The common room was entirely empty. The floor was shining, but in an ordinary kind of way. The piano was silent. There were several scraggly ferns hanging from the ceiling and an unfinished jigsaw puzzle on a small table in the center of the room. The box of the puzzle was propped up to show what the picture would be when the puzzle was done: a covered bridge in autumn.

“Well,” said Martha, “I have to return to my station. Maybe you three would like to take it from here and go down to Isabelle’s room and knock on her door and see if she would like visitors.”

“Okay,” said Raymie.

“Thank you very much,” said Beverly in the same terrifyingly polite voice she had used before.

“I like this room,” said Louisiana. “You could dance on this floor. You could put on a show here.”

“Well,” said Martha, “I suppose you could. There’s not a lot of dancing here, and I don’t believe that we have ever had a show. But perhaps someday. Who knows?” Martha shook her head. And then she clapped her hands. “Okay, girls. You just head down the hallway. Raymie, you know which door is Isabelle’s.”

Raymie nodded. She knew which door was Alice Nebbley’s. That was what mattered.

“Right,” said Beverly when Martha was gone. “Which room?”

“It’s this way,” said Raymie. Beverly and Louisiana followed her down the hallway, and as they got closer, they heard it.

“Take my hand!” screamed Alice Nebbley.

“Oh, my goodness,” said Louisiana. “Let’s go back. Let’s not do it.”

“Shut up,” said Beverly.

Louisiana caught up to Raymie and took her hand, and Raymie had the strange thought that holding on to Louisiana’s hand was like holding the paw of one of the ghost bunnies on her barrettes. She almost wasn’t even there.

But still, it was comforting for some reason, to have Louisiana’s hand in hers.

“Take my hand!” shouted Alice Nebbley again.

“Just get out of the way,” said Beverly. She pushed past Raymie and Louisiana and marched right into Alice Nebbley’s room without knocking. Raymie could see that the room was dark, as it had been before, as dark as a cave, as dark as the grave.

“She went into the room,” said Louisiana to Raymie.

“Yes,” said Raymie. “She did.”

They stood together in the hallway and stared at the dark outline that was Beverly Tapinski. She was standing right next to the bed.

“Arrrgggghh!” screamed Alice Nebbley, and both Louisiana and Raymie jumped.

“It’s under the bed,” called Raymie.

“I know that,” said Beverly from inside the darkness. “You told me that a thousand times. If there’s one thing I know, it’s where the stupid book is supposed to be.”

Raymie saw the dark form of Beverly duck down and disappear.

“There’s no book under here,” said Beverly’s muffled voice a minute later.

“There has to be,” said Raymie.

“It’s not there,” said Beverly. Her shadowy form reappeared. “It’s not anywhere in here. I don’t know. Who knows what old people do with books. Maybe she ate it. Or is lying on top of it.”

And then, instead of coming back out of the room, Beverly moved closer to Alice Nebbley’s bed.

“Never mind,” called Raymie. “Leave it alone. Come back.” She was suddenly afraid that Beverly might do something drastic and unpredictable, like try to pick up Alice Nebbley and look underneath her.

“Arrrrggghhhhh!” screamed Alice Nebbley. “I cannot. I cannot. I cannot stand the pain.”

“Oh, no,” said Louisiana. “It’s too terrible. She can’t stand the pain. I can’t stand the pain of her not standing the pain.” She squeezed Raymie’s hand so hard that it hurt.

“Take my hand!” screamed Alice Nebbley.

And then, just like before, a skinny arm came out from underneath the covers as if it were emerging from a grave. Louisiana screamed and Raymie let out a whimper, and in Alice Nebbley’s dark and tragic room, Beverly stood quietly without jumping or moving at all. And then, slowly, she reached out and took hold of the hand.

“Ooooooohh,” said Louisiana. “She took the hand. Now that woman is going to pull Beverly into the grave. She is going to kill her and use her to fashion a new soul.”

Raymie had not imagined any of these gruesome outcomes in particular, but she did feel a very deep sense of dread.

“No, no,” said Louisiana. “I can’t stand and watch.” She dropped Raymie’s hand. “I’m going to go and find someone to help.”

“Don’t,” said Raymie.

But Louisiana was gone, running down the hallway, her sequined dress glowing and glittering in a purposeful way.

Raymie stood alone, watching as Beverly, still holding Alice Nebbley’s hand, sat down on the bed.

“Shhh,” said Beverly.

Alice Nebbley stopped screaming.

“It will be okay,” said Beverly. And then, incredibly, she started to hum.

What was Beverly Tapinski — the safecracker, the lock picker, the gravel beater — doing sitting on Alice Nebbley’s bed, holding her hand, telling her it would be okay, and humming to her?

It didn’t seem possible.

And then Louisiana was standing next to Raymie again. Her small chest was rising and falling. A wheezy sound was issuing from her lungs. “I found it,” she said.

“What?” said Raymie.

“I found it. I found your Florence Whatsit book.”

“Nightingale,” said Raymie.

“Yes,” said Louisiana. “Nightingale. Nightingale. It’s in the janitor’s office. I went in there to see if the janitor would help Beverly fight the goblin, and then surprise! I found the book! Also, I let the bird go.”

“What bird?” said Raymie.

“That little yellow bird. In the cage in the janitor’s office.”

At this point, someone somewhere in the Golden Glen screamed, and it wasn’t Alice Nebbley.

“I had to climb up on top of the desk to do it,” said Louisiana. “And then I had to leave in a hurry, so I forgot your book. I don’t think that birds should be in cages, do you?”

There was another scream and the sound of running feet.

Beverly came out of Alice Nebbley’s room.

“What happened?” she said.

“I’m not sure,” said Raymie.

“I found the book!” said Louisiana.

A small yellow bird came whizzing down the hallway and sailed over their heads.

“Was that a bird?” asked Beverly.

In her room, Alice Nebbley was completely silent.

Raymie hoped that she wasn’t dead.