To my left, on the outside edge of the clearing where I stood, was a one-story, faux-marble Georgian lump with Latinate lettering announcing the Lapton Building. I recognized the name, and I was not remotely surprised. The valley has three or four local families with nothing better to do with their money than to build stuff they can carve their name on, and most of them have been doing it since the Civil War. Three of the original five superfluous columns that flanked the Lapton Building remained, though the overhang and the porch had fallen in years before. I stepped inside unhindered by the door, which was lying in the front yard.

It was like walking into a vacuum.

The air was utterly motionless, and hung around my head as if it were a sedating gas. Feeling faint, I reached one hand for the wall to steady myself. I watched dazedly as my hand went through the weak, old plaster, but I did not hear the sound of it falling in chunks to the floor. A ball of wadded newspaper tumbled by the entryway, accompanied by a platoon of leaves. A dark bird flew briskly by a window, but I did not even hear the startled flapping of feathers, or the rustle of wind-pushed papers.

I reclaimed my hand and clutched it to my collarbone. “It’s just this place,” I said again, though my voice was not so sure. “What is it about this place?” Seeing that I’d dusted myself with white plaster leavings, I slapped my hand against my thigh and left a pale handprint there on my jeans.

Two signs pointed down opposing wings—one read Boys’ Residences, the other (predictably enough) said Girls’ Residences. I waded through the debris like it was honey, struggling against the disorientation that crept up on me from all sides.

I followed the sign that pointed to the right and came to three doorless rooms.

Each white-painted, concrete-block cell held at least one rotting set of box springs and two chests of drawers, which could only in good conscience be called chests, for all the drawers were missing. Stray metal hangers tinkled together like wind chimes when I opened the closets, but nothing else remained inside them. Every room had a largish window covered on the inside by a metal grate that could have been sturdy chicken wire. Huge tiles hung down from the ceiling, damp and moldy, and dead wires straggled from the holes to mingle with the hanging weeds.

A discolored scrap of magazine thumbtacked to one wall turned out to be a heart-encircled picture of Donny Osmond. Graffiti beside the photo declared that Michelle, Tammy, and Sharon had shared this room in 1978. It also said that Michelle Wants Them All, Tammy Has Them All, and Sharon Does Them All. Nice.