I managed to calm down by the time I parked my old jeep in front of the Orwell building. One of the older buildings on the Santa Marina University campus, its tinted windows and dark wood siding blended into the gloom beneath the towering redwoods. My advisor, Dr. Annabel Chissaud, occupied an office on the fourth floor, with windows that looked out into the thickly needled boughs of a robust fir.

With a slightly shaking hand, I knocked on her door.

"Enter," she called from within.

She was seated behind her desk, dainty bifocals balanced on the bridge of her nose, making copious marks on some unfortunate student's paper. Her unforgiving pen had already left so many red dashes, lines, and scribbled corrections that it looked like some small animal had been sacrificed on the page, which wouldn't have been that surprising given her office decor. Her field of specialty was African folk magic, and an array of animal skins, bones, masks, and strange implements adorned the walls.

She continued to work without looking up while I sat in the stained, cloth-covered chair opposite her desk. A cave-art themed wall clock counted the seconds with audible ticks that seemed unbearably loud in the prickly silence. At last, she set down her pen, slipped the now thoroughly dissected paper into a folder, and granted me her attention.

Her short gray hair, silvery eyes, sharp features, and diminutive build gave her the aspect of an angry pixy. Which might have been comical in the right setting, but was instead effectively terrifying, especially when she fixed me with her pinning gaze.

"You're late," she said.

I wanted to argue, to make my excuses, but knew it would do no good. If there was one thing Dr. Chissaud did not tolerate, it was lateness.

"I'm sorry, Dr. Chissaud. It won't happen again."

"See that it doesn't." Her gaze softened slightly, and I took it I was forgiven. "Now, what do you have for me today?"

I pulled out my papers and began to shuffle through them. "Um, I wrote drafts for two chapters, and researched for a third. I'd like to include some comparisons with the Demotic manuscripts you mentioned last time and the ostraca with the Coptic curses, but I'm not sure..." I trailed off, holding out a limp handful of papers, my drafts and notes, for her to take.

She flipped through them quickly, scanning my paragraphs with her razor gaze. I flinched when she looked up at me. "This is good," she said. "You're doing the work, that's what matters at this point. The worst thing you can do is nothing at all. This might be rough—nothing you'll use in your final draft—but it's something. A solid foundation." She watched me thoughtfully. "How do you feel about it?"

"Good," I said. "I think I'm taking it in the right direction."

She continued to watch me, rather like a hawk tracking the movements of some small, vulnerable creature. "How are you doing personally?" she asked.

"Well enough." I shrugged. This was the part of these meetings I hated. Dr. Chissaud was more than my faculty advisor; she was also my godmother.

She'd known my parents and knew my history. We weren't exactly close, but she'd checked in on me over the years and cared about me as more than just a student, which made her feel obligated to keep track of more than just my research. Neither of us was particularly comfortable opening up on that level, which made these exchanges all the more awkward.

"Are you seeing anyone?" she asked. "Not that I want you distracted from your work, but it's important to have balance."

I shook my head. "No, no one."

"Going out with friends?"

"Not much," I hedged. In truth, not at all. I had a grand total of one friend, and as she was currently attending art school in Rhode Island, she didn't really count.

"Ari, I know you're not very social—and there's nothing wrong with that—but if something's holding you back, or if you're having anxiety attacks again, maybe you should consider talking to someone."

I resisted the urge to roll my eyes. I'd been through more therapy by the time I turned eighteen than most people did in a lifetime. Of course, my parents had died in a tragic cave-diving accident, so it wasn't unwarranted, but I had no desire to be analyzed again. My last therapist had insisted my asexuality was a result of my trauma, not a legitimate orientation. His recommendation was that I go out and find someone to fuck, because how could I know I didn't like something that I hadn't tried? After that, I'd vowed never to go back.

"I'm fine, really," I said.

"You don't look fine," she countered. "Are you eating enough?"

Biting back a sigh, I shifted in my seat. "Yes. I really am fine. You don't need to worry about me."

She leaned back in her chair, still watching me in a way that made me feel like a specimen under a microscope.

"Have you heard from your uncle?" Her tone was carefully neutral. She and Uncle Theo had never seen eye to eye on the subject of my upbringing. In retrospect, I think she would have liked to have been more involved in my life, but Theo hadn't made it easy. After a few explosive fights, she'd restricted herself to the occasional visit or call. I'd seen more of her since she became my faculty advisor than I had in the twelve years previous.

"No. Well, just a letter," I said, remembering my uncle's warning not to mention the sphere.

She laughed drily. "A letter? He doesn't text or call you? Email?"

I shook my head. "You know Uncle Theo. He's old-fashioned that way."

"Look, Ari—" her tone turned almost gentle, "—I know we're not family, exactly, but I do care about you. I promised your mother and father I'd look out for you, and I'm afraid I haven't done a very good job of it so far. You're what, twenty-eight? It's a little late for me to start now, but I want you to know I'm here for you if you need me."

Unexpectedly, I felt a stinging behind my eyes and had to blink rapidly to keep them from watering. I was used to being alone. I preferred it. Still, something about her awkward yet heartfelt offer touched me.

"Thanks," I said, hoping my voice didn't sound as tight as it felt. "I appreciate that."

She smiled, the expression softening her severe features somewhat. "Good. You're a fine scholar, Ari, and you're on a good course with your work. You're on track. I think by the spring you should be ready to start preparing your final draft."

I nodded and stood, taking the papers she handed back to me.

"You will reach out, won't you?" she asked. "If you need help? With your research, I mean."

"Yes, I promise," I said. "I'll let you know."

In the hallway outside her office, I breathed a sigh of relief. At least the rest of the day was wide open. The Museum was closed Mondays, and I didn't have any lectures. I planned to go home and finish cataloging our latest acquisitions—a collection of unusual silver spoons Uncle Theo had purchased at an auction some months before—and then spend the afternoon reading.

Stepping outside into the cool, ocean-clean air, I started walking down the steep, paved trail towards the parking area. Something—some strange, primeval instinct—made me stop and turn, looking back towards the building and the dense forest beyond. There was nothing behind the Orwell building but acres of redwoods on University land, and then national forest.

I felt certain I was being watched. A chill touched me as I searched the shifting shadows under the trees, but I saw nothing. Shrugging off the feeling, I continued down the path to my car.

My phone chimed as I got in, and I noted the battery was down to 5% again. It seemed the damn thing could barely hold a charge these days, but I couldn't afford a new one, and I was too lazy to take it in for a new battery. I plugged it into the car charger and opened it to find a message from my friend, telling me she'd won another art competition. I sent a bunch of emojis in return, thinking I'd call her later with proper congratulations.

The drive back to the museum was quick, traffic at a mid-morning lull. I stopped by my favorite bakery and bought a coffee and croissant, which I now balanced in one hand while trying to fit the old-fashioned key in the lock with my other. Turning the key in the direction to unlock the door, I was surprised to find it already open.

I pushed my way inside, frowning. I was certain I'd locked it on my way out. Had Pete been up to something while I was gone? Usually, he was only good for one disruption a day, and levitating something as heavy as his favorite bowling ball all the way to the top of the stairs would surely have sapped his energy.

"Pete? You there?" I called. Understandably, there was no answer.

Nothing seemed out of place, everything being as I'd left it a few hours before. Still, something seemed slightly off—not that such a feeling was unusual in a house full of cursed and haunted things.

From upstairs, a faint sound of something scraping across the floor caught my attention. A little thrill of fear tingled along my arms and through my chest. Unexplained sounds were nothing new to me, but this felt different somehow.

I grabbed a walking stick from its display near the old fireplace. It had a heavy silver handle, and had apparently been used to bludgeon some poor werewolf to death back in the early part of the last century. With this sturdy weapon in hand, I made my way cautiously up the stairs, doing my best to avoid all the spots that creaked.

On the second floor landing I paused, listening hard, but no further sound disturbed the quiet house. The landing was in the center of the hall. At one end were the small kitchen and a bathroom, at the other were the study and living area. I could see most of the open layout, so I continued up to the last floor, which held the bedrooms and a small bath.

Cautiously, I pushed open the door to my uncle's room. It was empty, just as he'd left it when he departed for his dig two months ago: the antique furniture and Persian rug, cut glass chandelier and enormous brass-framed bed all undisturbed.

I turned to my own room and threw open the door. At first, I noticed nothing amiss; then a slight breeze touched my face and the long curtains by the windows shifted. I froze, walking stick held at the ready, heart hammering in my chest. Another puff of air pushed the fabric aside, and I realized there was nothing there.

Breathing hard with relief, I crossed the room. The window was wide open. Poking my head out, I saw the screen lying broken in the narrow alley below. An unpleasant thrill shot through me as I realized the significance. Someone had broken into the museum—into my house—and had escaped out this window only moments ago.

I slammed the window shut and locked it, mind and heart racing. Should I call the cops? Dr. Chissaud? I sat on the edge of my bed and forced myself to take deep breaths. At the moment, neither of those seemed like good options. The cops would just make a report and tell me to invest in better security. I didn't know what my godmother might do, except maybe try to convince me I'd imagined the whole thing, which honestly wouldn't be that hard. If it weren't for the broken screen, I'd probably have reached that conclusion myself.

Gradually, my heart rate and breathing normalized. Swallowing over the dryness in my throat, I got up and made a thorough inventory of the house and museum. Nothing was missing that I could tell; nothing out of place. Maybe I'd interrupted the intruder before he, or she, had been able to take anything. Still, if robbery was their plan, there were a number of valuable pieces lying about in plain view, easy to grab and small enough to fit in pockets. Maybe they'd been after something specific.

"Or maybe you live in a haunted house, and weird things happen," I said aloud, rubbing my hands over my face. Pete was the most active spirit by far, but not the only one. The others were generally quiet, rarely making themselves known, but every once in awhile they'd remind me of their presence. Maybe one of them heard Valerie haranguing me about the banisters again. They always got more agitated when we made renovations. Unlocking doors and opening windows would hardly have been the worst they'd done.

Still, I didn't quite believe that explanation.

The afternoon passed in a haze of tedium as I catalogued and inventoried the collection of spoons. There didn't seem to be anything paranormal about them, although many of the handles were oddly shaped, or engraved with weird designs, some of which were downright gruesome.

I'd just finished writing the description of one featuring a man who appeared to be vomiting up his own intestines when my phone buzzed, making me start violently. I hated that thing.

I pulled it out and glanced at the caller ID, then looked again, a slow sense of shock seeping through my brain.

Ben Shafer. A name I hadn't seen in two years. It belonged to my ex-boyfriend and almost-but-not-quite lover. He'd wanted more than I'd been able to give, and things hadn't ended well. Then he'd moved away and we hadn't spoken since. How did he still have my number? Why did he still have my number?

I touched my finger to the screen, intending to swipe the red bar and decline the call, but stopped. Curiosity stirred like a sleepy serpent in my gut. Maybe this was just the distraction I needed. With a weird, tingly feeling in my mouth, I swiped the green bar and took the call.