Three in the morning and my phone glows with a thumbnail of a small white chapel set back from a gravel road. Parson's Road, Greene County, New York. The review from a user named AloneAgain is only five months old but the listing is already gone. He says he stayed three nights. The hostess, a woman named Margaret, never ate, never slept, and kept the basement door locked. He heard footsteps from below, and on the last night the door was ajar, revealing not a basement but a corridor stretching into dark. I know that woman. I met her a year ago at a rest stop on I-87. She called herself a keeper of doors. Now I'm searching for an address that doesn't exist, trying to convince myself not to drive out there. But a new photo just appeared, and in the crack of the door I see my own face. This episode is a quiet, creeping fear of the things we recognize but cannot explain.