Page 62 of What Happens at Nightfall

Adam reached out a hand to help her up.

Jess swatted at it. “If you wanted me to go, you could have just said.”

Adam’s face was an ugly grayish-green under his tan; his shirt bore streaks from his recent nosebleed, giving him a “last scene of a horror movie” aspect. “You didn’t see— There.”

He pointed at the place where Jess had been standing. There was a gash gouged out of the paving stones. Broken bits of marble littered a wide radius.

“Jess, an urn fell off the roof at you,” said Kimmy. “An urn. Off the roof. If Adam hadn’t pushed you—”

“I’m sorry—about the shrub—it was that or—” Adam gestured at the bits of shattered urn on the ground. “Jess? Are you okay?”

No. No, she wasn’t okay. It wasn’t just that a solid piece of statuary had fallen hard enough to break stone. There was a woman standing where the urn had fallen. A very transparent woman.

“What do I have to do?” demanded Cornelia Vanderwilt impatiently. “Hit you on the head with the truth?”

Jess couldn’t speak. All she could do was point. “That—there—”

A ghost had just tried to murder her. With statuary.

“Stupid girl,” said Cornelia Vanderwilt. Her accent was different from the ones Jess was accustomed to. It was like listening to a very old recording. “If I’d wanted to murder you, you’d be dead. Goodness, do I have to spell everything out for you people? The key. I gave you the key. Use the key.”

Jess whirled to face Kimmy. “Is she there? Do you see her?”

But Kimmy was frowning at the roof. “Um, do you have beehives up there?”

Up against the widow’s walk, a black cloud was forming, buzzing like a thousand angry insects. But insects didn’t have arms—or legs—or horns.

“Oh, shit,” said Adam.

“Belfagor,” whispered Jess.

“What’s my name? What’s my name? Say it louder!” Through the open kitchen window, the Alexa suddenly blasted into song.

“Alexa, stop!” shouted Adam.

“What’s my name? What’s my name? Feel the power!”

“Alexa, stop PLEASE!” roared Adam.

The music cut off, leaving a silence in its wake that was worse than the song. It was the silence of a haunted house just before the door started creaking with no one pushing it.

Smoke drifted past them, scented with sulfur. Jess could feel it burn where it brushed against her.

“What was that?” demanded Kimmy.

“Don’t say it!” said Adam quickly.

“I wasn’t going to!” Jess snapped. “Remember that demon?”

“That? Demon? But Cornelia Vanderwilt—it was a hundred years ago! A hundred and fifty years ago!”

Jess sat down abruptly on the ground. It was hard, but at least it wasn’t shrubbery. And it was better than blacking out. Or being squished by a falling urn. “I told you.”

“That—that was why you missed Petunia’s party?”

“That,” Jess confirmed.

“If Adam hadn’t pushed you . . . Oh God. I’m so sorry. I should never have taken you on that tour.”