The contractors finish the framing. The smell of fresh pine is one of the best smells Ryan knows. It’s the same smell that disinfectants have, and Ryan always associates new framing with cleanliness. Old ugly hidden things, invisible squirming vermin being scorched away, burned away, sterilized.

One of Ryan’s brutally efficient Russian workers, a framer, is named Sergei. He leaves behind a plate of bread and salt one night, which Ryan stumbles over. Ryan swears roughly at Sergei; while the Russian is much bigger than he is, it’s always good to look tough to one’s people.

“What the hell is this?” Ryan picks up the plate of bread and salt and shakes it in the big man’s face. “We got the rats cleared out of here months ago, you want them back?”

“This will not attract rats,” Sergei shrugs. “She will not let it.”

“She?” Ryan looks at him. “Who?”

“The building,” Sergei says. “The domovoi.” Seeing that Ryan does not understand, Sergei gently takes the plate of bread and salt from him and puts it down carefully.

“The domovoi is the spirit of the building. Its soul. This building’s soul is sad and in pain. I thought to comfort her.”

“Comfort her?” Ryan clenches his teeth, remembering Winnie bearing down on him with the wood. “I’m not paying you to comfort the goddamn building.” He kicks at the plate of bread and salt, sending it scattering across the plywood flooring.

Sergei shrugs, and turns to go. Ryan calls after him:

“Can they be killed?”

Sergei turns slowly, looks at him through narrowed eyes.

“Killed?” he says.

“Yes,” Ryan says curtly. “Killed. Eradicated. Exorcised.”

“I have heard that they can be moved,” Sergei says thoughtfully. “By carrying hearth coals to a new home. If the domovoi likes it there . . .”

“I didn’t say moved,” Ryan interrupts him sharply. “I said killed. Can they be killed?”