When I rise to my feet, I’m startled to see a woman watching me from her porch. How long has she been there?

“I’m glad you made it, Ava,” she says. “It’s easy to get lost along the way.”

Maeve Cerridwyn is not what I expected a ghost hunter to look like. Neither mysterious nor scary, she is a petite woman with a plain, sweet face. The sun has freckled her skin and etched deep laugh lines around her brown eyes, and her dark hair is half silver. I can’t imagine this woman facing down ghosts or battling demons; she looks like she’d bake them cookies instead.

“I’m sorry you had to come all this way to see me. Normally I drive out to the client’s house, but my car’s still in the shop.”

“That’s all right. I felt like I needed to get away for the day.” I look at her garden. “This is beautiful. I write about food, and I’m always on the hunt for new culinary herbs I haven’t tried yet.”

“Well, you wouldn’t want to cook with that one,” she says, pointing to the vine I was just admiring. “That’s belladonna. Deadly nightshade. A few berries could kill you.”

“Why on earth do you grow it?”

“Every plant has its uses, even the poisonous ones. A tincture of belladonna can be used as an anesthetic and to help wounds heal.” She smiles. “Come on in. I promise I won’t put anything in your tea except honey.”

    I step into the house, where I pause for a moment, looking around in wonder at the mirrors that hang on almost every wall. Some are mere chips of glass, others extend from floor to ceiling. Some are mounted in lavishly decorated frames. Everywhere I look I glimpse movement—my own, as I turn from reflection to reflection.

“As you can see, I have an obsession with mirrors,” she admits. “Some people collect porcelain frogs. I collect mirrors from around the world.” She points to each one as we move down the hall. “That’s from Guatemala. That one is from India. Malaysia. Slovenia. No matter where you go in the world, most people want to look at themselves. Even guinea fowl will sit and stare at their own reflections.”

I stop before one particularly striking example. Encircling the mirrored glass is a tin frame decorated with grotesque and frightening faces. Demons. “Interesting hobby you have,” I murmur.

“It’s more than a hobby. It’s also for protection.”

I frown at her. “Protection from what?”

“Some cultures believe that mirrors are dangerous. That they serve as portals to another world, a way for spirits to move back and forth and cause mischief. But the Chinese believe mirrors are a defense, and they hang them outside their homes to scare away evil spirits. When a demon sees its own reflection, it’s frightened away and it won’t disturb you.” She points to the mirror hanging above the doorway to the kitchen, its frame painted bright green and gold. “That’s a Ba Gua mirror. Notice how it’s concave? That’s so it absorbs negative energies, preventing them from going into my kitchen.” She sees my dubious expression. “You think this is all hokum, don’t you?”

“I’ve always been skeptical about the supernatural.”

She smiles. “Yet here you are.”

We sit in her kitchen, where crystals dangle in the window, casting little rainbows on the walls. In this room there are no mirrors; perhaps she considers the kitchen safe from invasion, protected by that obstacle course of demon-repelling mirrors in the hallway. I’m relieved that I can’t catch glimpses of myself in this room. Like those demons, I’m afraid of my own reflection, afraid to look myself in the eye.

    Maeve sets two steaming cups of chamomile tea on the table and sits across from me. “Now tell me about your ghost problem.”

I can’t help a sheepish laugh. “I’m sorry, but this feels ridiculous.”

“Of course it does. Since you don’t believe in spirits.”

“I really don’t. I never have. I’ve always thought that people who saw ghosts were either delusional or prone to fantasies, but I don’t know how else to explain what’s happening in my house.”

“You believe these events are paranormal?”

“I don’t know. All I know is, I didn’t imagine them.”

“I’m sure you didn’t. But old houses come with creaky floors. The wood expands and contracts. Faucets drip.”

“None of those things can explain what I saw. Or what I felt when he touched me.”

Her eyebrow lifts. “Something actually touched you?”

“Yes.”

“Where?”

“My face. He touched my face.” I won’t tell her where else he touched me. Or how he pinned my body to the bed with his.

“You said on the phone you also smell things. Unusual odors.”

“It’s almost always the first thing I notice, just before he appears.”

“Odors are often described as sentinels of a supernatural presence. Is it an unpleasant odor?”

“No. It’s like—like a wind from the ocean. The smell of the sea.”

“What else do you notice? You said your cat sometimes behaves oddly.”

    “I think he’s aware. I think he sees him.”

Maeve nods and takes a sip of tea. Nothing I’ve said appears to surprise her, and her placidity about what seems like an outlandish tale somehow calms me. It makes me feel my story is not so ridiculous after all. “What do you see, Ava? Describe it.”

“I see a man. He’s my age, tall, with thick black hair.”

“A full-body apparition.”

“Yes, head to toe.” And more. “He wears a dark coat. It’s plain, unadorned. Like the coat Captain Brodie wears in his portrait.”

“Captain Brodie is the man who built your house?”

I nod. “His portrait hangs in the Tucker Cove Historical Society. They say he died at sea, which explains why I smell the ocean whenever he appears. And when he spoke to me, he said: ‘You are in my house.’ He believes it’s still his house. I don’t know if he’s even aware he’s passed on…” I am so anxious for her to believe me that when I look down, I see my hands are knotted on the table. “It’s Captain Brodie. I’m sure it is.”

“Do you feel welcome in that house?”

“I do now.”

“You didn’t earlier?”

“When I first saw it from the outside, the house seemed unfriendly, as if it didn’t want me there. Then I stepped inside and smelled the sea. And suddenly I felt welcome. I felt the house had accepted me.”

“You don’t feel even a little bit afraid, then?”

“I did at first, but not now. Not any longer. Should I?”

“It depends on what you’re actually dealing with. If it’s just a ghost.”

“What would it be, if not a ghost?”

She hesitates, and for the first time I sense her uneasiness, as if she doesn’t want to tell me what she’s thinking. “Ghosts are spirits of the deceased who haven’t managed to fully escape our world,” she explains. “They linger among us because of unfinished business. Or they’re trapped because they haven’t realized they’re dead.”

    “Like Captain Brodie.”

“Possibly. Let’s hope that’s all this is. A benign ghost.”

“Are there ghosts who aren’t benign?”

“It depends on what sort of person he was in real life. Friendly people make friendly ghosts. Since your entity doesn’t seem to frighten you, perhaps that’s all you have. A ghost who’s accepted you into his house. Who may even try to protect you against harm.”

“Then I have nothing to worry about.”

She reaches for her cup of tea and takes a sip. “Probably not.”

I don’t like the sound of that word: probably. I don’t like the possibilities it conjures up. “Is there something I should be worried about?”

“There are other entities that can attach themselves to a house. Sometimes they’re attracted by negative energy. Poltergeists, for instance, seem to show up in households where adolescent children live. Or where families are in emotional turmoil.”

“I live alone.”

“Are you dealing with any personal crises at the moment?”

Where do I begin? I could tell her I’ve spent the last eight months paralyzed by guilt. I could tell her that I fled Boston because I cannot bear to face up to the past. But I tell her none of this and say simply: “I’m trying to finish writing a book. It’s almost a year overdue and my editor keeps bugging me about it. So yes, I’m under some stress right now.” She studies me, her gaze so intent that I’m compelled to look away as I ask, “If it is a poltergeist, how would I know?”

“Their presentation can be quite physical. Objects move or levitate. Dishes fly, doors slam shut. There can even be violence.”

My head lifts. “Violence?”

“But you haven’t experienced that. Have you?”

I hesitate. “No.”

    Does she believe me? Her silence implies doubt, but after a moment, she simply moves on. “I’ll do some background research on your house, see if there’s any relevant history that will explain a haunting. Then we can decide if an amelioration is in order.”

“Amelioration? You mean—get rid of it?”

“There are ways to make the phenomena cease. Are these events happening every day?”

“No.”

“When was the last time?”

I look down at my teacup. “It’s been three nights.” Three nights of lying awake, waiting for the captain to reappear. Wondering if I merely imagined him.