The day my life began to change forever started like any other: with weird noises in the hallway, and a creeping sense of dread.

"Pete—don't you dare!" I yelled at the bowling ball hovering a few feet above the third-floor landing.

As though a string had been cut, the ball dropped to the floor with a crack and rolled to the edge of the top step.

"Pete..."

I put as much warning in my tone as I could, but to no avail. The ball teetered for a moment before going over. Gravity took it from there, and I could only listen as the heavy object thunked rapidly down two flights of stairs and smashed into something on the level below.

7 a.m. was too early to deal with this.

"Pete, I swear to God I'm going to have you exorcised."

I didn't really mean it, of course. Pete was a poltergeist, and while he wasn't the best housemate, he did ensure that visitors to my uncle's museum went away with some interesting stories to tell.

In other words, he was bad for my nerves, but good for business.

Making my way downstairs, I inspected for damage. The bowling ball now lay quiescent, nothing more than an ordinary, inanimate object. Pete had used up his store of energy for now—thank God—and wouldn't cause more trouble for the next few hours, at least.

Fortunately, there was no immediate sign of destruction. The rows of haunted dolls on their shelves watched me with (for now) unblinking eyes, and the glass cases displaying the shrunken heads, cursed coins, and demon summoning scrolls were undamaged. The shadow mirrors were likewise intact, nothing but my own reflections staring back at me.

I blinked at the man in the mirrors and, reassuringly, he blinked back.

I looked terrible. I'd been up most of the night before working on my dissertation, and it showed. My mess of curly black hair hung around my face like broken springs, and my bronze skin looked sallow in the dim glow of the faux-gas lights. I had my mother's large dark eyes, full mouth, and high cheekbones, and my father's long, straight nose. 'The Lorenfield nose,' Uncle Theo called it.

I'd also inherited my mother's delicate build and dark olive skin, making me stand out in a family that was otherwise full of broad-shouldered Anglo-Saxons. I ran a hand through my unruly hair, but only succeeded in making it worse. Giving up, I went back to inspecting the displays.

My uncle, Theodosius Lorenfield, had started this museum—the Museum of Cursed Artifacts and Haunted Objects—as a kind of joke in his younger days as a doctoral student at Santa Marina University. After falling out with his professional circle, it became more of a full-time job, not to mention a full-blown obsession, bringing in a steady stream of revenue that was somehow enough to support both himself and me, and fund at least part of his archeological expeditions.

He was on one of these now, and had left me in charge of the business in his absence.

The Museum occupied the lower level of an old Victorian townhouse in historic Santa Marina. My uncle lived on the upper levels, and for the past twelve years, since my parents' deaths when I was sixteen, I had as well. I loved the place, haunted dolls and all.

We collected supernatural, paranormal, and magical objects and artifacts of all kinds, but especially the dangerous variety. Uncle Theo believed that we performed an important service by keeping such things safe—out of the wrong hands and away from places they might do harm—while at the same time giving people the chance to satisfy their curiosity.

That was one way of looking at it. One might also say we ran a roadside tourist attraction and charged a small fee for admittance.

Finding no sign of damage, I placed Pete's bowling ball back on its pedestal and stepped outside to fetch the mail. The house had a small porch with a short flight of steep stairs that led down to a tiny patch of grass, and then the street. My mailbox was an ornate monstrosity which I hadn't been allowed to paint any color but the same awful powder blue as the house. Being part of the historic district was excellent for business, but it had its disadvantages as well. One of which was headed my way.

"Mr. Lorenfield!" called a distressingly familiar voice. "Good morning, Mr. Lorenfield!"

Biting back a sigh, I pasted on what I hoped was a friendly smile and turned. "Mrs. Owens, good morning."

Valerie Owens lived next door. She was in her mid-seventies and considered herself the official town historian. She led tours through her house and the town, affected what she believed was authentic Victorian speech, and wore period dress. She was also on the Historic District Board, and was a terror to the rest of the district's residents.

She'd been badgering me for months to get the railings of the porch repaired. Unfortunately, Uncle Theo's expeditions didn't leave much money left over, and the district's strict guidelines meant I couldn't simply pop in some two-by-fours and call it a job. No, I'd have to hire a carpenter to hand-carve the rails and join them with authentic, time-period appropriate nails. None of which was something offered by the local Home Depot. It would cost money, and that, like patience, was something I didn't have a lot of at the moment.

"Mr. Lorenfield, I do hope you're well. Do you have a moment?" She'd known me since I was sixteen, but insisted on behaving as though we lived in the 1890s and had just been introduced. It was an eccentric act she kept up as part of her "historic persona." It was also intensely irritating.

"Of course, Mrs. Owens," I said, trying not to sound as tired as I felt. "What can I do for you?"

"You know, with the town's History Day coming up, I thought it might be a good time for us all to think about doing something to liven up the fronts of our buildings. I'm going to have an original door knocker installed, myself. It was crafted in London in 1879, and—"

"How fascinating," I said quickly. "I'm afraid I'm a bit busy with my studies at the moment, but I'll see what I might be able to pull off."

"Of course you are. What are you studying again? Politics, wasn't it?"

"The history of ancient magic, actually." She knew this, but made a point of pretending not to whenever we spoke. She also refused to acknowledge the museum for what it was, and referred to it as 'Theo's little project.' It had been a thorn in her side for years, and I knew she'd be more than happy to see it gone and replaced by something respectable—like a realtor's office.

"Oh yes, that's right," she said, wrinkling her nose. "Well, I know you're busy, but perhaps over the weekend you might make time. I've got a man coming out to look at a window casing, and he might be able to give you a quote on your porch while he's here."

"I'll think about it," I said. Turning, I opened the mailbox and peered inside. There were a few smaller items and one package. I pulled the lot out and shut the box. "I've got to be going," I said, as Valerie continued to linger. "Have a nice day, Mrs. Owens."

"Oh, and you as well, Mr. Lorenfield. I'll let the man know you might be interested."

I nodded, keeping my smile fixed in place, and gave her a little wave as I walked up the short path to the porch. She was still standing there, no doubt casting judgement on the railings, when I went in and shut the door.

I let out a sigh and fell into the nearest chair. When Uncle Theo had acquired it, it was believed to be cursed and to cause anyone who sat in it to accidentally hang themselves. After a thorough inspection, however, it turned out to be no more than an ordinary chair. Which was both fortunate and unfortunate, because it meant that either the whole story was untrue, or it was the wrong chair and the cursed one was still out there, tipping itself out from under people while they strung Christmas lights.

The haunted dolls watched me with dispassionate eyes as I sorted the mail. There were a few letters for Uncle Theo, one addressed to the museum itself (likely someone who thought they had a cursed artifact on their hands), and several bills. Then there was the package. I set aside the rest of the mail in favor of this. It was the size and shape of a large cigar box, wrapped in brown paper, and tied with twine. There was no return address, but the swooping script spelling out my name and the address of the museum was quite familiar.

Aristotle Lorenfield / Museum of Magical Artifacts / 1515 N. Ocean Drive / Santa Marina California

It was from Uncle Theo. Enough postage covered it to have brought it halfway around the world, which I suspected it had.

I untied the string and cut open the paper. Inside lay a wooden box with a hinged lid and hasp. Gingerly, I lifted it. I didn't think Uncle Theo would send me something dangerous without a warning, but he sometimes let his enthusiasm outweigh his common sense. Inside, an envelope lay atop a pile of densely packed shredded paper. Across it was scrawled "OPEN FIRST" in bold strokes. I obeyed and found within a brief letter.

Ari,

The artifact within this box is extremely dangerous! Do not touch it with your bare hands, or allow it to come into contact with your skin in any way. I cannot emphasize that enough—DO NOT TOUCH! I'm sending it to you for safekeeping, as I'm afraid my dig site and team have been compromised. Keep it safe until my return, and speak of it to no one. It is more valuable than you can imagine.

Be well, and be careful.

Uncle Theo

I read the note over twice. The writing appeared jagged and rushed, as though my uncle's hand shook or he had written in haste; it was not at all his usual elegant scrawl, although still recognizable as his hand.

Retrieving and donning a pair of cloth gloves, I began picking through the clump of shredded paper. Nestled within was a single object: a perfect sphere about the size of an apple. It was made of some kind of metal, and engraved with a strange script that wrapped around it in a tight spiral.

Gingerly, I picked it up and turned it over. The spiral of markings began at one pole and ended at the other, although which was the top and which the bottom I couldn't tell. It felt cold even through the gloves, and heavy for its size. Something about it was deeply fascinating, and I turned it over and over, trying to make sense of the strange, unknown writing. Somehow, I was certain it was writing, despite the characters being in no alphabet I'd ever seen before.

I brought it close to my face and breathed on it, watching as the surface fogged and then quickly cleared, almost as if the sphere had absorbed the moisture from my breath. I stared at it for a long time, wondering, and was finally shaken from my reverie by the sound of a large truck rumbling past on the road outside. I blinked and shook my head, feeling as though I'd almost been in a trance. Frowning at the sphere, I replaced it carefully in the box.

"Well, Uncle Theo, you certainly know how to keep things interesting," I said, closing the lid.

Whether or not the sphere was as dangerous, valuable, or important as he believed, I had little choice but to take him at his word. I carried the box into one of the back rooms we used for storage and for items that weren't on display and placed it on a shelf, and when I left I locked the door after me. The museum didn't have a modern alarm system—usually the haunted dolls, cursed objects, and Pete were enough to keep unwanted visitors away—but something about Uncle Theo's note, and the sphere itself, gave me a bad feeling. Perhaps I'd take the thing to the bank later and have it put in Uncle's safe deposit box.

As I returned to the front room, one of the cursed clocks struck the hour. With a sinking feeling, I noted it was the one that only chimed when someone in the room was late for something. I checked the time and swore. It was nearly nine. Had I been absorbed with the sphere for over an hour? I had a meeting with my doctoral advisor this morning, in exactly thirty minutes, and she was not a woman to be kept waiting.

Thoughts of Uncle Theo and the sphere fled my mind as a flood of nerves washed through me. The anxiety I'd struggled with since the deaths of my parents no longer crippled me, but it still didn't take much to trigger an attack. I took slow, steadying breaths as I hurried to dress, throwing on the first shirt and tie that came to hand, then rushed out the door, locking it behind me as I went.