CHAPTER 1

As a rule, men worry more about what they can't seethan about what they can.

— Julius Caesar

"Don't go there. It's not time. We're not ready."

Kayla peered into the shadow-filled room. She didn't know if her heart was pounding because of the ascent up the stairs or due to anticipation. Her breathing halted momentarily due to the musty, damp odor that permeated the room. Her eyes widened as she strained to see what the room possessed. Windows on the opposite wall distorted her vision. The shadows danced, black on more black. Perhaps moving tree limbs were creating them, but it was unclear; it was too dark.

She heard a subtle schussing. Could be tree limbs, but then again? Though somewhat anxious and heart still pounding, Kayla was definitely intrigued, despite what her colleague, Henry, was whispering.

"I think it's okay. I know it's okay," Kayla whispered back with conviction.

She moved stealthily into the room and flashed successive photos, creating a strobe light effect for anyone watching from the street.

"That's it. Let's go," Kayla said, turning hastily to leave. But from the corner of her eye, she caught a movement. It passed in front of one of the windows. The movement was large enough that it obstructed even her minimal vision for a split-second.

"Did you see that?"

"What?"

Kayla glanced back to see if she could make anything out, but whatever it was, if there had been anything at all, it did not reappear.

* * *

The motion detector light flicked on as Kayla pulled into her narrow driveway in the alley behind West Fourth Street. She jumped out of her car and headed quickly to her shed with her camera and other paraphernalia. In fact, it wasn't actually a shed. It had been a carriage house way back when. It had remained on the property in a rather dilapidated state, so she'd turned it into a darkroom after installing electricity and plumbing. The interior was primarily brick, though one wall was stone. Kayla had left the old wavy glass windows in but had strengthened their support by replacing some of the wood frames that had developed wood rot. A corner built-in wardrobe was the only furniture that had been in the building. She had built-in wardrobes in her house, too. The floor was also brick, so she'd added thick carpets for ambiance as well as winter warmth — a necessity given the twenty-foot ceiling. Locals reckoned it had been built in the late 1700s.

The carriage house was a bit spooky, too. Over the years, it had been a residence, with living quarters for the caretaker in the tiny upstairs with its tiny fireplace. Kayla often thought that even though people were shorter back then, compared to now, the caretaker must have walked around all hunched over when he went upstairs. She always did.

Kayla's house was old too, but not this old. The realtor had told her it was built in the 1860s. It stood about five hundred feet from the former carriage house. It also had the wavy glass windows. She'd been lucky enough to buy it after selling her house in Fairfax County, Virginia, where she'd worked as a commercial photographer: family photos, crying babies, uncooperative dogs, and argumentative weddings. Working for a paranormal agency was quite a step up, Kayla figured, and after moving to Frederick, she felt like she owned a piece of history.

Now, finally, she could get to work. Being in her darkroom was one of Kayla's most satisfying times. Here, all of the hard work and intrigue came to fruition. Actually, that wasn't exactly right. It might come to fruition. That type of outcome, the fruition thing, was a rarity, but it was the possibility that drove her. Kayla entered the room with that usual feeling of anticipation and kicked on Frank Sinatra or Ol' Blue Eyes as his ardent fans called him.

Even the lingering acerbic smell of the chemicals from the last time she'd been here excited her. Being a photographer had been a dream since fifth grade. Mrs. Gleason, Kayla's teacher, became one of her favorite adults that wonderful school year. The way Mrs. Gleason taught American history was unique. For every historical event the syllabus required, if the textbook did not include a female who also played an impactful role, Mrs. Gleason found one. During the session about the Great Depression, Mrs. Gleason introduced the class to Dorothea Lange and her iconic photo Human Erosion in California (Migrant Mother). Kayla cried when she saw it. Here was a pretty woman with two small, unkempt children clutching their mother as she held an infant. To Kayla, the deep lines of worry etched in the mother's face suggested utter hopelessness.

She was right. Mrs. Gleason explained that the woman photographed by Lange was thirty-two but looked at least ten years older. She, her husband, and seven children lived in a lean-to. They were sustained by frozen vegetables from the ground and birds that the children killed. Lange sent her captivating yet heartbreaking photos and written descriptions to a local newspaper, which sent them to the White House. Kayla smiled while thinking about what happened next: President Franklin D. Roosevelt had twenty thousand pounds of food sent to the migrant workers.

That was then, Kayla thought, and now, eighty years later, an improvement in humanity is a certainty; isn't it?

Kayla knew right then and there that she, too, wanted to be a photographer. She was going to make people's lives better through her photos, just as Lange had. The documentary photographer, along with Mrs. Gleason, were her role models and heroes.

She hadn't made it to that pinnacle yet. In fact, she'd been a regular commercial photographer, until that night at the bar when she'd met the Dulany Paranormal Team. But she couldn't think about that now. She had work to do.

Kayla set up her trays as she'd done so many times before and then held her negatives up to the light. She cross-referenced them with her digital photos, trying to detect any difference. Disappointed, she noted nothing of interest within the digital set.

She nonetheless persevered and examined the negatives, beginning with the one she wanted to enlarge first — the last photo she'd taken just an hour ago. Kayla turned on the light and then set the lens aperture and adjusted the focus. It was a black-and-white photo, and she wanted to make it as sharp as possible. She'd learned that black and white were more conducive to contrast compared to color photos, and given the nature of the pictures, contrast was imperative. Lange's photos were so impressive in part because they were black-and-white, a fact that added to Kayla's commitment to excellence.

Kayla developed her test strip and then examined the results. Of the six photos, one turned out to be especially crisp. It was the one she most wanted to develop.

As the image began to appear, Kayla held her breath. Once it formed, she turned on the bright lights, shook it, and hung it up to dry.

Then she pulled out her magnifying glass. Slowly, slowly, she circled the glass around the photo, looking for anything out of the ordinary.

What was that? She could not get a good fix on something in the corner. Too dark.

She zoomed in to enlarge just that area of the negative. It took up the whole of the photo paper. Again, after pinning it up to dry, she looked closely with the magnifying glass.

Finally, it was dry. She removed it and set it...