It’s like when you know someone’s watching you. When you can feel the weight of their gaze. And I know if I ignore it for too long, the nudge will become a hand gripping my wrist, and it will drag me through, into the world of ghosts.

But I can’t go through, not yet.

I turn, putting my back to the mirror, and tuck the pendant under my collar.

Mom and Dad are sitting on the other side of the room, on a fancy sofa. Lucas catches my eye and holds one finger to his lips. The red light on Jenna’s camera tells me they’re rolling.

Dad runs his hand down the arm of the sofa. “Welcome to the séance room of Muriel’s.”

“Now this,” adds Mom, “is a place that’s home to more than history.”

Dad rises to his feet. “It is not a kind past,” he says soberly, buttoning his tweed jacket. “Like in much of New Orleans, the shadow of slavery touches everything. Some insist that the building first raised on this plot of land was used to house slaves before they were auctioned off. The building was torn down, and in its place, a grand house was built, only to burn down in the great blaze of 1788, along with most of the Quarter.”

Mom produces a single green coin—a poker chip—and turns it idly between her fingers.

“A man named Pierre Jourdan bought the property and erected the mansion of his dreams, only to lose the estate in a poker game,” she says. “Devastated, Jourdan took his own life up here. Some say in this very room.”

For a moment, no one speaks.

I hear the smallest breath hiss between Adan’s teeth. The only other sound is that tinny old-fashioned music and the whisper rising to meet it, the murmur of voices from the other side.

“Jourdan is believed to haunt the rooms of his old house,” Mom goes on. “Moving plates in the downstairs restaurant, shuffling glasses in the bar, and, sometimes, simply lounging in one of these chairs.” Mom bounces to her feet. “But of course, he’s not the only ghost that calls Muriel’s home.”

My parents head for the doors, the film crew following close behind.

I hang back, and Lucas glances over his shoulder, a silent question in his eyes. I pretend to be fascinated by one of the masks, pretend I didn’t even notice everyone was leaving.

“I’ll catch up,” I say, waving him on.

“Yeah,” says Jacob, “why would we want to head back into the nice, busy, living restaurant when we could stay here with the horror movie music and the wall of faces?”

Lucas lingers a moment, too, as if trying to decide what to do, but in the end, he nods and goes. It feels like the handshake back at Café du Monde. Like he sees me as somebody, instead of just somebody’s kid.

And then Jacob and I are alone in the séance room, with the smell of smoke, and the whispers in the walls, and the red light staining everything.