I watched the officer closely, wondering how he would react. I expected that he might look confused or unsure, but to my surprise he rolled his eyes and only appeared to be slightly bored.

“Susan,” he said, turning toward the woman who worked for the museum. “We’ve already told you. You have to put a stop to this little stunt of yours. You can’t fake a curse in order to get more publicity. It’s fraud.”

The museum worker, Susan, began shaking her head rapidly. “I have nothing to do with the missing people,” she said. “I wouldn’t be involved in something like that.”

“This is real,” insisted the crying girl. “And so is the curse.”

Now the police officer did look unsure. He glanced between the women as if one of them might break and admit they were lying. Neither of them said anything, though, so the police officer suggested, “How about we get both of your statements, all right? Down at the police station.”

Both women nodded and allowed themselves to be shepherded off to the side of the building and, eventually, into the police car parked nearby.

The officer then returned to where the crowd was still gathered and asked everyone to head home, or at least to clear away from the steps. As people began to move, I felt myself being jostled by the crowd. A few people bumped into my shoulders. I knew Bess and George were back behind me, but instead of heading toward them, I slipped through everyone else into the museum.

Unlike the outside of the museum, with its weathered red brick, the inside of the museum was painted a clean white. It was also empty. No museum staff were there to stop me as I followed signs to the room with the DeSantos exhibit, just off the main lobby. There were sharp spotlights everywhere in the exhibit space, and most were directed at the photographs on the wall. The seating was minimal, just a few plain benches spread out around the room.

It didn’t take long to find what I was looking for. The screaming woman had been correct: there was something very out of place in one of the photographs. It was one of an older-looking Shady Oaks, and the little card below it said it had been taken in 1945. The strange part was in the background, because there was also a man wearing a hoodie and jeans, clearly modern-day clothing. He was walking through a group of people wearing 1940s clothing. His head was turned so he was looking back over his shoulder. He was frozen midstep. He must be the crying woman’s boyfriend.

I was looking at the photograph so intently that I didn’t even hear Bess and George come up behind me.

“Nancy?” said Bess, from over my shoulder. “I think you have some explaining to do.”

The museum quickly filled up with other people from the crowd wanting to see the impossible photographs. I knew it wasn’t going to be a good place to talk, so I told Bess and George we should go back to our original plan. We would find a place to eat breakfast, and I would tell them everything.