If you’ve ever stared into a campfire, or the woods, or a blanket of snow, you understand. Your brain gets bored and starts doodling. Showing you things that aren’t there.

I stare at the stone until I can almost see shapes. Smudged faces in the dark.

Chairs scrape back, and I blink, dragging my attention back to the room, shivering.

It should be warm in here, stifling even, with all the velvet, but the air is cold, a draft sliding over my arms and ankles as I sit down.

I lift my camera, slide the focus in and out, but all I see is the room as it is.

No hint of the Veil.

No glimmer of something more.

I take a photo of the narrow space, even though the only way I’d be able to capture the full room is from overhead. That makes me think of a ghost story Mom once told me, of hotel guests and the photos they found on their camera, the ones they couldn’t possibly have taken, because of the angle, which was right over their bed.

Mr. Blanc takes his seat in a throne at the table. Candles rise at his back, and a large bell hangs on a hook by his elbow.

He gave us permission to film the séance—seemed eager, even, to be on camera—but Lucas said that wouldn’t be necessary. I get the feeling Lucas shares Dad’s opinion when it comes to this kind of thing.

According to Dad, séances are a spectacle of the supernatural.

“Most people don’t believe in a thing unless they see it for themselves,” Dad had explained on our way back to the hotel. “And if they see it, they’ll believe it, even if it isn’t real.”

“Who knows what’s real?” Mom had said, swinging an arm around my shoulder. “But anything is possible.”

“Please join hands,” instructs Mr. Blanc once we’re all seated.

Well, all of us except Jacob, who’s busy circling the room, walking the narrow path between the backs of the chairs and the velvet-curtained walls. He looks behind one of them and confirms there are air grates back there, causing the cold draft, the gently swaying velvet.

“How does a séance work?” asks Mom, with an enthusiasm reserved for the strange and the morbid.

Mr. Blanc strokes his goatee. “That depends. To reach out to someone specific, someone you’ve lost, I need a possession, something of theirs to call them forth. Or, if you like, I can simply reach out to the spirit realm and see who answers.” He considers us. “I am only a humble conduit, but I believe that, for some such as you, the spirits would have much to say.”

“I certainly do,” says Jacob, who’s stroking his chin in a near-perfect imitation of Mr. Blanc.

Don’t do anything, I think pointedly.

Jacob sighs. “You’re no fun.” He gestures at the room. “This place is like a spectral playground!” he says, right before his arm passes through one of the candles. The flame shudders and goes out.