Fifteen paces into her run, Jane flopped onto her stomach and army crawled the last six feet to the edge of the round-about driveway in the center of the Thompsons abandoned front yard. Alice flopped down beside Jane, panting and wheezing, “What are you doing? You couldn’t wait for me.”

“Sorry, I just want to get this over with.”

Alice turned on the camera and tucked it into her sleeve and huddled up with Jane in an effort to keep them both warm. On any other dark, starry night they might sneak a few moments for a kiss or two, but Jane was all business. Plus, it was hard to get into the mood when you knew that eight years ago a man had died, his blood spilled into the gravel from a gunshot wound, only a few feet away from where you were laying.

Thirty minutes ticked away. Alice yawned and began to say something, but then Jane gasped and turned, her mouth silenty forming the words; there. A ghostly image of a man appeard, riding a bicycle around the round-about.