By the time we make it to the hotel in Zermatt, it’s already past ten p.m. My body is still on Korean time, aka six a.m. the next day, and my brain is on a whole other planet’s orbit. From the airport, we took a train four hours into the carless village of Zermatt, before switching to a cable car to take us up to the mountainside hotel near the chalet where we’ll be shooting. Discipline had offered to arrange for a car transfer directly from the airport, but back when we made the travel arrangements, I was so excited by the idea of arriving by train, seeing all the twinkling lights of the village as we pulled in, that I turned down the offer. Needless to say, I’m now regretting that choice. I’m physically and mentally exhausted, and cranky as all get-out. I’m so ready to submerge in a hot bath and then collapse into bed, that I barely take in the breathtaking view from the window—the mountains, snow-capped even in September, all aglow in dying sunlight, casting peach and lavender streaks through the sky.

Once the bellhop leaves me alone, I open my suitcase and start digging for my matching cashmere sweats and hoodie. They’re calling my name from somewhere in here. As I rummage, I’m already whipping off my sweater and starting to unbutton my top.

Knock, knock, knock.

What the? I look up from my suitcase. I thought about calling down for some room service, but I didn’t think I’d actually done it.… Then again, I’m so beat, I’m not willing to rule out the possibility that I zombie-ordered some late-night French fries to eat in the tub.

I walk over to the door and open it a crack, but no one is there. Either there’s a ghost haunting the Zermatterhof, or I’m imagining things in my sleep deprivation.

Knock, knock, knock.

Hold on. It’s not coming from the door. It’s coming from… the closet?

I walk over to the closet door, grabbing the flower vase full of asters on the nightstand on the way, thinking if there’s someone hiding in my closet—more paparazzi?—I’ll smash this over their head and run for help. Then I realize that’s insane—I would never use such extreme measures, no matter how much I secretly hate the paparazzi.

Besides, it’s just as likely the sound is an actual ghost, and I’m pretty sure blunt force has little impact on noncorporeal creatures.

I take a deep breath and swing the closet door open.

“Are you going to bludgeon me with that?”

“God!” I say, my hand momentarily leaving my chest and letting my shirt fly open, before quickly clamping it closed again.