an exorcist will pick up at once if he opens himself to it. There were plenty of echoes in this room: the joys and sorrows and bumps and grinds of ordinary existence lingering in the air, in the brickwork, like the unstilled vibrations of a sound that had passed outside the range of human hearing.

But the ghost of Ginny Parris refused to come on down.

She was there. On some level, in some form, I was aware of a presence in the room. Diffuse and weak and scattered, it hung in the ether like Morse code, discontinuous but replete with meaning: a dot of misery here, a dash of fear and confusion there, and way over here an incongruous flash-silence-flash of hope. I went on playing, a little encouraged.gaze fixed on the front door of the house. Absolutely motionless, his arms at his sides, he was a darker stain on the fabric of the night.

"Asmodeus," I murmured.

As though he'd heard me, he raised his head and looked up at my window. I couldn't see his eyes but I could feel his stare like a physical pressure against the surface of my skin.

I kicked off my shoes, shrugged my greatcoat on and walked back down to the front hall, taking care to make no sound as I passed Pen's room. I unlocked the street door, feeling the skin between my shoulder blades prickle even though I knew rationally that the door—as a physical barrier—made no difference to whether or not Asmodeus could enter the house. It was