I return to the house, thinking of the young life cut short here so many years ago. I leave the salt, the chalk, the silver dagger in my car. I feel my assistant's unsure eyes at my back, but do not hear his boots cross the threshold.

On entering her room, the noises start again. Screams and exclamations, sometimes from the dusty closet, or under the collapsed bed, or just behind me.

From my bag I take out the ball. It's colourful. I bounce it, then it bounces away from me. I watch it take flight, careen around the room, then fly back at me. I catch it and bounce it again.

We play, Prudence's ghost and I. The ball grows lighter, the colours fade. The ball itself sublimates away. "I hafta go now, Mister. I hear my mommy calling."

"That's okay, Prudence. If you ever want to play again, just wait here for me."