September 1998, a rainy Tuesday night at the Driftwood Inn on Route 9, just outside a town called Opal. Luna was working the front desk when a woman with no luggage checked in just before midnight. She asked for Room 12, the one at the end of the hall that had been locked for years. Luna gave her the key, and then she stayed up watching the security monitor. The woman never came back down the hallway. But the door to Room 12 opened and closed three times. Each time, it was exactly one minute apart. In the morning, the key was on the desk, the room was empty, and the bed was still made. This is a story about thresholds, and about the things that cross them without ever being seen.

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