In her vision for Liefdehuis, there would be two staircases sweeping up from each side of the large elliptical entry room, curling around until they let out a few feet from the upper hallway that looked down on the ground floor through a large central opening. She comforted herself with the image as she slowly made her way through the warren of dark, closed-off rooms towards the one that held the shaky, barely-holding-together current staircase.

Holding her breath, she began to carefully climb, checking each stair for holes and weak wood before putting her weight on it. Even with precautions her boot went through two boards, the second causing her to fall painfully on her left knee. She swore and pulled herself back up, clenching her fists until the worst of the pain had passed, and continued to climb.

She’d only been on the second floor twice, both times in broad daylight. In her memory it was a touch worse than the ground floor: leaks from the roof had slowly eaten away at the ceilings and likely the flooring in several places, and there were distinct signs a family of squirrels had taken up residence in one of the larger bedrooms.

Presently, with the only light coming from her lamp, it seemed much, much worse. Possessions left by previous occupants were scattered around—dusty papers documenting a thirty-year-old trust carpeted the floor, and what had once been a fancy French doll sat in a corner with no arms, no clothes, and one eye, making Alva squeak in horror before she realized what it was.

“Stop it,” she reprimanded herself, staring back at the horrible, mangled thing. “You’re being ridiculous.”

She walked back to the hallway and considered her options. There were six bedrooms on this floor: two large rooms, adjoining, intended for the master and mistress of the house, located on the far west end of the house, and here on the far east side a cluster of four. Rose’s room would certainly have been one of them.

There were no closed doors in the hallway: years of neglect and weather had slowly worn away at them, so they either hung drunkenly on their hinges or weren’t hung at all, propped up sideways against a wall, perhaps, or missing altogether. Nothing differentiated the rooms from the outside.

She walked into the closest one, and nothing happened. Well, she chided, what was she expecting to happen? There would be a shower of lights, or a ghostly specter floating in the corner of the room? Nothing this ghost had done had been obvious; why on earth would she start making it easy?

Alva stood uncertainly in the empty room, wondering what to do. Her mind flitted from Rose to Helen and it came to her. She needed to use Rose’s name.

“Rose?” she called out. “Mary Rose de Boer? I’m not here to hurt you. I only want to talk.”