The name Sir Francis Galton set off fireworks and clanging bells. Jessica’s hand flew to her mouth. If she had any doubt, the next entry settled it.

She read on, cool beads of sweat trickling down the back of her neck, hardly daring to breathe as the black heart of Ormsby Island came closer and closer into focus.

Chapter Thirty-Three

Something compelled Tobe to check in on Daphne and the children. He wondered why he hadn’t thought to do so earlier, but it was a distant niggling question whose voice was barely heard over the blaring noise of discovery and the promise of a new dawn for their fortunes. The moment he saw Daphne, chin cupped in her hand, looking down on Alice, he regretted following that voice.

She’d made it clear she wanted no part of what they were trying to accomplish. That was fine, he and Paul could handle things from here.

So why was he so angry with her? The dull throb of his jaw told him that maybe he was mad at her for what her brother did to him.

Her eyes lit up when she saw him. “Is it over?” she asked, her voice low so as to not wake up Jason and Alice.

Her voice, the weak-willed hope that he would call a stop to the project, made him want to lash out, to make her feel as small as she appeared in his eyes.

“Why would it be over?” he said. “I just wanted to see that the children were all right.”

When her hand pulled away from her face, he could see the crimson imprint of one of his fingers on her cheek. She’d obviously tried to hide it, but not well enough.

Daphne opened her mouth to speak, but he turned his back to her. He shut the bedroom door, went down to the library, took the key from the bookshelf and went back upstairs to lock the door. He heard her run to the door when the lock tumbled into place. “Tobe, what are you doing?”

The doorknob turned back and forth, back and forth.

“You can’t lock us in here. Unlock the door.”

The wood crackled as she put her weight against it.

His hand hovered by the lock, his knuckles white from squeezing the key.

Daphne continued imploring him to open the door, not daring to make a scene and alarm the children.

Disgusted, Tobe slipped the key back in his pocket. Downstairs, Nina was preparing to take the reins while Mitch checked his gear.

Tobe wasn’t sure why he had locked Daphne and the children inside.

To keep them safe from you.

The voice, his own, came unbidden and unwelcome.

He tasted bile as he considered the veracity of his own subconscious. He was not a violent man. He loved his children, even though he had adopted the seen and not heard philosophy of his parents and their parents. It was a natural offshoot of not just his own upbringing, but most people who matured in their particular circle of financial and social circumstance. Polite, authoritarian distance did not mean he loved his family any less than a man who insisted on perfunctory hugs and kisses every time he entered a room.

So why had he hit Daphne? And why did just the sight of her make him tremble with rage? And why was a part of him grateful Alice and Jason were not awake to look at him, to ask him questions, to engage him in conversation?

Mitch tapped him on the shoulder. “We’re ready to start. Just stay behind me.”

Tobe shivered within his black, insulated trench coat, pushing the unpleasant thoughts as deep into his mind’s well as he could.

A thick halo of smoke hung over Rusty as he took another deep drag on his third cigarette. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d chain smoked, but he was pretty sure this occasion merited the indulgence. It was appreciably warmer outside, as if the frigid air that had permeated the island was drawing to its core, which was the mansion itself.

“I must have been out of my fucking mind,” he muttered, pulling leaves off a nearby bush. He looked back at the dark house. Mitch had flipped all the lights off so he could film in night vision. One light remained on, in one of the upstairs windows.

There was no way he was going back in that house. Especially not with Nina about to go full bore and rile up the ghosts.

If anything, at least this trip has me believing in ghosts, he thought. Of that there was no longer any doubt. Ormsby House wasn’t a manmade haunted attraction. It was the real deal, and one he wanted nothing to do with. If they finished the project and sold it to a production company, he didn’t want a penny. Tainted money was worse than no money at all.

He still couldn’t believe he’d hit Mitch. They’d been friends for a long time. He couldn’t remember ever having a verbal disagreement before, much less a fistfight.

It’s this place. Whatever darkness came to the island, it’s here to stay. Stick around long enough and it gets inside your skin, into your cells, like an infection.

Wings fluttered furiously overhead. High-pitched chirps broke the night’s silence.

Bats. He wished he’d at least left with his Dodgers cap.

Eyeing the scrub-choked path to the dock, he figured no bats could swoop down on him while he walked to the boat. If he was lucky, it would get warmer the further he went from the house. Maybe he could even sleep on the boat without freezing to death.

He dropped the cigarette, grinding it with his sneaker. Yes, the boat was a far better place to spend his last night. Maybe the waves would rock him to sleep, help him shut down his troubled thoughts.

The path was pitch black. The assistive light on his cell phone was a godsend. At least the phone was good for something out here in the middle of nowhere. He watched his every step, knowing that if he got hurt, help wasn’t a simple phone call away.

Head down, he navigated the treacherous path. The harbor’s tide lapped the shore in the distance. He thought he could hear the boat clanking against the dock.

“Hope there’s room in the inn,” he said, moving faster now that he was closer to the boat.

His foot snagged on a thin root embedded in the soft earth. As he stumbled, he looked up, the light flashing into the treetops.

The pale, ghostly vision of a dozen children, dull, vacant eyes not just looking at him but into him, clogged the dark passage.

Rusty’s heart rattled in his chest. The only way to the boat was through them. He stepped to the right, contemplating diving into the thorny brush to find a way around them. Twelve heads turned to the right.

He moved to the left, and once again they followed his motion.

Just run through them. They were ghosts, dammit. They had no form. The only power they had over him was his own fear. Some of them were so small—poor, frail children. He should pity them, not cower in terror.

“I’m really sorry for what happened to you,” he said, holding his hands out in a sort of surrender. “And I apologize for what’s gone on back there. If it’s any consolation, I quit. I won’t bother you any more.”

Feeling that someone was at his back, he quickly turned around. The path was deserted. When he turned back, the ghost children were closer.

He could see the boat bobbing alongside the dock through their bodies.

“Screw this.”

Gulping a huge breath, he put his head down and ran. He thought, what will it feel like to pass through them?

Instead, his body slammed into something hard and unyielding. He tumbled onto his back. He tried to scream as they gathered around him but his lungs and throat clamped shut as fast and sure as a sprung bear trap.

Mitch and Tobe, who now were operating smaller, handheld cameras, followed Nina up the stairs. Paul had elected to stay in the kitchen, nursing a scotch and presumably, his pride. Quitters never prosper.

It was Mitch’s idea to add motion to the next scene. Nina thought they should finish in Alexander Ormsby’s bedroom, the same room where his body had been found decades ago, his secrets dying with him.