Bibliophile
In the back room of Treasure Hunt Antiques, Douglas Pemberly was removing a pair of Hummel figurines from a box full of Styrofoam packing peanuts. Meanwhile, his husband, Michael Whitby, was checking the email messages on his phone.
"These are in excellent shape," Douglas announced, putting Goebel's porcelain children on a shelf inside a locked case behind the checkout counter. "There was a time when I could have gotten quite a bit of money for these. Unfortunately, with so many collectibles being sold on eBay, the prices have dropped."
"The market isn't what it used to be. That's for sure."
"That's probably one of the reasons my grandfather gave up his spot at the flea market—that and COVID. Speaking of collectibles, what's your article in Collectors Monthly going to be about?"
"Empty perfume bottles. There's a woman in Hartford who has more than three thousand of them," Michael answered.
"Does that mean you're going to Connecticut to interview her and photograph her collection for your book?"
"Perhaps in June or July but not now. There's a trip closer to home I'd like to make first."
"Oh? Where to?"
"Salem. There are two people I'd like to see there. The first is a lady who collects—what else?—witches. Dolls, figurines, stuffed toys—you name it. Her entire attic and basement are dedicated to her massive collection."
"And what about the other person?" Douglas asked.
"He's a bibliophile."
"A book collector? That's pretty common. What's so unusual about him that you want to devote a space in your book to him?"
"His is not your average book collection," the writer explained. "In addition to many valuable old books, he has several volumes that are bound in human flesh."
"Ugh! You won't find those on eBay."
"Why don't you come with me to Salem? It's only half an hour away. You can get Martha to watch the store while we're gone."
Martha Prescott, whose professional name had been Martha St. James when she hosted the Classic Horror Movies series as Belladonna Nightshade, sometimes helped out at the antique shop. Leaving Hollywood behind her, she now supported herself by writing a blog on all things horror-related: movies, books, video games, toys, etc. Since she worked at home and could set her own hours, she often helped out at Treasure Hunt on an as-needed basis.
"Maybe I will," Douglas replied, tempted by his husband's offer. "I'm sure she won't mind."
"She never does. When she works here, she gets first crack at the new merchandise as it comes in."
"Speaking of which, I put aside that early edition of Frankenstein for her. I better give her a call and tell her it's here."
"I read that one recently sold at Christie's for $1.17 million."
"That was a first edition, much more valuable than the one I reserved for Martha."
When the former TV host answered her phone, Douglas asked her if she would be willing to watch the store while he and Michael went to Salem.
"No problem," she replied. "I'll bring my laptop with me so that I can work on my blog if things get slow."
* * *
After parking in the Museum Place Garage, Michael and Douglas walked to Raven Silverwood's home on Turner Street, just two blocks away from the House of the Seven Gables.
"I always enjoy coming to Salem," Douglas announced, "except during October."
"Oh? I thought you liked Halloween."
"I do, but this city gets swamped by tourists during its annual Haunted Happenings."
"I'll bet it's fun, though."
"It is. But it's hard to find parking. Then there are long lines for the attractions, and you have to wait to be served at the restaurants even if you're lucky enough to get a reservation."
"This is it," Michael declared, seeing the number on the house.
Having been expecting the writer's visit, Raven opened the door just moments after he rang the bell. Introductions were quickly made, and the homeowner offered her guests coffee and cake. Between bites of his oversized slice of Boston cream pie, Michael asked his hostess the standard questions he asked all collectors he interviewed and jotted down the answers on a printed form he carried in his messenger bag.
"So, what made you want to collect witches?" Douglas inquired.
"Partly because of where I live. This is Witch City. But, also, ever since I was a child, I've been fascinated by the idea of witchcraft and magic. I must confess I've even tried my hand at casting spells and reading fortunes. I'm no Laurie Cabot, but I'm making progress."
Once they were done with their cake and coffee, Raven led her two guests up the stairs to the attic.
"Do you mind if I take some photographs?" Michael asked.
"No, not at all! I'm quite proud of my collection. Keep in mind, though, that what's up here is only half of it. The rest is downstairs in the basement. I estimate that in another year or two, I may have to hire someone to build a room on top of the garage. I'm running out of space in the house."
Unlike most modern people who rely on their smartphones to take photos, Michael still preferred using a camera: a compact digital Nikon Coolpix. In addition to capturing a wide-angle picture of a large portion of the collection, he also took photographs of special pieces including the first witch she purchased, her favorite, the rarest one and the most expensive.
After leaving Raven Silverwood's house, Douglas suggested they stop for lunch before visiting Selwyn Winehouse, the bibliophile. Not only was it past noon, but it was more than two miles from the Turner Street house to Selwyn's stately home on Chestnut Street. Stopping at Finz Seafood & Grill on Wharf Street would break up the long walk.
"Are you sure you want to eat before seeing books bound in human skin?" Michael laughed.
"I think I can handle it. Besides, if we see the books first, I might lose my appetite."
Having satiated their hunger with clam chowder and the seafood sampler, the two men leisurely strolled through Salem, enjoying the warm spring weather.
"This is nice," Douglas observed. "There are no large crowds to ruin our walk."
"Sometimes I think you're a misanthrope," his husband laughed.
"Not me. I like people—in small doses."
When they arrived at Selwyn's home, both men gazed up at the architectural gem. Neither of them was surprised when a butler answered the door since it was obvious the owner of such a house must be wealthy.
"My name is Whitby. I have an appointment with Mr. Winehouse."
"He's expecting you. Please come in," the servant said and stepped aside so that the two visitors could enter. "If you care to wait in the parlor, Mr. Winehouse will be with you shortly."
"Which one of you is the writer?" a distinguished-looking gray-haired gentleman asked as he entered the room.
"I am," Michael replied. "This is my partner, Douglas Pemberly."
"Pleased to meet you both. Would either of you like something to drink?"
"No, thank you. We just had lunch down at Finz."
"Well, why don't we get right to it, then?" Selwyn suggested.
"By all means. I hope you don't mind answering some routine questions before you show us your collection."
"Why do you want to know?"
Michael took out another blank form that he filled in with the collector's responses.
"That's it," he announced after completing the questionnaire. "Do you mind if I take some photos?"
"No. Go right ahead."
Like Raven Silverwood's witches, the old man's collection was divided between two areas of his house. His first editions, signed copies and rare books were kept in a large library located off the main entrance. There were thousands of volumes organized on floor-to-ceiling bookcases that lined the walls. A rolling library ladder gave access to the uppermost shelves.
"Is that what I think it is?" Douglas cried with astonishment when he saw one of the books that were displayed in glass cases in the center of the room.
"Yes, it is," Selwyn answered. "It's Shakespeare's First Folio."
"But this must be worth a fortune!"
"I believe it's currently valued at over five million. I inherited that copy from my father. It's been in the family for generations. The same can be said for the Gutenberg Bible over there."
"These are museum pieces!"
"As are many of the books on the shelves. I've got first editions by writers such as Dickens, Hemingway, Fitzgerald, Hawthorne, Austen, Chaucer and so on."
Although his husband was captivated by the priceless volumes in the library, Michael was interested in seeing the more macabre items in Selwyn's collection.
"This is quite an impressive accumulation of books you have," he said, "but I'm eager to see your samples of anthropodermic bibliopegy."
"You even know the correct terminology. I'm impressed," Winehouse said with a sinister smile that made the writer cringe.
"Michael likes to be prepared for his interviews," Douglas said proudly. "He spends hours doing his homework."
"Follow me. They're right this way," the old man said after pressing a button beneath his desk that triggered the opening of a secret room hidden behind a bookcase.
"If you don't mind," the antique dealer said, "I'd prefer to peruse these books instead."
"Go right ahead. Feel free to take them down from the shelf and examine them while I show your partner my true treasures."
Once Michael and the old men entered the secret room, the bookcase slid closed behind them. Engrossed in thumbing through a signed copy of A Tale of Two Cities, Douglas took no notice.
* * *
After putting a first edition of James Fenimore Cooper's The Last of the Mohicans back on the shelf, Douglas looked at his watch. He was amazed that more than two hours had passed since he and his husband entered Selwyn Winehouse's Chestnut Street home.
"Michael?" he called in the direction of the secret room. "Are you almost ready to leave? You don't want to get caught in rush-hour traffic."
Receiving no reply, he walked to the bookcase that doubled as a door. He raised his voice and called out again.
"Can you hear me?"
Silence.
He reached into his pocket and took out his cell phone. He dialed Michael's number, and although he could hear it ring on the other side of the wall, the call went to voicemail.
"Michael," he shouted. "Are you still there?"
He walked to the desk and searched for the button that Selwyn had pushed to open the secret door.
It was here somewhere, he thought but was unable to locate it.
He crossed the room to the bookcase, but despite throwing his weight against the shelves, it didn't budget. Perhaps there was another door in the secret room, one that led to another part of the house. Douglas left the library and returned to the entrance hall.
"Michael?" he shouted.
He searched the rooms on the first floor, but there was no sign of either his husband or Selwyn Winehouse.
Where could they have gone? he wondered, beginning to worry.
Although always one to respect another person's privacy, he climbed the stairs and searched the rooms on the second floor.
"Michael, where are you?"
For more than an hour, Douglas searched the eighteenth-century home including the cellar, attic and the small backyard.
Even the butler seems to have disappeared.
At a loss for where to look next, he tried calling Michael's cell phone again. For the second time, the call went to his husband's voicemail. Phone still in hand, he dialed 911. When the operator answered, he asked for the police and reported his husband's disappearance. A police car pulled up in front of the Chestnut Street house less than ten minutes later.
"He and Mr. Winehouse, the homeowner, went into a room hidden behind this bookshelf," Douglas explained.
"How did they get in there?" Officer Jack Merkle asked.
"I saw Mr. Winehouse reach for a button below the desk, but I can't find it."
The patrolman had no better luck than Douglas did in locating it.
"Would you like to report your partner as a missing person?"
"Don't I have to wait twenty-four hours before doing that?"
"No. Not in Massachusetts."
Once Merkle left, taking a photograph of Michael with him to forward to all police officers in the area, Douglas tried one last time to phone his husband. For the third time, the call went to voicemail.
* * *
Had Douglas been in Puritan Falls or back in Savannah where he and Michael lived prior to opening Treasure Hunt Antiques, he would have returned home at that point and waited by the phone for word from the police. But he was in Salem, Massachusetts, home to a large population of witches, psychics, fortunetellers and followers of diverse New Age beliefs. Normally, he put no faith in paranormal solutions, but he felt he had nowhere else to turn.
I can't just wait around for the police to find Michael, he thought. Maybe Raven Silverwood could recommend someone who can help me locate him.
Phone in hand, in case the police or his husband should try to contact him, Douglas returned to the house on Turner Street.
"You're back," Raven said with surprise. "Did you forget something?"
"No. I was hoping you could help me."
"If I can. Where's Michael?" she asked, leaning out the door and glancing down the street.
"He's missing. That's why I need your help. Do you know of someone here in Salem who might be able to help me find him?"
"Why don't you come in?" the witch collector asked, holding open the door for him.
As they sat down at the kitchen table, Raven asked Douglas if he had something of Michael's with him.
"I'm afraid not. I don't normally—wait! I drove here from Puritan Falls, but I took his Forester because my car was in the shop."
He reached into his pocket and laid Michael's keyring on the table.
"Will this do?" he asked.
Raven held the Subaru keys tightly in her hand and closed her eyes. The room was quiet. Only the ticking of the grandfather clock in the parlor broke the silence.
"I see a book," the witch said.
"We were in the library of a house on Chestnut Street when he went missing."
"It's not an ordinary book," she continued with a shudder. "It contains a person's life."
"You mean it's a biography."
"No. It's not a story. It's an actual life. The book is covered in human skin."
How could she have known that? Douglas wondered. Neither Michael nor I mentioned it when we were here this morning.
"I'm having difficulty seeing the title. It's ... it's Hervé Latrobe," Raven moaned with horror. "We must find Michael. He's in trouble."
"What?"
"He's trapped in the book and can't find his way out."
Although Douglas did not fully understand the danger his husband faced, he trembled with fear.
"We have to find him and take that book away!"
"But I don't know where he is!"
"I do. He's still in that room."
"Neither I nor Officer Merkle could get inside."
"We must force the bookcase open with a pry bar. There's one in my garage. Hurry! We'll take my car."
With Raven behind the wheel, Douglas googled the name Hervé Latrobe on his cell phone. He found an old article from a New Jersey newspaper that described the execution of a French immigrant who murdered three people in Morristown in 1833. Once dead, his body was cut down from the gallows and delivered to a surgeon for dissection. In addition to using the dead man's organs for medical research, the doctor sold the skin to a tanner who preserved the hide. There was enough of the human leather to make three wallets and bind a book.
"Good God! That book you saw was made from the skin of a murderer!" Douglas cried.
Raven's Honda screeched to a halt in front of the Chestnut Street house. Without bothering to lock the vehicle's doors, the witch and the antique dealer raced up the walkway and into the house. Although neither was known for physical strength, they were able to exert enough force on the pry bar to splinter the wood of the bookcase. Inside the secret room, Michael appeared to be in a trance. He held the book bound in Hervé Latrobe's skin firmly in his grasp.
"Michael!" his husband screamed in an attempt to break the spell he was under. "Can you hear me?"
"Get the book from him," the witch instructed. "But be careful. You don't want to fall under its spell, too."
Rather than touch the book, Douglas swung the pry bar and knocked the volume out of his partner's hands. Michael blinked and breathed deeply. It was as though he had woken from a deep sleep.
"W-where am I?" he stammered.
"Don't worry about that now. Let's get out of here!"
Once out of the house, the writer seemed to fully recover his senses.
"That book ...."
"Forget about it," his husband urged.
"I was no longer myself. I was Hervé Latrobe. It was horrible! I experienced the murders of that family in Morristown and the trial that followed."
"Don't. It's over now."
"I was going to be hanged. If you hadn't knocked that book out of my hand ...."
Raven Silverwood suddenly ran out of the front door. Once on the sidewalk, she reached into her pocket and handed Douglas Michael's set of keys.
"Where did you park?" she asked.
"At the Museum Place Garage," the antique dealer answered.
"Come on. I'll drive you there."
No sooner did the two men get inside the witch's Honda than they smelled the acrid odor of smoke and burning wood.
"Something is on fire," Michael announced.
"It's the library," Raven explained.
"All those rare and valuable books!" Douglas exclaimed with regret.
"They'll be safe. The fire will burn itself out once the contents of the secret room are consumed."
"And Selwyn Winehouse?"
"He'll be all right, but his collection will never be the same."
* * *
When Douglas drove past Treasure Hunt Antiques, he noticed that the lights were out. Martha had closed the shop at six. He sent her a text and thanked her. He also apologized for returning to Puritan Falls so late.
"You didn't tell her what happened to us in Salem, did you?" Michael asked when his husband put the cell phone away.
"No. The less said about that the better."
"I agree. I'd just as soon forget about Selwyn Winehouse and his macabre collection. Instead, I'll write about those empty perfume bottles in Hartford."
"What about Raven Silverwood's witches? Do they warrant a chapter in your book?"
"Yes, if for no other reason than we owe it to her. Without her help, I might have found myself at the end of a rope in the nightmare world of Hervé Latrobe."
This story was inspired by New Jersey murderer Antoine le Blanc. After being executed in 1833, his body was dissected, and his skin was used to make wallets, lampshades and book jackets.
No need to be afraid, Salem. This book may be shaped like a cat but it isn't made from the fur of one.
