When nine-year-old Gabby Filmore came home with a puppy, her parents weren’t happy.

And they were even more upset when she told them she’d found it in the Witch’s Needle.

The Witch’s Needle is one of New Rotterdam’s most recognizable landmarks. It’s a thirteen-foot-tall obelisk—like a miniature Washington Monument—carved from a single piece of sarsen stone. That’s the same stuff Stonehenge is made of.

According to legend, Sarah Blackthorne, a victim of the New Rotterdam Witch Trials, used the Witch’s Needle as a hiding place for her potions and poisons. Her final fate was sealed when Gideon de Ruiter uncovered her hidden flasks and phials in a secret compartment within the monument’s hollow base.

That secret compartment would be used again. History tells us that colonists hid ammunition and explosives within it, allowing them to get the drop on an occupying force of redcoats in the bloody insurrection known as the Founders Day Miracle. Centuries later, smugglers of the Prohibition era used the compartment to hide their illegal moonshine.

There’s just one problem with those stories. In 1986, scientists studying the obelisk concluded that there is no hidden compartment in the Witch’s Needle. Their scans proved that the obelisk is solid stone from tip to base. Those old stories … were just stories.

So how did Gabby Filmore find a puppy there in 1993?

Maybe she made up the story. Maybe she found the puppy in a playground or a parking lot and decided to tell a white lie to win her parents over.

We’ll never be able to ask her. Because Gabby and her family went missing a few short weeks after she brought that puppy into their home.

Police found the dog sleeping contentedly in Gabby’s empty bed. The Filmores, however, were never found.

4

Emrys screamed.

It was an honest scream, high-pitched and undignified and completely involuntary—his body’s way of saying it was terrified before his brain even had a chance to process the fear.

Or to process the voice he’d heard.

“I said don’t scream,” hissed that voice. Serena’s voice. Emrys sagged with relief.

“I warned you not to sneak up on him,” whispered Hazel. “I don’t know what you—whoa.” She noticed the lack of door in Van Stavern’s doorframe. “What happened?”

“Something bad,” Emrys said.

Hazel squatted down and picked up a broken shard of door. Emrys watched as it fell apart in her fingers, crumbling to dust.

“I-I didn’t …” Hazel’s eyes found his. “You saw that, right? What would do that to a hardwood door?”

“We should call the police,” Emrys said.

Serena tutted. “The police? I wouldn’t.”

“Serena, I love you and I respect your whole anti-authoritarian thing,” said Hazel, and she brought her phone up to her ear. “But there’s a time and a place, and I’m already calling them.”

Emrys turned to Serena. “What do you have against the police?”

Serena didn’t look at him. She was peering into the dark doorframe. “Let me guess. Where you come from, it’s all Officer Friendly and pals, right?” She shook her head. “Not in this city. You’d better hope they don’t pin this on you, Mr. First-on-the-Scene.”

Emrys was sure she was joking. Or at least exaggerating.

He was pretty sure.

But he felt his heart racing at the idea. They’d certainly have a lot of questions for him. His parents would, too.

Hazel lowered her phone. “It’s, uh … it’s busy.”

“Try nine-one-one,” Emrys suggested.

“I did,” Hazel replied.

“I’m sorry, what?” said Serena. “Nine-one-one is busy?” She threw up her hands. “This city, I swear!”

“I’ll try again,” Hazel offered. “It’s probably because of the storm.”

“We have to go inside. He might need our help.” It was Emrys who said it, without fully meaning to. He was usually careful about what he said, hesitant to put forward his ideas and opinions. But now wasn’t the time to sit back and compose wiki entries in his head about eerie whistling and disintegrating doors. Their neighbor might be hurt in there.

“We don’t have time to wait for somebody else,” he said. “Right now, every second counts.”

Hazel and Serena shared a look. Emrys couldn’t read whatever passed between them, but then they both nodded.

“Yeah, okay,” said Serena.

“After you?” said Hazel.

Despite his bold words, Emrys found it difficult to take that first step over the threshold. His phone’s light did a poor job of penetrating the inky blackness—he saw more bits of shattered door inside, and a faded rug, and not much else—and there was still the small, panicked voice in his head that knew he was breaking the rules. Even if this was the right thing to do—and it was, he was sure of it—he still found it hard to step outside the lines.

“You’ve got this,” Hazel said at his back, and she shone her light over his shoulder, adding its brightness to his own. “We’re right behind you.”

The light switch didn’t work (because of course it didn’t), and as Emrys swung his light around the apartment, he felt a momentary thrill of fear—as if some part of him fully expected to find something crouching there in the dark, waiting for them. He held his breath, searching the shadows for the toothy rictus of the Laughing Man or the luminous cat eyes of Creeping Ginny. But his light revealed only a large, high-ceilinged room—and glimpses of a truly tremendous mess.

“It looks like thirty to fifty wild boars came through here,” he whispered.

“That’s weirdly specific,” said Hazel. “But true. Watch out for broken glass. Where are your shoes?”

Hazel shone her light at their feet, where chunks of the door lay among shards of glass and ceramic. She followed the trail of glittering debris with her light; it led to a kitchenette set against a nearby wall. The contents of its emptied cupboards seemed to be the source of the broken glass.

“His kitchen’s in his living room,” Hazel said.

“It’s a loft,” said Serena. “One big room instead of several little ones.”

Good, Emrys thought. Fewer walls for a knife-wielding killer to be lurking behind.

“Um, hello?” Emrys called. A floorboard creaked loudly beneath his foot, but his voice came out quiet and small.

“Mr. Van Stavern?” Hazel tried. “Are you here, sir? We’re from downstairs.”

“Call him Alyx,” Serena insisted. “He’s our neighbor, not our teacher.”