“What do you want?” I try to yell, but it comes out more like a croak.

The ghostly figure moans and keeps moving towards me. Several similar lights begin to form behind him, and I want to close my eyes, but I’m not sure that will make them go away.

They move closer.

The others form faces, and there are so many of them. I recognize some of them from their headshots taped in Isabella’s record book.

The moaning grows louder, piercing. A chorus of pain. A chorus of sadness.

A chorus of hatred.

I slowly move back up the stairs, afraid to go fast. There are so many faces. Old and young. Men and women. Bile rises in the back of my throat when I spot a little girl in the mix.

“What do you want?” I’m sobbing, my words are wet, and there’s no air behind them.

The moaning turns to screeching.

“I’m not her,” I shout. “Isabella did this to you.”

They stop at the foot of the stairs. Faces turn up to me, watching me with hollow eyes. Expressionless faces. All their emotions are saved for the hideous moaning. It’s full of pain and anguish. Torture.

I can’t breathe.

Their second deaths flip through my mind, and I can’t stop it. Each the same. They wake up suddenly and look around dazed. I can see the mortuary. Other bodies on tables.

Confusion. Isabella says something, but I can’t understand her. It’s in Italian. She makes notes. Picks up a plastic bag, covers a man’s head with it, and suffocates him.

The lantern dims.

“No. Don’t go out,” I order it. “Please don’t go out.”

It flickers in response.

The images and moaning stop, and the whispers hiss around me.

Riser. Riser. Riser. Riser. Riser. Riser. Ri— I cover my ears.

Scratching noises come from behind the wall on either side of me. No matter how tight I cover my ears, I can still hear the hissing chants of the spirits and the frantic scraping of whatever is on the other side of the walls.

“No! Leave me alone!”

It’s like demons have control of my head. This isn’t real.

Something is making me see these things. Push it away. Stop it.

And the lantern goes a little dimmer.

“Marek!” Where the hell is he?

Something breaks through the wall on my left.

The flame puffs out.

EXCERPT 2:

I take off in the other direction. My Vans pound hard against the cobblestones. Marek is panting behind me.

“Ana, slow down!” he yells.

Only when I go around a corner do I cease running. I grab my side and catch my breath.

Marek eases to a stop beside me, breathing heavily. “I thought you were ditching me.”

“I couldn’t stay there,” I say. “Not with those things around.”

Marek checks the time on the GPS screen. “We need to keep moving. It’s a little after one. The Louvre doesn’t open until nine.”

“What are we going to do?”

“We’re going to keep walking. See Paris. Maybe get coffee when a café opens. Try to get our minds off what just happened.”

“Sounds like a plan.” I shiver. “It’s so cold.”

We walk. Sometimes there’s a bench, and we sit. My face and hands are like ice. My head is throbbing, so are my feet. I need coffee. Or better, a bed.

The quaint backstreets of Montmartre are quiet at almost three in the morning. We reach the square, and I stand on one of the corners. Streetlamps line the block, giving little light, but I recognize the buildings.

“Right here,” I say. “This square is filled with artists displaying their work during the day. My parents took a photograph in this exact spot.”

Marek ambles over and pretends he’s holding up a camera. “Say cheese.”

It takes a second for what he’s doing to register, but when it does, I’m suddenly warm inside, and I flash him a smile.

He clicks the pretend camera.

We make our way up the hill toward Sacré-Coeur Basilica. Its spotlighted facade calls to us. The white stone chapel with its three considerable arches in front, dome roofs, and bell tower overlooks Paris. The city is a black sea at night with beacons of light spreading across its surface. The Eiffel Tower is hidden behind buildings and trees.

I sit on a step. “In one photo, my mother sits here alone. I bet my father took it.”

Marek raises his hands and takes another fake picture. His nose is red from the cold. “How are you holding up?” he asks.

The wind brushes my hair away from my face, and a chill slips down my back. “I’m numb. Can’t feel my toes.”

“We could ride the Metro. Get warm.” He pulls the collar of his coat up and tucks his scarf inside.

“No. We need to eat.”

“You’re tough,” he says.

“We have to budget.” I skip down a few steps. “Tomorrow, after we’re done at the Louvre, we’ll go to the embassy, then I’ll call my grandparents. Have them wire money.”

“Come on.” He grasps my hand and leads me to the side of the chapel.

The wind bites at my skin. I stuff my free hand into my pocket and stare through some trees, and I can barely make out the Eiffel Tower in the dark. Only a few lights and its silhouette can be seen at this time of the morning.