“It’s the ghost,” Sam said, pulling a chair over for her. It looked so fragile and delicate in his hands that she almost missed his next words.

“What did you say?”

“It made contact. Alva, it exists. At least one. And I know you were hoping it didn’t, but I don’t think it’s violent; in fact, it seems to have the capacity for rational thought … or at least mathematical—”

She didn’t realize she wasn’t sitting down until she landed with a jaw-rattling thump.

“I’ve found fairly convincing evidence in the past, of course, but I’ve never made contact with one before. This is proof; even if I can’t replicate it, I’ll know—”

But it had just been her imagination, Alva thought numbly. It had been dark corners and mirrors and local superstitions. She was hot; it was terribly stuffy in here; she couldn’t breathe—

She dashed to the window, pushing it open again and leaning out of it. The cold air tingled fresh against her face; she sucked it greedily into her lungs. Sam came up behind her, she heard him say something, but the ringing in her ears drowned him out.

There was no such thing as ghosts, she thought wildly. People couldn’t follow you after death; they couldn’t keep tormenting you. If there was something after death, it didn’t happen here. Your body died, and at the very minimum, you left. Because if that wasn’t true, there could never be an ending.

Sam’s hands were on her shoulders: he was turning her around to face him. His arms were circling her—they were strong and offered comfort she couldn’t afford. She tried to push him away, and he released her out to arm’s length.

“What are you afraid of?” His voice was soft, warm. Confident that, whatever the problem was, he could fix it.

A simple question, with a simple answer: everything. She was afraid of the whole jagged-edged world, with its trapdoors and sticky webs and predators whose claws never released their prey.

She’d never get free of him. He’d followed her here; he was taunting her—

“Alva.” Sam’s eyes were sharp, like he knew what she was thinking. He couldn’t, of course; no one knew what Alain had been capable of. “Remember, the stories about Liefdehuis go back five decades. Whatever’s in there, it’s been there a while.”

And just like that, the rigidity left her body.

Of course. Alain wasn’t haunting her. He couldn’t be, not unless he’d somehow mastered time travel. The ghost in Liefdehuis had been dead at least fifty years.