Panting and trembling, he shook the water off, sending droplets everywhere. Wet dog smell permeated the narrow hallway.

Doors locked, showers ran, I remembered Hettie saying. The back of my neck prickled.

“Katenka?” I called down the stairs, just in case she’d come back and decided to hose Dog down. No response.

My grandmother’s wedding ring still hung around my neck, its warm weight reassuring me. I took a moment to stroke it, thinking of my mother. I hadn’t known about her abilities until after her death, but one reason I was able to accept my own strange talents was because I inherited them from her. Looking back on it now, her “knack” for finding the right houses to restore and flip was one of those things my sisters and I took for granted as kids. She would sometimes go into attics or basements or other rooms, lock the door, and stay in there awhile, alone. Now I knew she was most likely seeing spirits, perhaps even communicating with them. But I didn’t remember her ever being afraid.

On the other hand, my mom had a flair for finding warm, happy homes, whereas my special ability—based on my two experiences with haunted houses—seemed to involve death and mayhem.

I descended the narrow steps.

At the base of the stairs was the door to the basement apartment. I tested the knob. The door was often shut to keep out the dust and noise of the construction work, but to my knowledge had never been locked. But now it was.

I knocked. Silence.

Like many general contractors, I’m good with locks. Keys go missing all the time, especially in older homes. In fact, I had gone so far as to take a few lock-picking lessons on YouTube. Luckily, old locks like this one were the easiest to defeat. But first things first: I would try the old keys, just in case. I pulled the ring out of my satchel and tried one key after the other. The fourth key turned the lock.

I was so intent on what I was doing that I forgot to be nervous, much less consider the moral implications of breaking into my clients’ private space. I had been in the basement apartment many times, of course, and I could come up with plenty of legitimate reasons for needing access to it, if I were called on the carpet to explain myself. Still, under normal circumstances I would have asked permission to enter.

But the smell of wet dog spurred me on.

“Katenka?” I called out as I pushed the door in. “Hello?”

The entry led directly into the kitchen. I saw nothing more frightening than the uninspired harvest-gold linoleum and Home Depot pressboard cabinets that I remembered. I was looking forward to tearing all this garbage out of here, once the upstairs was finished. Though there wasn’t enough historical detail to be salvaged, starting with a fresh slate could be fun, as well. We would totally redo the apartment, from the wall placement to the finishes.

I peeked into the bedroom, the sitting room, the baby’s room. Katenka had decked the place out in Byzantine-style paintings and posters of the Madonna and child, and there were ornate Russian Orthodox crosses on every door. Candles in various colors adorned at least one table in each room, and the whole place smelled like burnt sage.

In the bathroom, the shower stall was wet, but there was nothing more sinister than a little mold patch in the far corner.

And that was about the extent of the apartment. In the storage room I noticed an old pipe organ in one corner, covered with a tarp. Along with the horsehair settee upstairs, a couple of straight chairs, and the old key ring, the instrument was one of the few traces of the former owners left in the house. I was glad Jim Daley had decided to keep it and refurbish it, as he said, “one of these days.”

I wandered back into the kitchen, staring for a moment out the window over the kitchen sink. It looked out onto the neighbor’s wall, an uninspiring view of dirty beige stucco. I felt strangely let down. Now that I was prepared to see them, I was getting tired of this dink-ing around. Bring it on, ghosts. Let’s get together and talk, get this over with.

Dog let out a single bark, and whimpered.

Just as I was leaning down to comfort him, something caught my eye in the barely-there reflection in the window.

A man stood behind me. I whirled around.

Nothing.

I looked down: Footprints. Wet tracks on the linoleum floor.

“Who are you?”

I tried to see him in my peripheral vision, but couldn’t catch more than quick flashes.

This was ridiculous.

“Follow me,” I said, and headed toward the bathroom. I flipped on the lights and looked into the mirror over the sink.

Lo and behold, there he was.

He looked terrible, even for a dead guy. He was wet, his raggedy linen shirt hung open to show a scrawny chest, and there was a greenish gray cast to his skin. Dark eyes appeared sunken and too-shiny, so I couldn’t see his irises.

But worst of all, when he opened his mouth to speak, water came out and he gurgled, making his speech unintelligible.

The strong smell of alcohol assailed my nostrils. Not water, then: rum?

“You must be Charles,” I said.

He cleared his throat and spat more liquid onto the floor between us. He looked down at it, as though appalled. Then back up at me.

Confused, I told myself. Not frightening. Well, yes, frightening, but still . . . mostly confused.

“I’m Mel Turner. I can see you in the mirror, but not face-to-face.”

He disappeared.

“Come back! Charles?”

I heard a woman’s far-off laughter. The only woman working on this job site was me, and that sure didn’t sound like Katenka.

How is it ghostly laughter can be even more sinister than moaning or chain-rattling?

I stood my ground, checking my peripheral vision but looking into the mirror. “Either talk to me, or go away. Let Charles come back.”

The shower came on. Full blast. Hot, steaming water.

Something brushed past my legs. Startled, I jumped back, but as before saw nothing.

Clouds of steam quickly filled the room. I had to force myself to look back into the mirror. It was steamed up; I could tell something dark was behind me, but I couldn’t quite make it out.

The shower turned off. All was silent, even Dog.

“Someone’s coming!” yelled a woman’s ghostly voice.

And whatever stood behind me rushed the mirror. I whirled around and ran, yelping in fear.

Dog and I fled, racing down the short hall and up the stairs.

The eerie sound of a woman’s laughter followed us.

Dog and I stood, panting, in the hallway.

Raul came around the corner. His serious dark eyes flickered over me and Dog.

“You two okay?”

“Sure,” I said, catching my breath. “Dog got into a little trouble. Didn’t you, Dog?”

The wet canine was shivering, rubbing his body against my legs. I reached down and hugged him, wet dog smell and all.

I was shaken, torn between feeling foolish and feeling terrified. But I was also pissed. I had to get Jim and Katenka to move out of the house temporarily, and do whatever I needed to get those things out of here.

I dried Dog as best I could with an old towel, then loaded him into the car and drove downtown to Jim’s office on Sansome. Though I turned up at the reception desk without an appointment, in my unusual attire, smelling of my close association with a wet dog, I was escorted right into Jim’s office, given a cup of coffee, and offered a seat.

“I need to discuss a couple of things with you,” I said to Jim. “I’m sorry to intrude on your work.”

“No problem.”

Jim seemed vague, taking a beat too long to respond. He was absorbed with a pile of yellowed, old papers on his desk, so I wasn’t sure my words were registering. It reminded me of dealing with Caleb when he was playing video games.

“Jim? I know you’re busy, but I really need your full attention. It’ll just take a minute.”

“Sure, sure, sorry. You need a check?” he asked, already reaching for his checkbook. His eyes drifted back to the papers on his desk.

“Not at this time. Thank you. Your account’s current. I wanted to talk to you about moving your family off-site, just until—”

He started shaking his head, but I now had his full attention.

“Just until we complete this first phase, get the wiring and plumbing and all attended to so we can repair all the walls and start painting. Just a few days, maybe.”

“Absolutely not. I thought we’d settled this.”

“Just hear me out. I know you want to stay, but . . .” I was handicapped by not knowing if Katenka had confided her fears to Jim. She had waited for him to leave with the baby before speaking to me about it. I didn’t want to make things awkward for her. It always struck me as highly ironic that in my line of work I often mediated between married couples. “I just think it would be healthier for all concerned.”

“You said you tested for asbestos, and were taking steps toward lead abatement.”

“Yes, we are. We’re very safe. But—”

“Wait—does this have to do with my lovely wife’s fear of ghosts?”

“I . . . um . . .”

“I let her do a thing with a bunch of basil—”

“A sage bundle?”

“Some herb. And a broom and a bell—she wanted to burn the broom, believe it or not. It was like a freaking exorcism. She put up a bunch of Russian trinkets. She’s still not satisfied?” This was the first time I had seen Jim appear less than enchanted with Katenka.

“I don’t think it’s a matter of being satisfied. She’s scared. And there’s Quinn to think about . . .”

“Don’t tell me you believe her.”

“Well . . .” I trailed off. How could I mention what I had just seen in the basement, without owning up to snooping around in their private space? And even if I did—was there any chance he’d believe me? “I don’t know what’s going on, but there’s something odd happening on the job site.”

“How would that be lessened if we weren’t on the premises?”

“I just think that with you coming in and out of the job site—”

“Look, Mel, I waited a long time for this house to come along. I used to live just down the street; I always wondered what the Cheshire Inn would be like if it were brought back to its former glory. The minute it went on sale I snatched it up. It’s the house of my dreams.”

“I know that, Jim. It’s an incredible place. But—”

“Our staying there is nonnegotiable. Is that it?”

Jim clearly wasn’t going to budge. If Katenka couldn’t convince him, what chance did I have?

“One more thing: Did you know Katenka’s planning to throw a party for Quinn on the construction site?”

He gave a strange little half smile. “A party, for Quinn? Well now, isn’t that sweet?” He got that dreamy look he usually got when thinking of his child.

“I don’t think it’s a good idea,” I said, trying to shake the uncomfortable feeling that I was going over Katenka’s head. “Construction sites are dangerous places, and—”

An alarm went off on Jim’s watch, one of those European deals with all the bells and whistles.

“I’m sorry. I’ve got a meeting.” He stood and started to stuff papers into a handsome leather briefcase that probably cost more than my car. “If Katenka wants a party, then I’d really appreciate it if you would cooperate, give her whatever she needs to make it a success. I’m happy to pay more if it puts you behind schedule. But you know what they say: The key to a happy child is a happy mother.”

What could I say to that?

“I really appreciate your flexibility on this issue, Mel. Turner Construction has been great. Very easy to work with. I’m sorry it’s inconvenient for you to have us there onsite, but I’m not willing to own such a lovely home and not live in it. Katenka and I are making a home for our son. Nothing’s going to get in the way of that.”

As we snaked our way through the office building, Jim pointed out a painting of the Marin Headlands that he liked, and the framed and mounted TIME cover story about his company. Before I knew it, we had reached the express elevator. Jim held the doors open for me, leaned in and hit the Lobby level button, and waved as the doors closed between us.

So much for going over Katenka’s head.