Miller nodded, his discomfort slowly fading in favor of outrage. “That’s right,” he said. “Don’t know why you came all the way down here to read my letter to me; I know what I wrote. This ain’t a place for a woman, anyhow.”

Alva thought this wasn’t much of a place for anyone, but she kept that to herself. “Passing over this letter’s transparent attempt at extortion—”

“Extortion! Lady, you’ve got some nerve coming into my place and—”

“Passing over that,” she said firmly, “you agreed to do a certain job for me, Mr. Miller, and as recompense for that job, I agreed to pay you a large sum of money. We committed this agreement to paper, which we both signed, and which I have in my possession. In short, you are contractually obligated to return to work, and not only am I not going to release you from your contract; I’m going to require you to make up the money that has been lost by the stoppage in work.”

“Contract’s broken,” he replied. “You got me to agree under false … under false … can’t remember what the word is right now, but the point is you lied—”

“What nonsense,” Alva said. “You knew the house was in terrible condition. For one thing, I told you it was, and for another, if you live here you must have known—”

“S’not the physical condition that’s the problem,” he muttered into his pint.

“Oh lord,” she said, putting her fingers to her temple. “Not you too. Tell me you’re not talking about the ghost.”

He took a long draught of beer and apparently found some courage in the bottom, because when he slammed it down he had a new look of determined belligerence. “Well, what if I am?”

“Aside from the fact that ghosts don’t exist? I have it on very good authority everyone around this area knew about the house’s reputation. You certainly knew about the rumors before you agreed to take the job.”

“Rumors! Stories! Sure, I heard those, but there’s a big difference between people saying a thing and it actually being true, see?”

“No,” she said. “I don’t see. What are you saying, Mr. Miller? Don’t tell me you’re a convert to these silly tales.”

“Ain’t anything silly about it,” he growled, taking another gulp of his beer. Sam stood up and walked away, returning swiftly with a small glass of golden liquid.

“Here,” he said, pushing the glass across the table. “Why don’t you tell us what happened?”

Miller looked at Sam, unpleasant speculation in his eyes. “Who are you, then?”

“Sam Moore,” Sam said, oblivious to the man’s obvious assumption that he was Alva’s lover.

“Professor Moore is interested in folklore,” Alva said, despising herself for the justification. She owed Miller no explanations, but three decades of societal conditioning couldn’t be overcome so quickly.