Next morning, my books were in disarray, titles scrambled out of alphabetical order and all my bookmarks missing. They had been spying on me again. For the rest of the day I pretended to read, while actually listening for any noises from below, and once I wandered back to the children’s section. The carpet square had been slightly raised above the surface. On my hands and knees, I tapped on the panel and realized that a hollow space existed beneath the floorboards. Maybe one or more of the fiends toiled below, hatching plots and tricks to further savage my life. A slight red-haired boy whistled behind my back, and I quickly stood, stamped down on the lid, and went away without a word.
That boy made me anxious, so I went out and stayed on the playground until the library closed. The young librarian noticed me on the swing set, but she turned away and pretended not to care. Alone again, I searched the grounds for evidence. If they had followed me to the library, they must have dug a hole or found a secret entranceway into the building. On my third trip around the building, in the shadows of the sun, I saw him. Behind the back stairs, he squeezed out through a crack in the foundation like a baby being born and stood there for a moment, blinking in the fading light. Afraid that he might attack me, I looked left and right for an escape route. He ran directly at me, as if to seize my throat in his jaws, and then darted away as quickly as a bird in flight, too fast for me to see him clearly, but there is no doubt who it was. A hobgoblin. When the danger passed, I could not keep from laughing.
Nervous for hours, I drove around and found myself at my mother’s place near midnight. While she slept upstairs, I crept through the house gathering supplies: a carpet knife, an iron crowbar, and a coil of strong rope. From the old barn, I stole my father’s ancient kerosene camping lamp, its wire handle dusty and cold to the touch. The wick sputtered when I tried to light the lamp, but it came to life and suffused the long-neglected corner with an unearthly glow.
Insomnia gripped me those last few hours, my mind and body refusing rest until the deed was done. In the predawn gloom, I went back and memorized the layout of the building, figuring out step by step what I was going to do. Patience nearly deserted me. The goblin might have been spooked, so I went about my business as if nothing had ever happened. I spent the day reading a book about remarkable children, gifted savants whose minds were damaged in such a way that they could see the world only through a sole window of sound or mathematics or another abstract system. I would press the hobgoblin for the story of what had really happened to Gustav Ungerland and to me.
But more than any explanation, I simply and desperately wanted my symphony back, for I could not write a note knowing it was gone. Nothing would stop me from making him return the score. I would reason if I could, beg if I must, or steal it back if need be. By now, I was no longer something wild and dangerous, but I was committed to restoring my life.
Unmistakable noises stirred beneath the floor all day. He was back. As the library emptied, I napped in the front seat of my car. Sultry August heat poured in through the windows, and I dozed off longer than intended. The stars had risen, and that short nap had energized me. I slung the rope around me like a bandolier, took out the tools, and skulked over to the side window. There was no telling how far below lay their underworld. Wrapping my fist in a towel, I punched through the glass, unlocked the window, and crawled through the opening. The stacks loomed like a maze of tunnels, the books watching my every movement through the darkness as I crept to the children’s section. Anxious, I spent three wooden matches attempting to light the kerosene lantern. The oily wick smoked and at last caught flame. My shirt clung to my sweaty back, and the heavy air made breathing difficult. With the knife, I cut away the carpet square and saw that it had been glued atop a small trapdoor, easily pried open with the crowbar. A perfect square separated our two worlds.
Light filtered up from below and revealed a cramped room strewn with blankets and books, bottles and dishes. I bent down for a closer look and stuck my head through the hatchway. As quick as a striking snake, his face appeared in front of mine, not inches from my nose. I recognized him at once, for he looked exactly as I had as a young boy. My reflection in an old mirror. His eyes unmasked him, all soul but no substance, and he did not move but stared back silently without blinking, his breath mingling with mine. He expressed no emotion, as if he, too, had been waiting for this moment and for it all to be over.