboro Historical Society.

“Where’s that?” Helen asked, thrilled to hear such a place existed.

“A couple of doors down on the left, in the basement of the old Elks Lodge. But they’re open funny hours—like every second Saturday or something. You’ll want to call Mary Ann Marsden. She runs the place and she’ll open it up by appointment. I’m sure I’ve got her number here somewhere.” She tapped at her boxy computer. “Here it is!” she chirped, sounding thrilled with herself. She copied the number down on a piece of scrap paper.

“You looking for anything in particular?” the woman asked. “I’ve lived here my whole life and know a thing or two about the town.”

“My husband and I just moved to town and I was hoping to learn a little local history. I’m a—I mean, I was a history teacher. In my old life.” Helen laughed, but she thought, Yes—this is my life now. “Anyway, we’ve bought land out by the Breckenridge Bog and I’d love to find out whatever I can about the area.”

“The Breckenridge place?” The woman smiled, showing small pearly-white teeth. “You bought it from George Decrow, isn’t that right?”

“Yes.” Helen nodded.

“Poor George, such a sweet man. How is he?”

“I’m afraid I don’t know. We never actually met him. Apparently, he’s not in great health and lives out of state.”

“Don’t blame him for not coming back. Not after what happened.”

Helen gave her a blank look. “What happened?”

“The accident, I mean.”

“I didn’t hear anything about it,” Helen admitted.

“Well,” the librarian went on, “his wife, Edie, she nearly drowned in the bog.”