In my notebook, I scribble imaginary notes, trying to make sense of it. “Any more incidents on the first floor? More visions?”

“Just there.” Mrs. Green points to the space before the cabinet. Her fingers travel over the photo album. She turns the pages and then struggles to lift out a photograph midway through the book.

On the table, she lays out an old crinkled photograph of herself posed with twelve stern young girls in front of the house. I scan the two rows. Each girl has their hair braided in neat little braids. Most of the girls’ expressions mimic Mrs. Green’s stern face, though some try to smile.

My eyes drift to the first row. The albino girl and the fat girl. I’ve seen those two before. Mrs. Green hands me a pen. She nudges the photo my way. “You can write on this one,” she says. “I have plenty.”

I take the ballpoint pen and uncap it. Mrs. Green drags her bony finger across the photo, pointing to the fat girl.

“There’s Missy,” she says. I scribble the name next to the photo.

“The tall one’s Tammy,” Mrs. Green continues, tapping the picture where an awkwardly tall, gangly girl grins for the camera. She wears leg laces, but despite her handicap, she has a patient face.

“Then there’s Claire…” Mrs. Green continues. She takes in a slight breath and points to the petite albino girl. It’s the spitting image of the pale little girl I’ve seen around the house. I write Claire above the girl’s head. “She was the first to go missing,” Mrs. Green says. “Poor thing. Someone left her on our doorstep in a basket when she was just a week old. She was so ill. The nurses, none of them thought she’d live to see her first birthday, but…she was a fighter, that Claire.”

Mrs. Green runs a sullen finger over the picture. Tears well in her droopy eyes. I look away, training my gaze on the photo, and notice a hulking young man raking leaves underneath a tree. His face is concealed in shadows.

“And him?” I ask.

Mrs. Green’s expression hardens. She eyes me curiously. “That’s Herman, my dear. He’s long gone.”

The Herman. The one who took those poor girls and made them scream. A wave of nausea rolls over me. I hesitate and then write Herman next to his body.

The rain batters the frail frame of the house. From the den, I peer out the window. Puddles pool on the lawn. The courtyard pond overflows onto the grass. We’ve been here for a few hours, but it feels like days.