From the outside, St. Roch seems like a pretty normal graveyard, which is a thing I never used to say. I hadn’t exactly seen many graveyards before my parents decided to become the Inspecters. But in our brief time as a family of traveling paranormal investigators, I’ve walked through miles of bones and cemeteries large enough to need street signs, been pushed off crypts, fallen through crumbling bodies, and even climbed into an open grave.

“And that’s not even counting the five places we’ve been today,” says Jacob.

Mom grabs my hand and pulls me through the gate, and I feel the usual hush of unhaunted places. Or at least, less haunted ones.

I look around at the rows of stone monuments and crypts, wondering what the big deal is.

And then we enter the chapel.

“Oh sweet holy no,” says Jacob at my side.

“What am I looking at?” I ask, even though I’m not sure I want to know.

It looks like a room full of body parts. Hands and feet. Eyes and teeth.

There are legs tacked up on the walls, a pile of crutches on the floor. An arm hangs over the table, and looks like it’s waving at me. It takes me a second to realize that the body parts aren’t real, that they’re made of plastic, and plaster, and chipping paint.

My stomach churns.

“St. Roch,” announces Mom. “Patron saint of good health. Unofficial recipient of used prosthetics.”

A breeze blows through the chapel, and an artificial knee creaks.

“Some are symbolic,” explains Mom. “A hand, for someone with carpal tunnel. A knee, for someone whose joints ache. But others are given in thanks. People bring them here when they don’t need them anymore.”

I stare at the shrine. A glass eye stares back, one wide blue iris fogging with age.

This place isn’t haunted.

It’s just really freaking creepy.

I back out of the chapel to give the film crew room, because the space is small, and because I really don’t want to be surrounded by body parts, even if they’re not real.

Jacob and I wander up the path, surveying graves with names like Bartholomew Jones, and Richard Churnell III, and Eliza Harrington Clark. Names that sound like something out of history, a play.

My parents’ voices rise and fall from the chapel, following us like a breeze. Jacob scales a crypt and steps from roof to roof, as if he’s playing hopscotch.

Thunder rolls through, the low clouds dark with the promise of more rain, and I can barely feel the Veil beyond the humid air.

And for a moment, I feel myself loosen, unwind.

And then I look around, and realize that unlike St. Louis No. 1 or Lafayette, there are no swells of tourists here right now, no groups clustered around the tombs.

The graveyard is empty around us.

And I remember Lara’s warning.