Isabel finally closed the book and put it back on the shelf, but she could not shut the images of the family from her mind, especially Robert, who lived here, alone, until his eighties.

She felt a tightening and then a lurching in her throat and fought it down.

Had Claire and the children remained in the house somehow? Or part of them, at least? What about now? She felt she and her friends were not alone in the house, that it was not empty… at least not completely.

Was it Robert Benton and his family? Or some part of them they had left behind? And were they trying to tell her something? She had felt something odd when they arrived. The house had felt familiar… and comfortable.

Had they been communicating with her? And what about the journal? That particular book had fallen off the shelf, and it had opened to the first day the family got sick.

And then there was the strange behavior of the van… cutting out when they tried to leave, but working fine

when they decided to head for the house and stay the night. But why bring them here? Why show her the book? Did the Bentons want something from them, or from her? What could it be?

It all sounded crazy, even in her own head, but there were things going on here she could not explain… feelings she could not explain.

And what did Robert Benton mean when he wrote, "It's getting late." Alex had said that to her in her dream. Remembering that dream gave Isabel a fresh run of chills. She had tried not to think about it. Was Alex really making contact with her? Or was she just imagining things?

Like Robert Benton, she thought. He imagined his family. Day after day, year after year, then decade after decade. For almost fifty years he had roamed this house… haunted it, really… driven mad by his loss. Except Isabel wasn't sure he was mad. In fact she was sure he wasn't… at least not completely.

She was sure he had felt something of his lost wife and children. It might have been as simple as the lingering feeling you had for someone you had dreamed about before you woke. Or had they been here in a more real way?

And Isabel could make contact with people as they dreamed. Maybe she was in some kind of contact with the Bentons. Maybe she was in some kind of contact with Alex, for that matter. But what then?

Isabel wracked her brain for the ghost stories she had read and the movies she had seen. Spirits sometimes tried to find peace by pointing out their killer if they were murdered, but the Bentons had died from disease over fifty years ago.

Some ghosts were malevolent, wanting to harm the living. In one story she had read, the ghost had driven a woman to suicide so her spirit would stay in their house, but that didn't fit here. The Bentons were a normal family. For all their wealth, they were a happy, normal family.

Like we were, she thought.

Isabel thought of her childhood, the happiness she and Max had found with their adopted parents. For years, even their great secret was only an occasional worry, blotted out by the family life. That life was what she wanted to have with Jesse. Something normal, something good.

Maybe it was too much for her to hope for, with Jesse or with anyone else. Now she had lost him, as well as Mom and Dad. It was only she and Max now, just like they were when they first crawled out of the pods and into the desert.

Was that why Robert Benton had shown her his book? Did he think she might understand his loss, if only in some small way?

There were too many questions for her to answer tonight. She felt drained by what she had read. Isabel laid her head down on the bed that Robert and Claire Benton had shared half a century before…

… and heard a noise.

Footsteps in the hallway, then laughter. Her first thought was that her brother and friends had to keep it down. People were trying to sleep. Then she realized that the laughter sounded more like… a child's. When she heard it again, she was sure: It was a little girl.

Immediately, Isabel was on her feet. She slipped on her shoes and was glad that she had never undressed for bed.

She heard running, and then she was opening her own door and looking down the hallway. No one was there.

Well, no one but Kyle, she thought, looking down and seeing him asleep in front of her door. He's keeping an eye on me, she realized. The gesture was sweet, but unnecessary. She was more than capable of defending herself.

Quickly she stepped over Kyle, careful not to wake him. Then she walked down the hallway, following the sound of the laughter and footsteps. She heard creaking and saw that one of the bedroom doors was slightly open. It was the first room they had seen. She knew this had been Sarah Benton's room. Isabel also knew that when she had left the room she had closed the door.

Now the door was half open. Laughter was coming from inside the room. No, not laughter, giggling, Isabel corrected herself. Without hesitation, Isabel pushed the door all the way open, stepped inside, and scanned the room in the dim light that came from the hallway.

There was nothing there.

Isabel flipped the switch on the wall, and suddenly the room was bathed in light. Her eyes adjusted quickly, and when they did, they confirmed what she had seen before: The room was empty. However, the rocking horse was now gently moving back and forth.

That could be because oj the breeze 1 created when I opened the door, she thought. But she immediately dismissed the notion. She was nearly certain that the rocking horse had been still when she'd first stepped into the room, but more than that, she felt a presence. Someone had set the horse in motion, and that someone was still in the room.

Isabel opened the closet. She got a chill when she saw

the little girl's clothes there: frilly dresses, nightgowns, and casual play clothes of different kinds. Sarah's clothes. She looked at the artifacts from more than half a century before and saw Sarah's life as clearly as she could see her own childhood. This girl had worn these clothes, played with the dolls in this room, and she had loved her parents.

And then she'd died in this house, Isabel thought. Her stomach seized when she thought of how this little girl had died. She was third, after her mother and baby brother. It was too horrible, and Isabel turned away from the clothes and stepped out of the closet. Next she bent down to check under the bed. There was nothing there. She heard laughter behind her and whipped around.

Nothing.

If this is one of my friends.,., Isabel thought. If this is someone's idea of a joke…

But it was not a joke, and the sounds were not made by any of her friends. Impossible as it might seem, a little girl named Sarah who had lived and died in this house fifty years before was making them.

It was impossible… completely impossible, she knew. She also knew it was true. "Sarah?" she said, keeping her voice soft.

There was no response. Isabel looked out into the hallway. She didn't see anything in the dim light. Then there was the laughter again, from behind her in the room.

A smile crossed Isabel's lips. It's a game, she thought.

The soft, nearly inaudible laughter continued. Somehow, Isabel knew it would not stop until she turned around. The smile still on her lips, Isabel got ready to

quickly peek back into the room, when her ears picked up another sound.

"Isabel…," a voice said, from the direction of the staircase. The sound of her own name jolted her, much more than the laughter of a girl who had been gone from the earth for more than sixty years.

She also realized that at the exact moment that someone spoke her name, the laughter behind her stopped, as if the voice had startled Sarah as well.

"Isabel," the voice repeated.

"Yes?" Isabel called, starting out the door.

It was probably Max or one of the others looking for her. The voice sounded familiar, but it was hard to be sure. She walked quickly to the balcony.

Looking down, into the dim light provided by the dying fire, she saw a hunched figure dash into the shadows. For a second, she thought she was looking at Robert Benton, who was still alive and roaming the house. But for reasons she could not explain, she was certain that the last entry he had made in his journal upstairs was made on the last day of his life… more than ten years ago.

She glanced quickly back down the hallway, to Sarah's room, and then beyond, where her friends were sleeping. For a moment, she had an urge to go back and wake up Max and Michael, but she didn't want to waste time explaining what she was feeling, knowing they might not believe her… even if they somehow understood.

So she headed to the top of the stairs and then down to the main floor. Once there, she called out, "Hello." There was no response, then she called out softly, "Robert? Robert Benton?" She felt silly for a moment, calling out to

someone long gone, but she knew what she felt.

Another flash of movement. She saw the same figure disappear into the rear of the house, and this time she saw him more clearly. He was wearing some type of a hood, and he looked small… or was it just that he was hunched over?

Well, Isabel was going to find out once and for all what was going on in this house. If the Bentons were somehow behind this, then there was a reason. Maybe they needed something from her. Maybe she could help them.

Isabel headed into the hallway, past the dining room. And then she caught another glimpse of the hooded figure as he disappeared into the kitchen. Isabel started running. She wouldn't let this go another second. Whatever was going on in this house, she would know right now.

When she reached the kitchen, she saw a door swing open and the figure dash into it. The door was next to a large walk-in pantry, and Isabel realized she and her friends had forgotten something important when they had quickly searched the house.

The basement, she thought. She reached for the door, opened it, and looked down into complete darkness. Well, that makes sense, she thought. If I'm chasing a ghost, he wouldn't need lights. She did, though, and hit the switch next to the wall. A bare bulb above her lit up, and she could see lights come on at the bottom of the stairs. The basement came into view as she descended. There were no surprises there. It was a large space full of indoor and outdoor furniture, as well as tools and other equipment. Unlike the rest of the inside of the house, the basement looked old. Time had not stopped here. Things had rusted and decayed.

She smelled dust, mildew, and something else she could not place. It was unpleasant, whatever it was. Isabel was ready to search the maze of junk when she heard a door creak. The sound came from behind the ancient-looking boiler, which stood in front of an old wooden door, hanging half open. She opened the door and peered inside. There were stairs leading down to a brightly lit space, some sort of a sub-basement. From what she could see, the space looked clean, as if it had been very well maintained.