Beyond the yard was Lincoln Street (or so Candy guessed; the journey through the hotel had completely disoriented her). She could see the tops of cars above the wall of the yard, and a Discount Drug Store on the opposite side of the street, its doors chained and padlocked, its shelves bare.

"So," said Norma, calling Candy's attention back into Room Nineteen. "This is where Henry Murkitt stayed."

"Did he come to the hotel often?"

"To my knowledge," Norma said, "he came only once. But I'm not really sure about that, so don't quote me."

Candy could understand why Henry would not have been a repeat visitor. The room was tiny. There was a narrow bed against the far wall and a chair in the corner with a small black television perched on it. In front of it was a second chair, on which was perched an over-filled ashtray.

"Some of our employees come up here when they have half an hour to spare to catch up on the soap operas," Norma said, by way of explanation.

"So they don't believe the room's haunted?"

"Put it this way, honey," Norma said. "Whatever they believe it doesn't put them off coming up here."

"What's through there?" Candy said, pointing to a door.

"Look for yourself," Norma said.

Candy opened the door and stepped into a minuscule bathroom that had not been cleaned in a very long time. In the mirror above the filthy sink she met her own reflection. Her eyes looked almost black in the murk of this little cell, and her dark hair needed a cut. But she liked her own face, even in such an unpromising light. She had her mother's smile, open and easy, and her father's frown; the deep, troubled frown that Bill Quackenbush wore in his beer-dreams. And of course her odd eyes: the left dark brown, the right blue; though the mirror reversed them.