CHAPTER 1

As a rule, men worry more about what they can't seethan about what they can.

— Julius Caesar

"Don't go there. It's not time. We're not ready."

Kayla peered into the shadow-filled room. She didn't know if her heart was pounding because of the ascent up the stairs or due to anticipation. Her breathing halted momentarily due to the musty, damp odor that permeated the room. Her eyes widened as she strained to see what the room possessed. Windows on the opposite wall distorted her vision. The shadows danced, black on more black. Perhaps moving tree limbs were creating them, but it was unclear; it was too dark.

She heard a subtle schussing. Could be tree limbs, but then again? Though somewhat anxious and heart still pounding, Kayla was definitely intrigued, despite what her colleague, Henry, was whispering.

"I think it's okay. I know it's okay," Kayla whispered back with conviction.

She moved stealthily into the room and flashed successive photos, creating a strobe light effect for anyone watching from the street.

"That's it. Let's go," Kayla said, turning hastily to leave. But from the corner of her eye, she caught a movement. It passed in front of one of the windows. The movement was large enough that it obstructed even her minimal vision for a split-second.

"Did you see that?"

"What?"

Kayla glanced back to see if she could make anything out, but whatever it was, if there had been anything at all, it did not reappear.

* * *

The motion detector light flicked on as Kayla pulled into her narrow driveway in the alley behind West Fourth Street. She jumped out of her car and headed quickly to her shed with her camera and other paraphernalia. In fact, it wasn't actually a shed. It had been a carriage house way back when. It had remained on the property in a rather dilapidated state, so she'd turned it into a darkroom after installing electricity and plumbing. The interior was primarily brick, though one wall was stone. Kayla had left the old wavy glass windows in but had strengthened their support by replacing some of the wood frames that had developed wood rot. A corner built-in wardrobe was the only furniture that had been in the building. She had built-in wardrobes in her house, too. The floor was also brick, so she'd added thick carpets for ambiance as well as winter warmth — a necessity given the twenty-foot ceiling. Locals reckoned it had been built in the late 1700s.

The carriage house was a bit spooky, too. Over the years, it had been a residence, with living quarters for the caretaker in the tiny upstairs with its tiny fireplace. Kayla often thought that even though people were shorter back then, compared to now, the caretaker must have walked around all hunched over when he went upstairs. She always did.

Kayla's house was old too, but not this old. The realtor had told her it was built in the 1860s. It stood about five hundred feet from the former carriage house. It also had the wavy glass windows. She'd been lucky enough to buy it after selling her house in Fairfax County, Virginia, where she'd worked as a commercial photographer: family photos, crying babies, uncooperative dogs, and argumentative weddings. Working for a paranormal agency was quite a step up, Kayla figured, and after moving to Frederick, she felt like she owned a piece of history.

Now, finally, she could get to work. Being in her darkroom was one of Kayla's most satisfying times. Here, all of the hard work and intrigue came to fruition. Actually, that wasn't exactly right. It might come to fruition. That type of outcome, the fruition thing, was a rarity, but it was the possibility that drove her. Kayla entered the room with that usual feeling of anticipation and kicked on Frank Sinatra or Ol' Blue Eyes as his ardent fans called him.

Even the lingering acerbic smell of the chemicals from the last time she'd been here excited her. Being a photographer had been a dream since fifth grade. Mrs. Gleason, Kayla's teacher, became one of her favorite adults that wonderful school year. The way Mrs. Gleason taught American history was unique. For every historical event the syllabus required, if the textbook did not include a female who also played an impactful role, Mrs. Gleason found one. During the session about the Great Depression, Mrs. Gleason introduced the class to Dorothea Lange and her iconic photo Human Erosion in California (Migrant Mother). Kayla cried when she saw it. Here was a pretty woman with two small, unkempt children clutching their mother as she held an infant. To Kayla, the deep lines of worry etched in the mother's face suggested utter hopelessness.

She was right. Mrs. Gleason explained that the woman photographed by Lange was thirty-two but looked at least ten years older. She, her husband, and seven children lived in a lean-to. They were sustained by frozen vegetables from the ground and birds that the children killed. Lange sent her captivating yet heartbreaking photos and written descriptions to a local newspaper, which sent them to the White House. Kayla smiled while thinking about what happened next: President Franklin D. Roosevelt had twenty thousand pounds of food sent to the migrant workers.

That was then, Kayla thought, and now, eighty years later, an improvement in humanity is a certainty; isn't it?

Kayla knew right then and there that she, too, wanted to be a photographer. She was going to make people's lives better through her photos, just as Lange had. The documentary photographer, along with Mrs. Gleason, were her role models and heroes.

She hadn't made it to that pinnacle yet. In fact, she'd been a regular commercial photographer, until that night at the bar when she'd met the Dulany Paranormal Team. But she couldn't think about that now. She had work to do.

Kayla set up her trays as she'd done so many times before and then held her negatives up to the light. She cross-referenced them with her digital photos, trying to detect any difference. Disappointed, she noted nothing of interest within the digital set.

She nonetheless persevered and examined the negatives, beginning with the one she wanted to enlarge first — the last photo she'd taken just an hour ago. Kayla turned on the light and then set the lens aperture and adjusted the focus. It was a black-and-white photo, and she wanted to make it as sharp as possible. She'd learned that black and white were more conducive to contrast compared to color photos, and given the nature of the pictures, contrast was imperative. Lange's photos were so impressive in part because they were black-and-white, a fact that added to Kayla's commitment to excellence.

Kayla developed her test strip and then examined the results. Of the six photos, one turned out to be especially crisp. It was the one she most wanted to develop.

As the image began to appear, Kayla held her breath. Once it formed, she turned on the bright lights, shook it, and hung it up to dry.

Then she pulled out her magnifying glass. Slowly, slowly, she circled the glass around the photo, looking for anything out of the ordinary.

What was that? She could not get a good fix on something in the corner. Too dark.

She zoomed in to enlarge just that area of the negative. It took up the whole of the photo paper. Again, after pinning it up to dry, she looked closely with the magnifying glass.

Finally, it was dry. She removed it and set it on her desk, where she could get closer to it. Rolling her chair up to the table, Kayla examined it with her magnifying glass, scrutinizing it. There it was. Something shiny white was in that corner, about four or five feet up the wall, she figured, given that the ceilings were at least nine feet tall. But it was still indistinct. She remembered she'd bought some reading glasses. The glasses coupled with the magnifying glass should help.

Kayla searched for a couple of minutes and located the reading glasses in the back of the desk drawer. They still had the purchase tag on them. Now armed with five eyes, she rolled her chair up to the table and peered at the photo.

Gradually, the image began to make sense, but she still couldn't fully comprehend its meaning. Was that the white of an eye? Was that a face? Where was the mouth? Then, with hands to her own mouth, Kayla stifled a scream as she rolled back from the table, pedaling with the balls of her feet to escape the specter staring back from the shadows.

CHAPTER 2

Belief in ghosts is irrelevant, if they are really there.

— Oliver Kaufman

Kayla ran out of the darkroom, clutching her cell. She called Henry.

"It's there! Something is there!" she cried breathlessly.

"What? What are you talking about?"

"There's something in that room, or there was something in it."

"You found something?"

"That's what I'm saying. Please, get over here."

"Be there in fifteen," he replied.

Kayla sat down on the curb, hugging her knees.

Henry arrived after ten minutes, rolling around the corner to her house in his Honda Civic. He extinguished his headlights as he pulled into the driveway and jumped out.

"What is it? What have you got?"

"Come in and tell me what you see," Kayla responded, somewhat calmer now.

A couple of minutes later, Henry was still examining the photo, trying to decipher if there was anything there. "I ... I guess what's troubling is this shiny white spot."

"Pull the magnifying glass back a bit."

Henry did as he was told.

"Oh. Ohhhh." His head whipped around to gaze at Kayla. "Wow.

This is, well, it's disturbing, to say the least."

"What do you think?"

"I think we should've waited and done our homework. We have no idea who this entity might be, much less why he would show himself.

But he's a gruesome fellow for sure. Looks like he's got a deformity.

Maybe he's a hunchback, too?"

"Oh, God."

"Well, something's wrong."

"Henry, sometimes you're too much. It's too fuzzy to make it out clearly, except for the eye," Kayla muttered, knowing deep down that it did look like the apparition was deformed. Then she examined it again.

"You know what? I think it's a child."

Henry grabbed the photo from her and scrutinized it. "Maybe," he said slowly. "Maybe."

The project that she and Henry were currently beginning was by far the most unusual. Usually, their clients were residents, normal people with an abnormal issue (or issues, in some cases). But now, the Frederick County Landmarks Foundation had asked them to investigate a two-hundred-year-old house called Beacon's Way. "Something was wrong," had been the only description when the team had been contacted. When asked to be more specific, they were told that the "something wrong" was that the building had taken on a personality. That was all the young man at the front desk could say. He gave Kayla a key to the house and told them that a woman by the name of Polly Rutledge would meet them there at noon tomorrow to describe in more detail what had been going on.

After a long day's work finishing a report for a family that had hired them to check out clacking noises emanating from their attic, Kayla had announced that she was going to pass by Beacon's Way on her way home and "just have a look." Henry had tried to talk her out of it, since they knew nothing about the problems with the house, but Kayla would have none of it, so he decided to follow her, just to be on the safe side. "Okay, well, forget the deformity," Henry said. "The eye is clearly an eye. So someone was in the room with us. That's already far more than we usually get. Now we know the room's a hot spot. We'll find out more tomorrow."

"Do you know anything about the house?" Kayla asked; unlike her, Henry had lived in Frederick all of his life.

"Not really. It's always been a landmark, but that's about it."

"Okay," she said, sighing. "Thank you for coming over, Henry. I know it's late."

"Not a problem," he said, looking at his watch. "Are you feeling better? I mean, if I'd seen that image appear, it would have freaked me out too."

"Really?"

"Of course, it's unnerving," Henry said as he rose to leave. "But listen — don't lose any sleep over the photo."

Hmmm. Easy to say, Kayla thought.

CHAPTER 3

The belief in a supernatural source of evil is not necessary.

Men alone are quite capable of every wickedness.

— Joseph Conrad

Kayla was wide awake. She checked her phone. It was now three ten. Sleep was not going to visit her again on this night. She couldn't get the image of the specter out of her mind. My God, she thought, it was staring right at me. Why would it do that? Then a chill ran down her back. It wanted me to see it. At this point, Kayla debated whether she should go to her darkroom to study the photo some more. She had to admit that it spooked her. So she just lay in bed, literally tossing and turning. Finally, she threw the covers off and got up. She decided she'd go for her run. Granted it was early, but by the time she'd had a cup of coffee, it could be close to five o'clock.

Should have looked outside first, Kayla thought as she started jogging through the fog. It was still not quite dawn, and the fog was thick, shrouding the entire surroundings. Across the large lighted lampposts lining the sidewalk, she could see tiny droplets from the fog swirling downward. She felt the cool dampness caress her cheeks. It was quite simply magical. She noticed that the ducks were sound asleep, curled up along the grassy shore by the creek, teal heads cushioned among their chocolate brown feathers.

Just then, the Baker Park clock tower bell sounded; it was 4:30 a.m. Thank you, Mr. Baker, for your vision and your philanthropic soul, Kayla thought. Maybe I should double the route, she thought happily, trying to shake off the specter.

She saw someone walking slowly along the street, but other than that, Kayla was alone. I should do this more often. It's so liberating, Kayla reflected as she ran under the weeping willows; their silhouettes dotted the park. About forty minutes later, she approached the red covered bridge for the second time. Daylight was now beginning to make its way through the fog. As she started across the bridge, Kayla looked through the open window at the creek below. A split-second later, she stopped dead in her tracks. She walked over to lean out of the opening, straining to discern the something that had caught her attention. Her heart began to race as reality sank in. Kayla rushed to the other side of the bridge and ran down the bank, slipping as she did so, sliding the rest of the way to land only inches from the body.

* * *

Kayla was still trembling an hour later as she sat in the back of the police van. The detective, Nick Nucci, had provided a flannel shirt for her, but it didn't address the internal cold from shock. She watched as they pulled the gurney out of the ambulance and placed the now-covered body on it.

"More coffee, Ms. Dunn?" the detective asked.

"Yes, please. Call me Kayla."

"Okay, Kayla."

He nodded to a colleague, who returned within minutes to provide another cup of steaming coffee for her.

"Thank you. What happened to her?" Kayla asked.

Nick was now sitting in the van as well. "We don't know. We won't know for a while. How much of her did you see?"

"Enough. I saw the lines around her neck. The handkerchief around her eyes. Dirty nails. Dark skin. I saw enough. Oh, God."

Nick wanted to put his arm around Kayla's shoulders to console her but didn't want to seem inappropriate.

"Do you have a friend you can call?" he asked.

Kayla shook her head. "What time is it?"

"Six o'clock."

"I don't know if anyone would be awake just yet." She was thinking of either Henry or her other colleague, Parker Troxell.

"Well, we'll be here for a quite a while. Are you sure you don't want someone from our medical team to check you out or perhaps go to the hospital?"

Kayla shook her head no, as she continued to stare at the ambulance driving off, silently. Tears ran down her face, and she started to sob all over again. This time, Detective Nucci thought, The hell with protocol, and protectively wrapped his arm around the disconcerted woman.