The Library of Shadows

by Rachel Moore

Genres: YA Romance; YA Fantasy; YA Paranormal

Synopsis

Funny, moving, and heart-achingly real, this romantic romp and paranormal romcom debut—through a haunted library with trapdoors, ghosts, and memories—is full of great love that triumphs over even death, perfect for fans of Ninth House and Cemetery Boys.

Radcliffe Prep. The third most haunted school in the country, where a student disappearance isn’t uncommon and no one dares stay in the library after dark. And Este Logano enrolls with the hopes of finding her dead father.

Not literally, of course. She doesn’t believe in ghosts. Going to her dad’s school just seems like her best hope at figuring out who he was.

But then Este meets Mateo, who is maybe—probably—definitely—a real ghost. And an annoying one at that.

When Mateo frames Este for the theft of a rare book from the library’s secret spire and then vanishes, Este will have to track him down or risk being expelled and leaving Radcliffe early just like her father did.

Except following her father’s footsteps might be more dangerous than Este ever anticipated. As she investigates the library with its secret passageways, hidden tunnels, and haunted halls, she learns that the student disappearances aren’t just myth. And if she isn’t careful, she’ll be next.

Release date: September 5, 2023

Publisher: HarperCollins

Print pages: 368

Sample

One

Este’s new roommate was a ghost and not a particularly good one.

Standing on the other side of the cedar door to Vespertine Hall 503, a teenage girl under a paisley bedsheet said, “Oh, my god, Este, hi! You’re here.”

On Este’s first day at Radcliffe Prep, what she really wanted was a chance to soak it all in. The way the light streaked through the white pines outside the windows. How the original hardwood floors from 1901 felt beneath her feet. The fact that she was finally here, really here.

Instead, she walked straight into auditions for Casper the Friendly Ghost.

According to her orientation paperwork, the person underneath had to be Este’s roommate, Posy Thatch: fellow incoming junior, night owl, and amateur journalist. On paper (or, technically, the roommate assignment quiz new students had been forced to take), they were a perfect match.

But in reality? Two holes had been cut out of the still-wrinkled sheet for a pair of wide green eyes, and they blinked at Este, expectant.

Este nudged the door closed behind her. “And you’re haunting our dorm room?”

“Unpacking.” Posy stripped off her makeshift costume, revealing a Radcliffe Prep hoodie with the tag still on, a spray of staticky orange hair, and a wide grin. “My little brothers made this as a going-away present in case there’s a Halloween party. Mom was not happy. I’m sure you know how it is.”

“Not exactly.” Este readjusted the straps of her backpack just to do something with her hands.

She and her mom had spent the last three years living on pinstripe highways and borrowed time, never staying in one place long enough to settle down. Even now, her mom must have been zipping back down the Vermont mountainsides on her way to anywhere but here. Hadn’t even bothered to walk her to orientation. She’d dropped Este off at the boarding school’s towering iron gates, her grief too heavy to carry inside the Radcliffe grounds. Was that the kind of thing you told your brand-new roommate on day one?

She settled on saying, “I’m an only child.”

Posy seemed undeterred by her deer-in-the-headlights expression. “Oh, okay. Cool! Let me show you around.”

Este didn’t bother informing Posy that their suite was small enough that she could practically see it all from the front door. A tiny kitchenette—mini fridge, microwave, a hot plate, and a sink—opened to the shared living space. There, a green claw-foot couch took up most of the square footage, and the rest was occupied by a bookshelf and a coffee table splayed with gizmos and gadgets that definitely hadn’t been on the suggested-packing list. Doors on either side of the living room were their bedrooms, 503A and 503B.

All in all, it was a huge improvement from the Motel 6 she had just left.

“I took this room,” Posy said, heading left to 503B. “Hope that’s okay. The energy just pulled me here. I haven’t scanned the frequencies yet, but it totally feels haunted. Don’t you think?”

“Um,” Este said, shifting her weight between her heels, “can you define haunted?”

Mostly, the room felt incredibly pink. Posy had done some serious redecorating because there was no way this much pastel was school-sanctioned. Christmas lights wrapped around four posters of the bedframe, and a polka dot duvet had been tucked around the mattress. Next to a behemoth of a printer that belonged to the last decade, there was a pencil cup stuffed to the brim with gel pens and a teetering stack of scented candles. And that was just the beginning.

On the wall, Posy

had plastered a mosaic of memories. Photos from Posy’s past patterned her room—her arms slung over her friends’ shoulders at football games, planting a kiss on someone’s suntanned cheek, and dressed up in homecoming garb with flowers dangling off her wrist and a boy off her arm. There were family photos with her squished between her siblings, each of them wearing broad smiles and a face full of freckles. This must have been Posy’s first time away from her family, her first time standing on her own legs, her first time alone.

Este’s chest tightened. She knew alone a little too well. Alone carved out a canyon in her chest, deep grooves of a river run dry. She didn’t know how to fill it back up. She wasn’t sure she even wanted to, just for it to empty again.

Posy waved her arms around the room as if Este should be able to see the obvious paranormal activity happening right in front of her. “You know, ghosts, specters, spirits that can’t move on. Radcliffe Prep is the nation’s third most haunted high school, so, I’m not surprised. I swear, I’ve seen the lights flicker so many times already.”

“Is that what all that stuff in the living room’s for? Ghost hunting?”

It was easy to see Posy settle into her element—the weight shifted off her shoulders, a light flared behind her eyes. Like she’d been waiting for Este to ask. “Yep. I spent, like, all my summer job money on it so that I would be prepared.”

Este forced a smile. She didn’t have the heart to tell her she didn’t believe in ghosts. At least, not anymore. She wasn’t sure she could survive an entire school year if her roommate hated her for being a skeptic. As far as friends went, Este usually kept a grand total of zero.

Unlike the shrine to T.J. Maxx Posy had created in 503B, when they got to Este’s room, it looked just like the brochures. Designed for substance, not style. Bed, closet, and a small desk situated in the corner. Gauzy sunlight pooled through windows that probably hadn’t been dusted since before the turn of the millennium.

Radcliffe Preparatory Academy was an exclusive college preparatory school with a curriculum reserved for eleventh and twelfth graders on an Ivy League track. And, now, Este.

Excitement flared behind her ribs as she dropped onto the bed. The closest thing to home sweet home she’d had in a long time. She dumped the contents of her backpack onto the mattress, and Posy disappeared into the living room only to return with one of the devices from the coffee table. This one looked like a Nintendo Switch but was evidently supposed to be super serious ghost-hunting equipment.

“What are you doing?” she asked. Were roommates supposed to be this . . . involved?

Posy’s gadget chirped in response.

“It’s an EMF reader. I’m checking for electromagnetic frequencies,” Posy said, shoving the scanner halfway under Este’s bed. “They’re the telltale sign of a supernatural presence.”

“Is it working?” Este grabbed a stack of sweaters she’d used as packing protection and unwrapped them from around three framed photos. It

wasn’t enough to make an entire art installation like Posy, but they were hers. In each, her dad stared up at her.

There was a picture from her eighth birthday, where she clung to her dad’s side, holding up her first library card. Her: pigtails. Him: mustache. It wasn’t a great era for either of them.

Next, he was shaking hands with the marble statue in the center of the fountain in the courtyard. Este had passed it on her walk to the dormitory and recognized it in the space between heartbeats. In this photo, it was easy enough to see the way she resembled him. She’d inherited his brown hair, his hazel eyes, and his Cupid’s-bowed lips. And somewhere, stuffed in her backpack, she still had the vintage Radcliffe crewneck he wore, except now the sleeves were frayed from overuse.

In the last photo, he was her age, sixteen and spindly, standing in front of the door to Vespertine Hall 503A. The photo was grainy and faded, crinkled at the edges, and he’d written First day at Radcliffe, September 1997 in the corner, the ink smudged with the heel of his left hand. She’d scanned the photo and sent it to the dean of students to ask—okay, beg—to be put in the room he had. At the time, the school’s response had been lukewarm. Your request has been received and will be considered.

But here she was. Standing in the same place he stood, filling the same space he did.

Posy hummed, standing back up. “Oh, yeah. There’s something seriously spooky going on here.”

Suppressing the urge to laugh, Este set the frames on the desk and then dug through her pile of belongings for a book. The green binding was a familiar texture between her fingers. A book of stories, a present from her dad. She must have had every word on the deckle-edged pages memorized, but there was a comfort in her old favorite tales that Este couldn’t resist.

She knew every line, every stamp of ink, every dog-eared corner. She used to run her fingers over the blank pages bound at the end—a place for her to pen her own story someday. Blue writing stained the flyleaf with her dad’s scribbled penmanship. From the library of Este Logano, he’d written and underlined. Beneath it, he wrote, There is life, there is death, and there is love—the greatest of these is love.

When he died a few years after writing those words, Este knew he’d gotten it all wrong. They laid him to rest in the dusty cemetery down the road from their little blue Paso Robles home, and no matter how much love her broken heart spilled, he stayed buried.

For a while, Este had been desperate to believe in ghosts, to see her dad’s face or hear his voice one more time. Searching for shapes in the dark was like ripping scabs off soft wounds, refusing to let them heal. At some point, she had to give up. Ghosts couldn’t be real because if they were, she would have seen his by now.

But at least she had the chance to explore his old stomping grounds, and maybe the

was enough.

Posy’s gear released a string of beeps that sounded not unlike a stray cat finding a field mouse. “Houston, we have a ghost!”

As Posy swung the scanner around, searching for the source, Este muttered, “All that’s dead in here are the batteries in that thing.”

“If you can hear me, send us a sign.” Posy climbed onto Este’s bed, stretching the scanner toward the ceiling the way she’d sometimes seen her mom do to find cell phone service in the desert. “Is the temperature dropping? It feels colder.”

A door slammed shut somewhere down the hall. Posy’s eyebrows shot up, but Este shook her head. She had to give it to her. Posy was nothing if not persistent.

“It’s move-in day,” Este said, thumbing over the coarse pages of her book. “Not The Haunting of Hill House.”

Posy jumped down with a thud, sweeping the Magic Ghost Detector over the closet door, the single-paned window, and the desk. Este ducked under her roommate’s wayward arm to set her book next to the photos.

“Are you sure?” Posy asked, tilting her head to listen for more signs of afterlife. “Because it sounded like—”

A knock pounded against their front door, and Posy skittered backward with a yelp, ramming her back against the desk. One of Este’s picture frames teetered. There were only milliseconds between Este’s shocked gasp and glass shards scattering across the floor.

No, no, no. Este collapsed to the damages. Her hand hovered over the chipped frame. Posy had hundreds, thousands, of photos with her family, her friends. Este had only three left of her dad.

Posy’s voice sounded faraway, even as she crouched next to her. “Este, I’m so sorry. I really didn’t mean to.”

Impatient, the visitor knocked again.

“Go,” Este said between her teeth.

“Maybe I can help put it back together.”

Prickly tears welled in Este’s eyes, but she wouldn’t let Posy see her cry. They weren’t close like that. She forced her voice light as she replied, “Please, just. Get the door.”

This time, Posy nodded. When she peeled open the door, a vaguely familiar voice filtered into Este’s room. Probably the dorm’s faculty advisor Dr. Kirk, who doubled as a history teacher, spouting off reminders about curfews and visiting hours. Este barely heard it as she blew out a shaking breath and assessed the wreckage.

Sparkling glass had scattered across the floorboards as the frame shattered, snapping in half. The frame had slammed against the baseboard, cracking, and its black backing had ricocheted under the desk. Este pressed a finger to the edge of the frame where the corner had snapped off with impact, leaving exposed a patch of unpainted wood. Thankfully, the photo inside was left unscathed. Este and her dad still smiled, frozen in time at the Paso Robles City Library. Safe and unknowing.

Este nudged the sharp pieces into a pile by the wall. That would have to do for now. She slid the photo and the remnants of the frame onto the desk and then crouched to swipe the backing from underneath.

No sooner than Este had it in her hands, she dropped it again. The backing slipped from her fingertips, heavier than anticipated. On the inside, a solid brass key wrapped in a leather cord had been taped down.

Her heart leaped toward her throat. First of all, what was that? And secondly, how did it get inside her picture frame—or, more importantly, why was it there at all?

“You okay?” Posy asked, back again too soon.

Este tried to stand too quickly and knocked her head against the bottom of the desk, wincing. Brightly, she said, “Dandy.”

She scooted the backing onto the desk as quickly as possible, trying to look casual. There was no way she looked casual. Finding a key hidden inside her picture frame? That was the definition of not casual.

“Here. I hope this helps.” Posy hesitated at the doorframe with a broom, a dustpan, and a sorry look on her freckled face, like a TV vampire who had to ask for entry. Which meant that in the fifteen minutes they’d known each other, Este had already pushed her away like she did everyone else. For a moment, Posy’s jaw hung open as if she had more to say—another apology, another errant, phantom trivia fact?—but she shrugged, shaking it away. Instead, she said, “Dr. Kirk’s campus tour starts in ten minutes. We’re meeting in the lobby.”

Este thanked her with her best fake smile, and it was enough to convince Posy to disappear around the corner. She lobbed a goodbye Este’s way before closing the front door behind her. The moment her roommate was gone, Este yanked the key off the backing.

She cradled it loosely in her fingers, then gently unwound its leather string to stare at the key. It looked like the kind that probably opened doors that had no business being unlocked. The key’s bow had been intricately wrought with a flower of interlacing metal, and the cord looped through one of the petals like the chain of a necklace.

The photo from that day at the Paso Robles library watched as she examined it. Her dad had always said this was his favorite photo of them. Twin smiles in a place they loved most. Now, she knew why. Este slipped the cord around her neck, and her dad’s brass key fitted itself over her heart. Like it belonged. Like she did.

Whatever it led to,

she would find it.

The halls around her quieted as students gathered in the lobby for the tour, and she needed to join them. She literally couldn’t afford to make a bad impression. Her enrollment hinged on a generous legacy scholarship, offered so that she could pick up where her father left off since he’d unceremoniously transferred schools halfway through autumn. She’d always thought legacy scholarships were given to people who had actually graduated, but hey, who was she to turn down free tuition and the opportunity to wear as many turtlenecks as her heart desired?

Este raced through Vespertine Hall’s carpeted floors, down the cedar staircases, until she hit the lobby, but the group was already outside. Campus was composed of sunbaked brick, strewn with creeping juniper and honeysuckle blooms. Students carried stacks of books against their chests, clasped steaming cups of coffee, and whispered to each other on garden benches. A cloud had crawled over the sun, blotting out the afternoon warmth and replacing it with an evergreen breeze. Este could spend an eternity drifting between the trunks of black birches and hemlocks.

Ahead, Posy’s burnt sienna ponytail bobbed at the back of Dr. Kirk’s tour. Forty or so students filed into the doors of the Lilith Radcliffe Memorial Library, Radcliffe Prep’s crown jewel.

Este gasped at the sight of the ribbed vaults and gargoyled eaves. Windows dotted the exterior, and her gaze snagged on a boy perched in a windowed alcove behind the shade of a leafy maple. He’d rolled up the sleeves of his wrinkled white button-down, and black hair curled over his forehead like spills of ink.

He must have been a senior since he wasn’t trailing behind Dr. Kirk for a first look at the school. The boy glanced up from the notebook he was writing in, the pages cradled against his knees. Este couldn’t look away, and he looked right back.

“Este!” Posy called from up ahead. “I brought an EMF reader for you!”

Her roommate broke off from the rest of the group and fast-walked toward her, one of the coffee-table gizmos clutched in her hand. She now wore a fisherman’s vest, splattered with iron-on patches and enamel pins. The scanner chimed with every step.

Of course. A peace offering by way of paranormal investigating.

Este forced a smile. “I wouldn’t know how to use it. You should hold on to it.”

“Suit yourself,” Posy said, wagging the EMF reader toward the Lilith’s exterior. It let out a high-pitched ring, and Posy squealed in response. “I told you this place was totally haunted.”

Searching the alcoves, Este found the boy again. He’d closed his notebook and instead fixated on the spectacle Posy was creating with a smirk curling the edge of his mouth.

And then, he winked. At her.

Heat flared across her cheeks, and it had nothing to do with the way the late afternoon sun crept out from behind the clouds. Was it possible to die of embarrassment?

When Este finally dared to peek back at the window seat, shielding her eyes from the sun with her hand like a visor, the boy had vanished. Off to read Proust or contemplate Nietzsche or whatever it was private-school boys like him did with their spare time. Her heart thrummed against her rib cage, but she dug her nails into the denim threads on her thighs. Good, she thought. Stay focused. She wasn’t here to drool over upperclassmen with alarmingly sharp jawlines. Este came to Radcliffe to follow in her father’s footsteps, and each one led straight to the library.

 

Two

Posy’s pockets would not stop beeping, which was not ideal for a library in general, and definitely not ideal while Dr. Kirk waxed poetic about the Lilith Library’s hundred-year history.

Este had joined Posy at the back of the group right as Dr. Kirk launched into her spiel. She was a short Black woman, easily nearing seventy with her salt-and-pepper curls braided tightly around her head, but the way she walked backward made Este think she could probably lead this tour in her sleep.

“What’s that?” Posy had asked, eyeing the key around her neck.

“Nothing.” Este tucked the key underneath her sweater a little too quickly and motioned for Posy to pay attention.

Now, Dr. Kirk led them around the perimeter of the first floor, doing a decent enough job of ignoring the endless stream of interruptions coming from Posy’s fisherman’s vest. “The Lilith has been Radcliffe Prep’s academic cornerstone since the school was founded in 1901. Materials in these collections date hundreds, even thousands, of years back. In 1917, less than two decades after the school opened its doors, a fire—”

Beep.

“—threatened to burn it down. Thankfully, it began in the spire, and, because it’s carved entirely of stone, the fire didn’t spread. Open flames in the Lilith, as you might expect, now require supervision from library staff, and today the spire houses heirlooms from the Radcliffe family themselves.”

Beep.

Toward the front, someone raised a hand and asked, “Can we go up there?”

“Unfortunately,” Dr. Kirk said, leading them between narrow shelves, “access to the spire is prohibited. For the protection of the collection, you see. However, you’ll find plenty of resources among the Lilith’s main floors if you’re—”

Beep, beep, beeeeeep.

“Can you lower the volume or something?” Este whispered, harsher than intended.

“No way. The readings are off the charts in here.” Posy pulled the EMF reader from her vest and smacked it against her hand, trying to still the rapidly rising number on the scanner’s dim screen. “You know some scholars think the fire was started on purpose.”

Este dragged her fingertips along the rumble strip of book spines. The thought of losing even a sentence of this collection made her stomach knot like a yoga class.

To say the Lilith was impressive would be the understatement of the century. Hollow in the center, five sweeping stories rose around them. A vaulted glass ceiling glittered hundreds of feet above them, drenching the library in saffron sunlight. Jutting out of the east wing, a stone spire loomed overhead, braided into the whipped clouds. Night was creeping in quickly, but through the peaked windows, a soft September glow clung to the oak trees’ first golden leaves. Vermont in the fall was something striking.

Shelves that stretched to the soffits lined each wall, and every section boasted a rolling ladder to reach the highest books. Layer after layer of bookcases sat laden with leather-bound texts that promised the dusty scent of old books and fading ink. A crooked banner hung from the second-floor banister and read Welcome, Students!

One day, she would know every inch of this library like the back of a well-worn cataloging card, but tonight was her first time treading hallowed ground. She’d imagined this library a million times, but nothing compared to finally pacing the polished floors.

“Why would anyone try to destroy this?” she asked, realizing Posy was next to her, staring up at the spire curiously like she was thinking about fires and phantoms.

“I don’t know. What motive does anyone have for arson? Destroying evidence, amateur witchcraft, a desperate attempt to stay warm in a Green Mountains winter before the invention of central heating

.” Posy pocketed the EMF reader and retrieved a silver laser pointer. “Sixty-seven degrees, but I’ll have to keep an eye on it.”

That last part she said mostly to herself, but even whispering, Posy snagged the attention of a few students around them. As Dr. Kirk guided them up a polished staircase, a boy with warm brown skin and a head of tight curls that had been bleached at the tips poked Posy’s fancy thermometer with a painted index finger.

“Can that really find ghosts?” he asked.

Not in a million years, Este thought. She walked faster, craning an ear to hear Dr. Kirk announce that the Lilith’s hidden passageways are “technically off-limits to students, but great if you need a shortcut to class, as long as you don’t get caught,” and how they’re “easy enough to find if you know where to look,” and “no, I won’t show you, but there’s a suspicious-looking painting on the fifth floor you might find interesting.”

“Find ghosts? Absolutely,” Posy said to the boy. She’d clearly lost all interest in Dr. Kirk. “Shadows, ghosts, wraiths, fades, poltergeists, ectoplasm, and apparitions all create cold spots. You’ll know it when you feel it.”

A towheaded boy twice Este’s size butted in, saying, “Dude, I didn’t think this place was actually haunted.” Pale with ruddy cheeks, he wore a wide-strapped tank top and had a lacrosse stick looped over a sunburned shoulder like he’d just run off the field from practice.

“I’m Arthur Wilhite,” the first boy said. “This is my roommate, Shepherd Healy. He knows nothing.”

Posy took the liberty of introducing them. ...