Captive [antikvár]

Boston, 1996 told herself that there was no such thing as ghosts. That her imagination was running wild. Alexandra stoód outside of Blackwell House, alone in the dark, staring. She was passing through Boston on her way back to school, and stopping at the closed museum, once the actual home of one of Massachusetts's founding families, had been an impulse. Until a moment ago, it had seemed like a good idea as she was hardly ready for a solitary meal and bed. Her hotel was just across the Common. It would be a short walk back. But now she shivered, even though it was a pleasant June evening despite the slight drizzle. Her small overnight bag was at her feet. She hadn't thought to bring an umbrella, and she was rapidly becoming damp. But that wasn't the problem. The real problem was that, until a moment ago, she had believed in ghosts, she had just never encountered one before. Now she was wondering if the house she stared at was haunted, or if she was merely imagining being watched. Yet the eyes seemed to be coming from behind her—not from the unlit colonial house in front of her. Alex glanced behind her, but saw no one, nothing other than a single passing car, its headlights momentarily blinding her. She stepped back but did not avoid the spray of water coming