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out.”
    “I know,” Rebecca answered.
    “I’m just being practical,” he said.
    “Of course. As always.” Essie gave him a smile. She loved it when married people bickered gently in front of her.
    “Take a look at the backyard, honey,” Rebecca said. “You can see it through the kitchen.”
    “Nice?” Bill asked.
    “I could picture Karen and Patrick playing there,” she said. “Once we get it cleaned up.” Her raised eyebrow, connoting interest by her for the first time, was met by a similar gesture from him.
    Essie smiled.
    “You young people just wait till you see the whole house,” Essie continued, forging ahead. “Then you can compare notes. Or we all can talk. Whatever you wish.”
    Bill nodded. As Essie turned away, Rebecca blew him a little kiss. He watched carefully. His wife was starting to like the place.
    Essie led them upstairs. The steps groaned under their shoes.
    Bill, with his architect’s eye, inspected each step as they trod. Old wood, he noted. Probably the original stairs. Might have to be replaced, might need some support, he judged. But the staircase felt structurally sound. Interesting. And someone had used excellent wood when the house had first been built. Interesting again.
    He was further intrigued when he came to the second floor landing. There had been a bathroom on the first floor. There was a second bathroom, plus a half on the second floor. The porcelain was aged in all three baths and would have to be torn out, and the half bathroom would have to be expanded. The walls were filthy. And the cats must have had the run of one of the four bedrooms, because he still caught a strong whiff of something unpleasant coming from somewhere.
    But again, this was cosmetics.
    Bill put his hand on the doorknob to the fourth bedroom and couldn’t make it move. It was as if there were some force on the other side holding it. Bill Moore was startled for a moment, because the knob almost seemed to have a life of its own. It pulled back against his hand. He was certain. And again, Bill cocked his head. It was almost as if he could hear someone murmuring in a low disquieting voice. Not that he could make out the words. He stood still. Yes, indeed! He had heard something! Was he experiencing some strange current of sound? Was there a radio on somewhere? Perhaps in a neighbor’s house. He was tuned into something that sounded like the low rumble of an electronic voice in a distant room. He listened for another two seconds, his hand still upon the stubborn doorknob. Yes, again! He was certain that he was hearing a…
    “Trouble with the door?” Essie asked, appearing merrily next to him. “It happens with the weather. We get a Santa Ana blowing this time of the year. Even with the dry wind, there’s just enough humidity, and sooner or later the doors and drawers start sticking. It’s part of the price Californians pay for all the sunshine.”
    Essie put a hand on the knob, pressed it downward and then, with decades of experience selling homes jerked the knob and twisted it. She gave the door a sharp uppercut shot with her knee. The knob released.
    “There!” she snorted.
    The door opened onto a corner bedroom, square on one side, rounded on the other. The chamber was badly dilapidated, but otherwise it was a splendid little room.
    Rebecca followed her husband and poked her head in.
    “This is so cozy,” she said. “The kids will fight over it.”
    For a moment, a noxious odor overtook them, something acrid and sour. They all noticed it, and Bill thought that this had been the source of the cat stench that he had noticed throughout the second floor. But before anyone could remark upon it, it was gone, as if opening the door upon a closed room had caused it to dissipate.
    They all walked into the room. There was a grand turret on the side of the old house, and this was the second floor room contained therein. Bill and Rebecca both reacted the same way: The strange construction made the