The building stands in the middle of a clearing carved out from the surrounding woods, its walls jagged and crumbled like old teeth. It looks like it’s been in a fire—black smudge marks snake across its white stone. It’s covered in ivy and moss, and its doors are blocked with yellow tape, though most of the tape lies sagging along the concrete landing. The building is surrounded by an overgrown field that must have been a lovely lawn once. A few of its windows are boarded with plywood. On one of them there’s an eviction notice. In the wetness, mushrooms have sprouted everywhere.

This is the place where I was saved, by a secret. I wish a place could share its memories the same way people do. I wonder what The Witch Hunter’s Guide, with all its talk of magic, would say about that.

I take a deep breath and walk into the tall grass. The front doors, behind the tape, stand propped open. I step up to the threshold and lean forward to peer inside.

An empty hall with waterlogged papers all over the ground, a few overturned silver trays. I step gingerly inside, wind down the hallway and then through a series of rooms where old bedding lies in drifts against the walls. Broken glass crumbles under my feet. It’s clear right away that I’ll find nothing here—no records, no sign of the lives that used to be lived here. And Homer says none of the ghosts know the answers.

At the back corner of the building, I find the long suite of rooms that once made up the maternity ward. I walk past one room after another, peering in. The rooms are painted white but have gone a dingy gray. After toeing through some trays and cups on the floor of one of the rooms, I find my way through a door and out into a small courtyard.

I wander along the stone pavers, then turn to look back at the empty building behind me. An old broken clock hangs over the entrance. My heart sinks. Whatever saved me that night, whatever secret spared me that might help me again when a witch comes for me, there’s nothing here to find.

It’s dusk by the time I get home, and ghosts are floating up Waterside Road as I pedal up the drive. The light from the attic window where my mom sits glows like a beacon. There’s a circle of ghosts playing cards by the pathway to the front door. There are two ghost children playing tag in the yard. They all nod a wary acknowledgment to me as I move past.

In the parlor I find the knitting lady and the washerwoman already sitting on the couch passing the time, talking about how a ghost they know lost his life to killer bees, and how that compares to dying of typhoid.