The house looked like any other house in this neighborhood: smart red bricks, a picket fence and neat beds of various perennial flowers ending their cycle for the year strategically dotted around. Several dollar store pumpkins and creepy straw figures lie in waiting at the entrance, along with a rather saccharine message written in cursive on a hanging chalkboard. They even had a wreath. Edna groaned and Lake nudged her.

“Don't tell me you have a wreath specifically for Fall.”

“Only on the inside kitchen door. Charlie likes it.”

“Sure, Charlie does.” Lake sniggered and Edna - taking great care to not look the terrifying knee-height scarecrow or his equally gruesome bride in the eye - rapped the door knocker.

The woman who opened the great white door looked drained within an inch of her life. Her cheeks were pinched and sunken and evidence of tears were still present around her eyes. She trembled and looked back and forth between the two agents.

“Are you here about Daniel?” she whispered. Lake nodded and showed his badge, nudging for Edna to do the same. She fumbled in her pocket as Lake spoke.

“FBI, Ma'am. I'm Agent Thomas Lake and this is Agent Jane Doe.”

Whoever thought her codename up at HQ must've been pissing his pants that day.

“I've already spoken to the police,” she said with a hint of expectation.

“If you don't mind, ma'am, we'd just like to come in and ask a few questions. We won't be long.”

“Of course, but I don't know what else you can find out here. It's been over twenty four hours already.”

“We're in dialogue with the local police force, ma'am. I assure you everything is being done right now to find your son. May we come in?”

“Y, yes. Yes, of course.” She stood aside, finally revealing her hands that were red raw and peeling. Edna recognized the act of doing the dishes in scalding water: she herself had done it many times when Ethan had been in the hospital at three months old with pneumonia.

Lake either didn't notice or kept his observations to himself and sat on the edge of the sofa. “May I ask your name please?” he enquired.

“Martha Howard.” She spoke with all the power of a trembling autumn leaf, all her power spent crying and fretting about her son for the past twenty hours. It was as if her ghost had answered the door, which was understandable given the situation.

Lake began the usual tirade, asking about last known location of her son, and by this point Martha was just responding like a tape recorder. Every answer was one she'd said a dozen times before. Edna took the opportunity to ask to check the boy's bedroom, to which Martha nodded.

When Edna stood, there was a slight tug on her jacket sleeve. Martha was holding on, her eyes threatening to leak once again. “You're FBI, does that mean this situation is more serious for just the local police force?”

Edna did not have the authority to answer, and had to turn her back which was extraordinarily difficult in the face of a grieving mother. Lake continued his questioning whilst Edna crept up the stairs.

Martha's house was remarkably similar to her own: palatial and breezy, with far too much magnolia paint and wooden knick knacks that had clearly been rotated for the appropriate season. Oranges and warm browns were in the upholstery and there was a fake climber coiled carefully around the railing and there was an array of scented candles in decorative bowls. Edna walked towards the door covered in football posters at the end of the hall.

She could feel it. A coldness, but not a chill. An awareness of something beyond what the naked eye could see, from within Daniel's room. Edna couldn't tell if this house was haunted, but there was definitely a presence here. Right in his room. Edna swallowed and opened the door, and Daniel's ghost looked up from the bed.