Florence stood beside her.
“Who—who was it?”
The look on Florence’s face was strange. “There was no one.”
“Didn’t I tell you?” Jensie reminded Jeanne. “I told you there was no one.”
“Wha—what do you mean?”
“Haunts,” Jensie explained quite simply. “We have haunts in the mountains. There are good haunts and bad haunts. I think this was a good haunt. Ann Rutledge was good.”
After that, without a word, they filed out of the place in silence, locked the door behind them, then hurried away into the night.
* * * * * * * *
For a long time that night after Florence had retired, Jeanne sat by the open window, thinking.
Far away she caught the black sweep of Lake Michigan’s waters, where dim, indistinct, a single ship’s light gleamed.