My phone buzzed in my hand with an incoming text from an unknown number.

I glanced down at the screen.

The text was short: *I am at the door, Emily.*

I looked back up toward the entrance of the grand ballroom.

The tall figure stepped forward, the silhouette sharpening under the bright light of the crystal chandeliers.

It was an elderly woman, wearing a damp charcoal wool coat that clung to her frame.

Her silver hair was pulled back into a tight, elegant bun.

She held a silver-tipped mahogany cane, her steps slow but remarkably steady on the wet floor.

My mother let out a sharp, strangled gasp behind me.

“Evelyn?” Helen whispered, her face losing every trace of color.

Arthur stumbled backward against a dining table, knocking over a champagne flute.

The glass shattered on the hardwood floor, the sound sharp as a gunshot.

“You look as though you have seen a ghost, Helen,” Evelyn said.

Her voice was clear and resonant, carrying easily across the silent room.

She stopped at the edge of the stage, her sharp blue eyes scanning our faces.