I followed him into his room and he calmly closed the door.

"I call her the nurse," he said, dumping his papers on the floor next to the bed.

By now, a cold dread was forming in me, for his sake. "You see someone?"

He took the crayons from me and put them on the nightstand. "Yes, sometimes. But the others can't see her. And I don't want to scare them." He turned to look boldly at me. "You saw her, too." It wasn't a question.

Then he narrowed his eyes. "Why is she afraid of you? Aren't you nice?"

I thought about how to answer and opted for the truth. "I'm a ghost-hunter," I admitted.

He wrinkled his brow as he sat down on the bed. "Why?"

That was the million-dollar question, as Gertrude would say. Because I saw ghosts as a child. Because I suffered alienation from my family, was subjected to exorcisms and rituals. Because my ghosts plagued me until I learned to shut them out. "Because they don't belong here," I said. "I send them back where they belong."

He seemed puzzled by this. "I'm not sure that's right," he said. "I think the nurse does belong here."

I sat down in a chair near the bed. "Why do you call her that?"

He shrugged. "She seems like she wants to take care of me. And everyone who lives here."

I knew what he meant by "seems like." To those of us who are sensitive to them, ghosts give off an impression or a feeling. Some seem calm, some shy, others frantic or confused.

The one on the cliff had felt... aloof, and overbearing. Almost oppressive.

"Please don't send her away," he said, tears forming in his eyes.

I wanted to explain that even though they might seem safe, ghosts come to us like storms. Mindless, they can get out of control, and without intention, they can be destructive. But I thought of how my parents had treated me like I was crazy, how the priests said my ghosts were demons intent on corrupting me, and how I'd rebelled against such notions, steeling myself against their words. Because, for a long time, one thing I hadn't felt when ghosts visited me, was fear.

"I'm not here to send her away," I said and it was the truth, for now. "Why don't you show me your prized shell?" I asked, trying to make him feel better, and to calm my own nerves.

He led me to the windowsill, where the large shell sat. It had brown swirls and flecks of gold. He had captured its likeness quite well in his drawing. Around it were situated an assortment of rocks, smaller shells, and bits of sea glass in blue and green.

"This is quite the collection," I said.

"I like to gather little things from the yard, or the beach. Mr. P has even taken me down to the shore with him a few times. I found this one myself," he said, picking up a small snail shell.

"Lovely," I said, drawing the etheric rod from my pouch. "May I examine them with my special tool?"

He nodded. "What does it do?"

"Well," I said slowly, waving the rod in front of the objects, "it senses some of their special properties." But the rod was unaffected.

"Does it sense things about people, too?"

I smiled. "Not really," I said. "That's more my friend Gertrude's job, but she—" 

Suddenly, I was stricken by an intense chill and my etheric rod hummed against my hand. Thomas stiffened. His eyes went vacant and then half-closed. I gripped him by the shoulders. He was cool to the touch. "Leave the nurse be," he whispered in a tremulous voice. Then louder, "It's the other one you want. He needs to go. Before it's too late."

Then the boy collapsed against me and the little shell dropped from his hand and rolled across the floor.

---

Everything happened in a rush. I checked his pulse and breathing, laid him in his bed, and ran for help.

Now that he was asleep, his breath rising and falling easily, I stood with Elisa and Pendelton just outside the bedroom doorway, awaiting the doctor's arrival. Though we knew he would find nothing to remark upon.

Ghosts don't speak through people—that's Spiritualist chicanery, my mind insisted. Yet, I'd seen what I'd seen and I couldn't deny it.

It was now clear to me that there were two ghosts, and based on the way the boy had spoken, possibly a third. One of them had overtaken him, and spoken. Something with a mind, and intention. The thought was unsettling, to say the least.

"Why is this happening to him?" Elisa asked.

I glanced at Pendelton, and wondered if he, too, had a bit of the sensitive in him. "Some are more susceptible to the influence of the supernatural than others."

"You must feel free to stay on tonight," Pendelton said. "We can ready a room for you, and—"

"No, sir," I said at once. "It's possible that my presence here has stirred up more than any of us bargained for. I must consult with a colleague and return tomorrow more thoroughly equipped."

Deferring to my judgement, they saw me to the door, promising to phone if there was any change in the boy's condition. Elisa grabbed my hand warmly. "Don't worry," I said, "It may be safer tonight if I am not here."

In the back of my head, I could hear Gertrude's voice: Are you trying to protect them, or yourself?