Myra had fallen in love with the house from the moment it became visible through the car window. It was not, as Don had wryly noted from behind the wheel, precisely a mansion. But it was 20 rooms larger than their Toronto house, and a "miniature" Richmond Hill mansion was hardly a bad place to begin your eleventh year of marriage, particularly when the house came to you by windfall.

It had belonged to a cousin, Albert de Treville, on her father's side of the family: a relative she had not known she had, until the letter announcing her inheritance had arrived in the mail two weeks ago. It was precisely like something out of an old movie, or maybe a Harlequin romance novel. Myra had never even met the man.

"Well, the new masters of the house have arrived," Don joked as they pulled into the circular carriage-path driveway. "I don't see any welcoming committee."

Entranced by her first close view of the house, Myra didn't answer. White pillars surrounded the rectangular porch, a design mimicked by the small balconies on each of the four upper-floor windows facing the drive. It needed paint, but the modest house was in every respect an adequate rival to its substantially larger neighbors. It looked, all the same, like a mansion to Myra. To think that she would actually own it was something she had not entirely assimilated yet. Somewhere, it seemed, there just had to be a catch. Wasn't there always?

Don's voice interrupted her reverie. "You want to wake up now, hon? In case you hadn't noticed, we're here."

She gave him a sour look, half-serious. Now and then, his constant kidding rankled her a little. She found herself wondering if his co-workers at the precinct were sorry or relieved that he would be gone on vacation for the next two weeks. Not a very kind thought for a wife to

have about her husband, she chided herself. Maybe when school ended and Jenny could come up, she'd help mitigate things between her often-at-odds parents.

Aloud, Myra said, "All right. So let's go in and take a look."

"What if no one's here? They didn't send you a key."

"Let's check. Maybe there's a caretaker or something."

"Right. Probably a nice Mrs. Danvers type."

"Don!"

"Sorry."

As if on cue, the front door of the house swung open and a stout, middle-aged woman stepped out onto the porch. Don looked at his wife and smiled crookedly. "What did I tell you?"

"You must be the Schankes," the stout woman said pleasantly. "I'm Mrs. Herald, the housekeeper." She shook both their hands vigorously. "I'm also resident cook, maid and security guard -- at least for the time being. There used to be a staff of five, but Cliff and I are the only two left. He's out back pruning a rose bush or something." She escorted them through the massive oak doorway and into a spotless mirrored foyer that faced a polished rosewood staircase to the upper floor.

"Not bad," Don remarked, looking around. "But... Well, if you don't mind my being blunt here, who's going to pay your salaries now that Cousin Albert has flown the mortal coop?" When Myra elbowed him, he added, "Hey, nobody told us anything about inheriting a servant staff!"

She came very near kicking him. But the older woman's reaction was merely another smile. "Mr. de Treville quite generously saw to it that our salaries were paid three months in advance. After that, our continued employment will be your option, of course."

She said it with such apparent lack of concern that Myra wondered if she really wanted to continue working here. Cousin Albert must have been a very strange and eccentric person indeed, to leave two of his employees ensconced in the house with such an unusual dictum. And why hadn't the lawyers told them anything about this arrangement?

She forgot most of these questions for the moment when Mrs. Herald's offer to show them around caused her once more to fall in love with the old house -- this time from the inside. She learned that it had been constructed in 1850 by Warren de Treville, a great-great grandfather of whom she had not previously heard. She knew shamefully little about her family. Hopefully, that would be a error of omission she could now correct.

Don seemed far less impressed with the gentile decor. He had not been in favor of this expedition to begin with. He was certain (and Myra had to admit that she suspected as well) that the inheritance was entirely too good to be true.

They toured the modest but well-groomed grounds, and met the gardener, Clifford Olsen, tending roses in the sculptured garden. He was a small man, grey and sporting a beard as well-trimmed as his many plants. He looked to be about sixty, and though he lacked Mrs. Herald's effusive personality, he was both pleasant and likable.

By the time they had settled into the master bedroom for their first night in the house, Myra and Don were both exhausted.

"I never knew a house so small could take so long to see, Don complained. "My feet are killing me."

"Small?" she echoed. She lay beside him in the oversized bed, luxuriating in the silky softness of the sheets. They were like nothing she'd ever slept on in her life. "Watch what you say about our new home, buster. It may not have 80 rooms like some of those monstrosities down the block, but it's got class. A lot of it."

He looked at her, and she could see the levity drain out of his gaze. "Sweetheart, we can't stay here," he said grimly.

"And why not?"

"Come down to Earth just once, will you? Look around. Yeah, weird Cousin Albert may have left you the house, but he sorta forgot to leave the fortune in buried family jewels to go along with it! You ever hear of people winning big expensive cars or boats in contests who had to forfeit the prizes because they couldn't afford to pay the gift taxes and the upkeep?"

"Oh, Don..."

"Oh Don nothing. We can't afford this place, Myra. I wish we could and I'm sorry, but we're still talking cop's salary here, and the inheritance tax alone is probably gonna be enough to break us."

"But I told you I could get a job."

"Yeah, and Jenny could kick in her college fund. Hon, it still wouldn't be enough. Geez, it must cost a thousand a month just to keep this place in gas and lights."

"Nope. Six hundred. I saw Mrs. Herald's accounting records."

"Six schmix. It might as well be a thousand. My paycheck doesn't stretch that far."

She edged closer to him in the bed, into the cradle of his arm. "Is that it, Don? Are you angry that the house was left to me? That you won't have earned it yourself?"

"I'm trying to be practical. Male ego has nothing to do with it."

She fell silent. Some time later, she fell asleep. A movement woke her; she didn't know how much later. Don had gotten out of bed. She could see his robed silhouette against the moonlight streaming in the vaulted second story window. He was right to be worried, she decided. This whole affair had seemed a fantasy from the beginning. It would probably remain one. Their meager income was simply not enough to maintain a house like this -- even no bigger a "mansion" than it was. Perhaps somewhere, somehow, there was a solution...

She drifted back to sleep with that pleasant thought in mind.

* * *

He hadn't been able to sleep.

Don Schanke finally gave up, got dressed, and went down the back stairs to sneak a cigarette in the garden.

Cold out here. And windy. Tall trees surrounding the garden creaked and rustled in the breeze.

He finished his cigarette and buried the evidence in the nearest concrete planter. He'd started back toward the house when he heard the unmistakable sound of a twig snapping under someone's foot. He looked down. No twigs here.

The snapping noise came again.

His hand flew automatically to a shoulder holster that wasn't there. Feeling silly now, he squinted into the shadows beyond the nearest hedge and cleared his throat loudly. "All right, I give," he said jocularly. "Who's there?"

No answer.

"Helloooooo? Come out, come out, whoever you are."

Was that a figure standing next to that tree? Nah. His eyes must be playing tricks on him. Looked like some twerp in a 19^th century long-coat and stovepipe hat. What the...?

_Gotta lay off those garlic and pepperoni pizzas, Donnie. They're giving you walking nightmares._

He shrugged the windbreaker back over his shoulders, started for the door...

The odd _chuff-chuff_ sound that came next _might_ have been mistaken for tree branches rubbing together in the wind - to any but a cop's ears. Both bullets whined off cement near his feet, and Don scrambled through the door, slamming and locking it behind him. He shoved aside a drapery and peered back out the window. Too many shadows to see anything or anyone moving out there. But _someone_ had just taken two silenced shots at him.

He checked again that the door was locked, then bounded back up the stairs.

* * *

When Myra woke again, Don was no longer in the room. Where could he have gone? To the bathroom, perhaps. But no, she'd forgotten -- there was a bathroom built into one end of the master bedroom, and he wasn't in there. Perhaps downstairs to forage for a late night snack? That would be just like him...

The sudden clatter of the bedroom door coming open made her sit up in the bed. She blinked in confusion as light flooded the room. Don stood in the doorway, his expression an odd combination of anger and determination.

"Get dressed," he commanded. "We're getting the hell out of here."

"What? What are you talking about?"

"I said we're leaving." He pulled a suitcase from the closet, started emptying the drawers of the nearest chest.

"Not until you tell me what's going on, we're not!"

"One of those crackpot servants is a maniac, that's what. One of them just tried to kill me."

"You can't be serious." She forced his hands from the pile of disheveled clothes in the suitcase. "Don, please. Sit down, calm down, and tell me what happened! You're not making any sense!"

He didn't sit down. "I couldn't sleep," he told her. "So I got dressed and... and took a walk out back. Somebody in the trees took a couple of shots at me. I _knew_ I shouldn've left the service revolver at home, I knew it! Now can we please get out of here?"

"My God, Don, how can you think of just leaving? We've got to call the local police!"

"Not on your life."

"What? _Why?_"

"'Cause they're not gonna believe me, that's why! Whoever this nut was was all decked out in old-fashioned clothes, like Abraham Lincoln. Only Lincoln packs a silenced .45 these days! At a guess, I'd say one or the other of those 'good and faithful servants' you inherited is playing dress-up to try and scare us out of here. OK, it worked. Let's go."

"I can't believe either of them could ever do such an insane thing!"

Don's tone was hurt now. "You think I made this whole thing up? For God's sake, Myra, I think you'd do anything to stay in this ancestral museum!"

Their argument that night had been long and bitter. In the end, Don had agreed to remain another day, and to say nothing of the previous night's incident to the servants. Surely, Myra reasoned, if one of them were guilty, they would express some surprise that the victims of the 'hoax' had made no mention of it.

Mrs. Herald served them a delicious breakfast of bacon, eggs and yeast rolls in the spacious dining room. She chattered about the family tree as though it were her own, relating known war exploits and other incidents, to Myra's utter fascination. Never was there any hint that she might have expected her new charges to depart. So much for the Mrs. Danvers theory...

Cliff was far more difficult to read. They made a point of visiting him in the garden later that morning. He seemed curious about their undue attention to his work, but nothing in his demeanor hinted that he might have been the sinister "ghost" that had attacked Don, either. They were striking out.

"I still think we should go," he told her later in the library, where she'd discovered several family photo albums to pore over. "Whoever it is wants this museum so badly, they can have it."

She only half heard him. She'd found a 19^th century photo in the book, and was excited at the name printed below it. "Don, look! It's Warren de Treville, the man who built the house."

Annoyed, he barely glanced at the album she'd shoved in front of him. But abruptly, his face paled, and he looked harder at the bearded, portly man in the faded photograph.

"Wait a minute. That's the Halloween costume that tried to put a hole through me last night," he said in a small voice. "Jeez, these people know how to do it up right, don't they?!"

"He looked... he looked like _this?_"

"Exactly. Right down to the beard."

"But why would anyone want to go to all that trouble dressing up? What's the point?"

"I don't know. But I'd sure as hell like to find out."

"I was hoping you'd say that."

"One more day," he said warily. "But that's all."

* * *

The ghost - - if that was indeed what it was - - did not take long to manifest itself again. This time, however, it seemed to have far less murderous intentions.

It was standing at the end of the upstairs corridor when Myra and Don came up the stairs to retire for the night. The long coat, hat and beard were exactly as Don had described -- and exactly like those Warren de Treville had worn in the old photograph.

The figure did not brandish a weapon at them, however. It merely stood forty feet from their frozen position, regarding them coolly.

"Now what?" Myra whispered shakily. She felt guilty for ever having doubted her husband's word. For a short time, she had even wondered if he might have manufactured the ghost himself in order to convince her to leave.

Don hadn't answered her whispered question. In a loud, bold voice, he addressed the figure down the hall.

"Whoever you are, whatever you're trying to do, you can forget it. We aren't going to fall for this gothic novel stuff, you got that? So just go back to your comic book, or wherever it is you came from, and leave my wife and me alone!"

Warren de Treville, or his semblance, raised one black-sleeved arm to point at them. Don put a protective arm around his wife, drew her back out of harm's way. But there was no weapon in the pointing hand. Instead, something began to snap and crackle just behind them on the stairs.

Myra turned toward it -- and screamed. Flames were snaking up the banisters, greedily consuming the carpet below in their rush to the upper level. Don grabbed her, pulling her back. Black, inky smoke roiled into the corridor, choking them. And from the other end of the long hall came a deep, sinister laugh. Apparently, Warren was enjoying his mysterious revenge.

Coughing, Don tried frantically to open the door nearest them. It was locked. He kicked at it, but its century-old lock held fast. The exertion made him cough harder.

The second door along the corridor, and the third, were locked as well. The only way out was the bay window -- the window directly behind their ghostly attacker.

Shouting an obscenity, Don started toward the costume-clad figure with Myra in tow. It was in that moment a feminine voice called out from somewhere behind them -- somewhere amid the shooting flames.

"Mrs. Herald!" Myra cried, and broke from Don's grasp. He restrained her again, refused to let her go back toward the stairs.

"There's nothing you can do!" he shouted over the roar of the growing fire. "We've got to get out! Now!"

The ghost's cruel laugh punctuated his words. From the stairs, something that sounded not at all like anything human wailed piteously. She saw it in almost the same instant that Don did: a female figure walking _through_ the flames, ascendthe staircase with its arms outstretched. It was not on fire, despite the licking flames. And its clothes, like that of its male counterpart, were in the style of the 1850s.

Myra didn't resist when Don dragged her backward toward the window once more. When they turned, the male ghost had vanished.

"What _was_ that?" Myra cried, and the smoke in her lungs made the words come out a hoarse rasp. "What can walk through fire like that?!"

She heard the sound of glass shattering: Don had thrown a small table from the corridor through the window and was using his shoe now to knock glass from the frame. Night air rushed in to feed the hungry flames. They roared and leaped at the walls.

She felt his arms around her again then, and was dimly aware of being carried fireman-style over his shoulder and down the ornamental bricks that sided the house. There was the pleasant chill of cold night air, and the smell of water, damp on smoldering wood.

When she opened her eyes again, it was to see the kindly face of Mrs. Herald bending over her. She was surprised to find herself in the master bedroom of the house.

"How can I be here?" she asked weakly. "The house... the house was burning..."

"Yes," the older woman agreed. "But it's out now. Cliff and I took the household fire extinguishers to it from below, and the fire department, they did the rest. Not nearly as bad as it might have been, all told, though they haven't determined what started it yet. I'm only glad you're all right, poor dear."

"Don...?"

"He's fine, dear, just fine. A little shaken and incoherent, but not hurt. He's downstairs with the police, poor boy. Keeps trying to tell them Cliff and I were dressing up in some ridiculous costumes and set the house on fire to try and drive you out. Whatever's come over him, getting such ideas in his head?"

"I don't know... There was a woman, on the stairs... walking in the fire. We saw her."

Mrs. Herald's motherly face became a sudden picture of doubt. "You get some rest now," she said. "I think those police persons will want to ask you questions later. You'll need to be able to think a bit straighter than that."

Myra tried to protest, but found she was too weak to try. Reluctantly, she obeyed the housekeeper's order.

The local police were every bit as disbelieving as Mrs. Herald had been. They took down Myra's descriptions with the same dour expressions she imagined they had worn when Don gave them his report of the incident. Never mind that her husband was a police detective and she a policeman's wife. Like police everywhere, they were predisposed to disbelieve the supernatural. Far easier to think this man and his wife were border hysterics trying to tell them that aliens from outer space were landing on the lawn, or some other crackpot story. Obviously, the police would be of no help to them. Don had been right about that.

But he still believed Mrs. Herald and Clifford were responsible for the ghostly apparitions. They were working together, he insisted, and somehow he was going to prove it.

Sue spent the afternoon perusing more of the books and photo albums in the extensive library. She didn't know where Don had gone, and it worried her. It was almost as if he had to prove the ghosts were man-made ruses: anything rather than admit to the possibility that they might be exactly what they appeared to be -- spirits of her ancestors returned from the dead. But who was the _woman_ they had seen in the fire?

Idly, not really expecting to find anything useful, she flipped through the yellowed pages of the photo album, stopping at last on the page that held Warren de Treville's imposing photo. Her eye drifted to the face enshrined on the page next to his, and she read the name beneath it. "ERICA DE TREVILLE," it said, "WIFE OF WARREN, b. 1834, d. 1889."

"They _are_ fascinating, aren't they?"

Myra started, then tried unsuccessfully to hide her discomfort when she realized that the speaker had been Mrs. Herald. "Yes. Yes, they are."

The housekeeper had sensed her unease. "Are you afraid of me now too? My dear, I assure you, neither I nor Cliff would ever dream of harming either of you. What reason would we have?"

"None, I suppose. I'm sorry. I'm really only worried about Don." Shadows lengthened as sunlight streamed through the library window. The sun was going down.

"I'm sure he'll be back soon. I'll go and get dinner." Mrs. Herald left her alone in the room again. Exhausted, Myra put her head to the desk. She'd meant to rest only for a moment, but when she looked up again, only moonlight filtered through the draperies, leaving tiny blue mottled patterns on the desk.

"Did you rest well?"

Again, she started. But this time the voice was masculine, a deep sonorous voice she had never heard before. Something moved in the shadowy corner to her right. A man in an old-fashioned long-coat and stovepipe hat stepped into the moonlight. He held an entirely modern automatic pistol, complete with a silencer, in his hand. Odd choice of gun for a ghost...

"I so hated to disturb your slumber," he said raspily. "Seeing as how, I shortly intend to make it permanent."

He raised the weapon until it pointed directly at her. His finger moved to cover the trigger. Before he could press it, something knocked the weapon out of his hand. It clattered to the wooden flooring and skidded away. The ghost's hands flew to his throat and she saw, in that instant, that Don had appeared behind her would-be assassin, had snatched away the gun and was now making use of the drapery chord to dissuade him further. Choking and wheezing, he soon collapsed to the floor beside his fallen pistol.

"Don!" She ran to him, suddenly fussing. "Thank God. Are you all right?"

"I'm fine," he reassured her. "Hopefully that's more than I can say for our 'ectoplasmic' little friend here." He knelt to the prone figure of the "ghost," placing two fingers to its throat.

"Is he...?"

"No. He's still breathing. Not that I'd mind if he weren't. He was going to kill you. He meant to kill both of us." With one hand, he roughly turned the unconscious man face up. Myra turned on the light.

"Geez-Louise will you look at this!"

The face on the library floor was in every way identical to that of Warren de Treville in the family album. It was the face of a man who had been dead for nearly a century.

Mrs. Herald's anxious voice came from the outer hall as she and Clifford simultaneously entered the room. "What is it? What's happened?" Their faces paled when they saw the still figure on the floor. The aging gardener crossed himself and backed up a step.

"He isn't dead," Don told them. "But he sure as heck meant to see that _we_ were."

Mrs. Herald knelt beside the unconscious assailant and began, surprisingly, to shake his shoulder. "Sir," she cried. "Mr. Albert, please sir! What are you doing here? We thought you were in Europe!"

The light of realization illuminated Don's eyes. "This is Cousin Albert? Supposedly _dead_ Cousin Albert? Myra, go to the phone. Get the police back out here." He made further use of the drapery chord to bind Albert de Trevillle's hands and feet.

Mrs. Herald had begun to sob. Don looked hopefully to Clifford for some possible explanation.

"We never thought he would try such an insane thing," the old man said sadly. "Never... He resembled his ancestor a great deal. Everyone who saw the old photograph commented on how uncanny it was. I guess he resembled him in more ways than one."

"How do you mean?"

Myra returned from the telephone to listen raptly to the gardener's answer.

"Warren de Treville was mad. They say he murdered his wife. No one could ever prove how. He stashed away a fortune -- wouldn't let her touch a penny of it. And his will stipulated that none of his descendants could touch it either -- until only one of them of the same generation remained. It was a cruel, unconscionable thing to do. His wife hid the will away. Wouldn't tell him where she'd put it. Perhaps that's why he killed her."

Myra was in mild shock. "Do you mean to say my own cousin -- a man I'd never even met -- was willing to murder me for a _legend?_ For something that doesn't even exist?!"

Clifford shook his head. "Oh, it exists, ma'am. One hundred thousand dollars. A very vast fortune in Warren's time. It's still held in trust by the First Bank of Richmond Hill."

Don glanced at the slumbering Cousin Albert. "I have a feeling Warren's descendant is going to be spending some time in a nice secure place where he can't do anyone else any harm. And as for you..." He held Myra close to him. "I think I just figured out where the funds to keep this house running are going to come from. Provided we can convince that hoard of lawyers that you're the _legitimate_ heir."

Myra had another unsettling thought. "But where's the woman? Where's his accomplice? He must have had a woman working with him. We saw her, in the fire."

"There was no woman," Mrs. Herald said through her tears. "There were never any women in Mr. Albert's life."

A police siren wailed in the distance.

"But..." Sue said. "The woman on the stairs..."

She couldn't help remembering what old Clifford had said about Warren having killed his wife. And she recalled the elfen-sad face of Erica de Treville looking up at her from the yellowed page of the old family album.

"Leave it," Don suggested. "Let's go out and tell the nice men in blue that we're not a pair of lunatics after all, shall we?"

"But..."

She gave up and let him guide her out to the foyer, leaving the trussed Cousin Albert and his two faithful servants behind.

There would be time to solve the other mysteries later.