Mom and Dad are standing in front of a redbrick building that’s clearly a hotel. It has a wrought-iron balcony and a white sign that reads PLACE D’ARMES. To the right, there’s an archway, just wide enough for a carriage, fronted by an iron gate.

Nothing special, nothing strange. But when I look through that archway, the space beyond cloaked in shadow, the hairs stand up on the back of my neck, and the Veil presses like a hand against my back.

I know if I’m not careful, it will push me through.

“Here in New Orleans,” says Dad, addressing the camera, “almost everything you see was built on the ruins of something else. Twice the French Quarter has burned down, once in 1788, and again only six years later. Countless blazes have broken out since, consuming rooms, or buildings, or blocks.”

“Perhaps that’s why this city is so haunted,” muses Mom. “One of the reasons, anyway. Everywhere you step, everywhere you stay, was once home to something—and someone—else.”

“Take this hotel, for example,” says Dad, gesturing at the building behind them. “The Place d’Armes.”

Mom rests her hand on the iron gate. “Long before it was a hotel,” she says, “it was a schoolhouse. When fire swept through the Quarter, many of the children were trapped inside.” Her eyes meet the camera. “They never got out.”

I shiver, despite the summer heat.

The gate creaks open beneath Mom’s hand, and together she and Dad turn, and step out of the streetlight and into the dark.

“We’ll just wait out here,” calls Jacob, but I’m already following my parents through the archway.

Jacob sighs, and trudges after me.

The moment I step through the gate, the Veil greets me. Smoke tickles my nostrils, and I hear a wave of giggles and the shuffle of small feet.

“Hide,” whispers a voice.

“Not there,” hisses another.

I reach out to steady myself against the nearest wall, and the Veil reaches for my hand, wraps itself around my wrist. I hear laughter, the high sound of children’s voices in the dark.

And then, out of nowhere, another voice. Not like the others, faint and far away. No, this one’s closer. It’s low and deep, not a child’s voice, barely a voice at all, more like a rasp of air, a door groaning open.

“We are coming for you.”

I gasp and twist free, pushing off the wall and stumbling backward into Lucas.

He looks down, silently asking if I’m okay.

I nod yes, even though my heart is racing. Even though that voice rattled through me like rocks, sharp and wrong, and left me feeling … cold.

Did you hear that? I think at Jacob, who has his arms folded tight across his chest.

“The creepy children?” he asks.

I shake my head. The other voice.

His forehead crinkles. He shakes his head. And suddenly, I can’t wait to get far away from the Place d’Armes, and whatever’s lurking beyond that wall. For the first time, I have no desire to step through the Veil and learn more.