“Well, come on. If you want dinner.”

He appears utterly disinterested in following me downstairs; in fact, he’s not looking at me at all, but is staring steadily at the window that faces the widow’s walk. Why isn’t he hungry? Is he actually eating the mice he catches? I shudder at the thought of him hopping into bed with me, his belly full of rodents.

“Come on,” I plead. “I’ve got tuna for you.”

He merely glances at me, then his gaze returns to the window.

“That’s it. It’s time to go.” I reach down to pick him up and am shocked when he gives a ferocious hiss and lashes out with his claws. I jerk away, my arm stinging. I’ve owned Hannibal since he was a kitten and he’s never attacked me before. Does he think I’m trying to steal his mouse? But he’s not even looking at me; his gaze is still fixed on the window, staring at something I cannot see.

    I look down at the claw marks he raked across my skin, where parallel tracks of blood are now oozing. “That’s it. No dinner for you.” I turn off the light switch and am about to feel my way back down the dark staircase when I hear his feral growl. The sound makes every hair on the back of my neck suddenly stand up.

In the darkness I see the unearthly glow of Hannibal’s eyes.

But I also see something else: a shadow that thickens and congeals near the window. I cannot move, cannot make a sound; fear roots me in place as the shadow slowly assumes a form that is so solid I can no longer see through it to the window beyond. The smell of the sea floods my nostrils, a scent so powerful it’s as if a wave has just washed over me.

A man looms in the window, his shoulders framed by moonlight. He stares out to sea, his back turned to me as if he’s not even aware I am in the room. He stands straight and tall, his hair a mass of thick black waves, his long dark coat molded to broad shoulders and a narrow waist. Surely this is a trick of the moonlight; men do not suddenly materialize. He cannot be standing here. But Hannibal’s eyes are aglow as he too stares at this figment of my imagination. If there is nothing there, what is my cat looking at?

Frantically I reach for the light switch, but I feel only bare wall. Where is it, where is it?

The figure turns from the window.

I freeze, my hand pressed to the wall, my heart banging. For a moment he stands with his face silhouetted in profile and I see a sharp nose, a jutting chin. Then he faces me, and even though his eyes are only a faint shimmer, I know he is looking straight at me. The voice I hear seems to come from nowhere and everywhere at once.

“Do not be afraid,” he says.

    Slowly I lower my hand to my side. No longer am I frantic to find the light switch; I am focused only on him, on a man who cannot possibly be standing before me. He approaches so silently that all I can hear is the whoosh of my own blood through my ears. Even as he draws closer I cannot move. My limbs have gone numb; I feel as if I am floating, my own body dissolving into shadow. As if I am the phantom, adrift in a world not my own.

“Under my roof, no harm will come to you.”

The touch of his hand on my face is as warm as my own flesh, and just as alive. I take in a shuddering breath and inhale the briny scent of the ocean. It is his scent.

But even as I savor his touch, I feel his hand dissolving. The faint glimmer of moonlight shines through him. He gives me one last lingering look and he turns and walks away. Already he’s faded to barely a wisp of shadow, as insubstantial as dust. At the closed door to the widow’s walk he doesn’t pause but passes straight through wood and glass to the balcony outside, onto the edge of the deck where there are no boards, where there is now only a gaping hole. He doesn’t stumble, doesn’t plummet, but strides across empty air. Across time.

I blink, and he is gone.

So is the smell of the ocean.

With a gasp I reach out to the wall and this time I find the switch. In the sudden glare I see the power saw and carpenter’s tools and the stack of planks. Hannibal is sitting right where he’d been, and he’s serenely licking his paws. The dead mouse is gone.

I cross to the window and stare out at the balcony.

No one is there.

Seven

Donna is sitting at her computer, fingers clacking away with quick efficiency. She doesn’t look up at me until I’m standing right in front of her desk, and even then it’s just a quick glance, an automatic smile as she continues to type.

“Be with you in just a sec. I have to finish this email,” she says. “One of our properties just had a plumbing catastrophe and I need to find backup lodging for some very unhappy renters…”

As she keeps typing, I wander over to the For Sale listings displayed on the wall. If I moved to Maine, I could afford so much more house than I can in Boston. For the price of my two-bedroom apartment, I could own a house in the country with six acres of land, or a four-bedroom fixer-upper in the village, or a farm up in Aroostook County. I’m a food writer and I can live anywhere in the world; all I need is my laptop, an Internet connection, and a functioning kitchen for testing recipes. Like so many other vacationers who visit Maine in the summertime, I can’t help but entertain the fantasy of pulling up roots and starting a new life here. I imagine myself planting peas in the spring, harvesting heirloom tomatoes in the summer, picking apples in the fall. And during the long dark winters, as snow swirls outside, I would bake bread while a pot of stew simmers on the stove. I would be a brand-new Ava, alert and happy and productive, not drinking myself into a stupor every night, desperate for sleep.

    “Sorry to keep you waiting, Ava, but this morning has been crazy.”

I turn to Donna. “I have another question. About the house.”

“Is it about the mice again? Because if they really do bother you, I might be able to find you an apartment rental in another town. It’s in a new building and it doesn’t have a view, but—”

“No, I can deal with the mice. In fact, I’ve already caught half a dozen of them in the last week. My question is about the turret.”

“Oh.” She sighs, already assuming what my complaint is. “Billy and Ned told me the repairs will take longer than they expected. They need to open up that hidden space behind the wall. If that’s not acceptable for you, I can ask them to delay the work until October, after you’re gone.”

“No, I’m perfectly fine having them work in the house. They’re nice to have around.”

“I’m glad you think so. Ned’s gone through some tough times in the last few years. He was really happy when Mr. Sherbrooke gave him the job.”

“I’d think a good carpenter would have more than enough work around here.”

“Yes, well…” She looks down at her desk. “I’ve always found him reliable. And I’m sure that turret’s going to be gorgeous when he’s done with it.”

“Speaking of the turret…”

“Yes?”

“Did the previous tenant mention anything, um, odd about it?”

    “What do you mean by ‘odd’?”

“Funny creaks. Noises. Odors.” Like the smell of the ocean.

“Charlotte never mentioned anything to me.”

“What about any of the tenants before her?”

“Charlotte’s the only other tenant I’ve rented that house to. Before her, Brodie’s Watch sat empty for years. This is the first season it’s been available to rent.” She searches my face, trying to glean what I’m really asking. “I’m sorry, Ava, but I’m not entirely clear about what problems you’re experiencing. Every old house has creaks and noises. Is there something in particular I can address?”

I consider telling her the truth: that I believe Brodie’s Watch is haunted. But I’m afraid of what this no-nonsense businesswoman will think of me. In her place, I know what I would think of me.

“It’s not a problem, actually,” I finally say. “You’re right, it’s just an old house, so I guess it comes with the odd creak now and then.”

“Then you don’t want me to find an apartment for you? Somewhere in a different town?”

“No, I’ll stay through October as I planned. That should give me time to finish a big chunk of my book.”

“You’ll be glad you stayed. And October really is the nicest time of year.”

I’m already at the door when I think of one more question. “The owner’s name is Arthur Sherbrooke?”

“Yes. He inherited the house from his aunt.”

“Do you think he’d mind if I contacted him about the history of Brodie’s Watch? It would be interesting background for my book.”

“He comes up to Tucker Cove every so often to check on Ned’s progress. I’ll find out when he’ll be in town again, but I’m not sure how willing he is to talk about the house.”

“Why not?”

    “He’s having a hard enough time selling the place. The last thing he needs is someone writing about the mouse problem.”

* * *