“And it’s a ghost on that video?” Ben can’t help himself; he laughs. “Even if they do exist, ghosts can’t hurt you, right?”

“Why are we even discussing this? You’ll never believe any of it.” I set another armload of clothes in the suitcase and cross back to the dresser for my bras and panties. I’m in too much of a rush to care that Ben’s getting an eyeful of my underwear; I just want to pack up and leave this house before nightfall. It’s already late afternoon and I haven’t started boxing up my kitchenware. I cross to the closet and as I yank clothes from hangers, I suddenly think of Charlotte Nielson, whose scarf I found in this closet. Like me, she must have packed in a hurry. Did she too flee in panic? Had she felt the tentacles of that same shadow closing in around her?

    I pull out a dress and the hanger falls to the floor with such a clatter that I flinch, my heart hammering.

“Hey.” Gently Ben takes my arm and steadies me. “Ava, there’s nothing to be afraid of.”

“Says the man who doesn’t believe in the supernatural.”

“Says the man who won’t let anything happen to you.”

I turn to face him. “You don’t even know what I’m dealing with, Ben.”

“I know what Maeve and her friends claim it is. But all I saw on that video was a shadow. Nothing solid, nothing identifiable. It could have been—”

“Clouds passing across the moon. Yes, you’ve already said that.”

“All right then, let’s assume, for the sake of argument, that it is a ghost. Let’s say ghosts are real. But they’re not physical beings. How can they hurt you?”

“I’m not afraid of ghosts.”

“Then what are you afraid of?”

“This is something different. Something evil.”

“Or so Maeve says. And you believe her?”

“After last night, after what he did to me…” I stop, my cheeks suddenly burning at the memory.

Ben frowns. “He?”

Too ashamed to look at him, I stare down at the floor. Gently he tilts up my face and I can’t avoid his gaze.

“Ava, tell me what’s been happening to you in this house.”

“I can’t.”

“Why not?”

I blink back tears and whisper: “Because I’m ashamed.”

“What on earth do you have to be ashamed of?”

His gaze is too searching, too invasive. I pull away and go to the window. Outside the mist hangs as heavy as a curtain, hiding my view of the sea. “Captain Brodie is real, Ben. I’ve seen him, heard him. I’ve touched him.”

“You touched a ghost?”

    “When he appears to me, he’s every bit as real as you are. He’s even left bruises on my arms…” I close my eyes and I picture Captain Brodie standing before me. The memory is so vivid I can see his windblown hair, his unshaven face. I draw in a breath and inhale the scent of brine. Is he here? Has he returned? My eyes snap open and I frantically glance around the room, but all I see is Ben. Where are you?

Ben takes my shoulders. “Ava.”

“He’s here! I know he is.”

“You said he’s as real as I am. What does that mean?”

“I can touch him and he can touch me. Oh, I know what you’re thinking. What you’re imagining. And it’s true, it’s all true! Somehow he knows what I want, what I need. That’s how he traps us here. Not just me, but the women before me. The women who spent their lives in this house, who died in this house. He gives us what no other man can give us.”

Ben steps closer until we’re face-to-face. “I’m real. I’m here. Give me a chance, Ava.” He cradles my face and I close my eyes, but it’s Captain Brodie I see, Captain Brodie I want. My master and my monster. I try to imagine Ben in my bed and what kind of lover he would be. It would be a plain vanilla fuck, like so many others I’ve known with men before him. But unlike Brodie, Ben is real. A man, not a shadow. Not a demon.

He leans close and presses his lips against mine in a warm and lingering kiss. I don’t feel even the faintest tremor of excitement. He kisses me again. This time he cups my face and holds it captive, trapping my mouth against his, his teeth bruising my lips. I lose my balance, and suddenly I’m falling backward and my shoulders collide with the wall. I don’t fight him as he presses against me. I want to feel something, anything. I want him to light the match and set me on fire, to prove that the living can satisfy me the way the dead do, but I feel no stirring of heat, no tingle of desire.

Make me want to fuck you, Ben!

He grabs my wrists and pins them to the wall. Through my jeans I feel the hard evidence of his desire pressed against me. I close my eyes, ready to let this happen, ready to do whatever he wants, whatever he demands.

    The deafening bang makes us jerk apart, startled.

We both stare at the bedroom door, which has just slammed shut. None of the bedroom windows are open. No breeze blows through the room. There is no reason at all for the door to have so violently swung shut.

“It’s him,” I say. “He did it.”

Now I’m frantic to get out of the house and I waste no more time. I bolt to the closet and rake out the last of my clothes. This is why Charlotte left this house so abruptly. She too must have been frantic, terrified of staying a moment longer. I close and zip my suitcase.

“Ava, slow down.”

“How does a door slam shut by itself? Explain that, Ben.” I haul the suitcase off my bed. “It’s easy for you to be calm about this. You don’t have to sleep here.”

“Neither do you. You can stay with me. Stay as long as you want to. As long as you need to.”

I don’t answer him, but simply head out of the room. Silently he takes my suitcase and carries it downstairs for me. In the kitchen, he’s still silent as I pack up my precious chef’s knives and tongs, my whisks and my copper pot, all the gear that a dedicated cook cannot live without. He is still waiting for me to respond to his offer, but I refuse to answer. I pack up two unopened bottles of wine (never let a good bottle of Cabernet go to waste) but leave the eggs and milk and cheese in the refrigerator. Let whoever cleans up after me take it; I just want to get the hell out of this house.

“Please don’t leave,” he says.

“I’m going home to Boston.”

“Does it have to be tonight?”

“I should have left weeks ago.”

    “I don’t want you to leave, Ava.”

I touch his arm, and his skin is warm and alive and real. I know he cares about me, but that is not a good enough reason for me to stay.

“I’m sorry, Ben. I have to go home.”

I pick up the empty cat carrier and carry it outside to the driveway. There I scan the yard, looking for Hannibal, but I don’t see him.

I circle the house, calling his name. From the cliff’s edge, I scan the path leading down to the beach. No Hannibal. I go back into the house and again call out his name.

“Don’t do this to me, goddamn it!” I yell in frustration. “Not today! Not now!”

My cat is nowhere to be seen.

Twenty-Eight

Ben carries my suitcase up the stairs to his spare bedroom, where I find a braided green rug and a four-poster bed. Like Ben himself, it all looks like it came out of the L.L.Bean catalogue, and right on cue, Ben’s golden retriever tip-taps into the room, tail wagging.

“What’s your dog’s name?” I ask.

“Henry.”

“What a sweet boy.” I crouch down to stroke the dog’s head and he looks at me with soul-melting brown eyes. Hannibal would eat him alive for breakfast.

“I know you didn’t plan on this,” says Ben. “But I want you to know you’re welcome to stay here as long as you need. As you can see, I’ve got this big house all to myself and I can use the company.” He pauses. “I didn’t mean it that way. You’re far more to me than just someone to keep me company.”

“Thank you,” is all I can think of saying.