I crouch next to the nearest pile of books and sift through it. They’re books written in languages I don’t know, books of Greek mythology, coloring books, old romance novels.

“There’s a path—but much bigger than the tunnel, more like a series of caverns. It just keeps spiraling down,” Ebb says, his glow still very dim, his face almost sick.

“It looks like,” I say, peering around, “she’s really… nostalgic.” Ebb is quiet.

“What’s with the music?” I ask him.

Ebb stares hard at me, then looks over at the record player. I don’t think I’ve ever seen him quite so worried, if that’s possible.

“This was my parents’ song,” he says. “It was the song they played at their wedding. They used to play it for me, on their anniversary, and dance with each other.”

He looks at me.

“I don’t know if it’s a coincidence. But maybe she knows we’re here. Maybe she’s toying with us.”

A shiver runs through me. I wish I could reach for Ebb’s hand, but the distance between the dead and the living is too big for that.

“Well,” he says, glancing over his shoulder, dim and drained-looking. “We should be quiet, so that if she doesn’t know we’re here, she won’t find out.” He doesn’t look so hopeful about that, though. “Shall we?”

I follow him toward the opening of the next cavern, and we move ahead.

The more we walk, the more honeycombed and vast the caverns become. Smaller tunnels branch off from our main path in all directions, and everywhere there are things stacked in corners and pathways: old paintings, and ancient carved wooden figures piled up next to used tires, stop signs, model trains, all covered in cobwebs.

“She’s a pack rat,” I breathe in wonder.

Yellowing photos stand propped against walls. Ancient marble statues, beautiful illustrated books, woven silks, entire sections of elaborate tile walls. In one enormous cavern we come upon a weather-beaten merry-go-round, paint chipping off the ornate carved horses. In another, a rusted tugboat looms up above us, leaning against the enormous stone walls. It’s like a museum, or a big dusty closet, and beautiful in a way. Mementos of life on earth, hidden away inside of it. It doesn’t feel like a dark and terrible lair; it feels more like a melancholy person’s attic.

“Why would she want all these things if she hates people so much?” I wonder out loud.

Ebb shakes his head. “The same reason she wants their memories, I guess. She just wants to steal, and to desperately hold on to everything, I think.”