The fog was still quite thick as Napoleon and Illya stepped back into it, trying to find out who or what was behind the odd happenings inside. The alleged ghost light that had been in the top of the lighthouse was no longer there, but something else was—a trail of glowing footprints coming down from the top of the lighthouse to the ground, as though someone had walked sideways down the structure, unimpeded by gravity, and then continued across the lawn, heading deeper into the fog.

"…How…?" Napoleon began, gesturing to the footprints. He turned to Illya, his arms out in a shrug of utter confusion.

"If this is a Halloween prank, it's a highly elaborate one—my compliments to the ones with the gumption to pull it off," Illya said.

"…Is it a prank, though?"

Illya sighed deeply, shaking his head in desperation.

"I want it to be," he said, sincerely. "You have no idea how much I want it to be just a prank. …Well, perhaps you do have an idea."

"I do," Napoleon said, gently. "You're afraid of losing me to something from beyond."

"My fears are not unfounded, given what has happened to us before!" Illya exclaimed. "Last year, facing off against Stingy Jack…!"

"We got through that, and we can get through this," Napoleon said.

"But why must we go through this at all!?" Illya asked. "That is also what I wish to know—what have we done to deserve the constant attention from otherworldly things!?" He sighed, looking at the footprints. "I suppose I should be grateful that this is all we're dealing with right now…"

He trailed off as a voice echoed around them on the wind. By reflex, Illya seized Napoleon's arm.

"Not for nothing, Tovarisch, but I think you just jinxed it…" Napoleon said, placing his other hand on Illya's. He frowned, trying to discern what the voice was saying. "It sounds like… 'Wind hates me.' …What does that even mean? It makes no sense—why would the wind hate him?"

"…I am not so fond of this voice myself," Illya intoned.

"If it's the ghost ship, does he mean the storm that caused it to go under?" Napoleon wondered aloud. He tried to peer through the fog bank. "Let's see if we can follow these footprints and find out where they lead."

"I would be careful, Napoleon," Illya warned. "You can't see very far in this fog, and don't forget, we are on a cliff!"

As Illya had predicted, the footprints led to the edge of the cliff; standing back, they peered down, and it was clear that, as with the lighthouse itself, the footprints continued vertically down the cliff, where upon they resumed horizontally along the sand and into the water—the blue glow of the footprints were visible in the shallows.

"So, let's see what we've got here," Napoleon said. "We have a ghost that glows where the lighthouse should have been emitting its light, and after he's done with that, he walks down the lighthouse, across the lawn, down the cliff, and into the water, complaining about the wind hating him."

"…A sentence I never expected to hear in my lifetime, but here we are," Illya deadpanned.

"Here we are," Napoleon agreed. "…And I don't get it. It doesn't make sense-"

He was cut off as a bright, white light flashed behind them; the duo turned around, trying to see where the light was coming from in the fog. Another bright light lit up part of the fog for a moment; it was back at the lighthouse, and the two headed back to it as a third light briefly flashed again…

There was a yelp as Napoleon crashed into someone.

"Watch out! My camera!"

Napoleon, who had unintentionally bowled him over, got back up, confused.

"Schuler!?" he exclaimed.

"Yeah," the paranormal investigator said. "You two were taking a long time, so I figured it must have been something—I took a look outside and saw the footprints on the lighthouse. Have you ever seen footprints like these!? This is the real deal—pure, genuine ectoplasmic residue!"

He held up his camera and took another picture; a Polaroid dispensed from the camera, which he carefully put in his bag with the others.

"Was there anything else?"

"Other than the footprints?" Napoleon asked. "Something about the wind, but it makes no sense at all."

"…What?"

"If I figure it out, I'll let you know," Napoleon said.

"Okay, same here," Schuler said, and he continued to inspect the footprints.

Illya just shook his head again and followed Napoleon inside.

"Did you find out what it was?" Hawthorne asked.

"No," Napoleon admitted. "Something strange is going on, though; there's no explanation for the weird footprints out there. And I think I heard a voice, but only just for a moment."

"Then there is truth to what Signore Schuler was saying?" Gina asked, her eyes wide, no longer flirting with James Jr.

"Until we find an explanation for it, anything is possible, I guess," Napoleon said, with a shrug.

Gina murmured something under her breath, and Lotte immediately made the sign of the Cross.

"It could also be nothing," Fusco grunted, not even looking up from some papers he was going over. "If you ask me, that's all it is. You can stick around and play mystery-solvers all you want; I'm getting a good night's sleep and getting out of this madhouse first thing in the morning!"

He got up from the table and headed upstairs to his room.

"…And here I thought I was the antisocial one…" Illya commented.

"Perhaps you were-a long time ago," Napoleon mused. "I think I've rubbed off on you since those days."

"Just my luck…"

Lotte watched the two of them bantering for a moment and smiled, but then turned to Hawthorne.

"You will forgive us, but I think Signore Fusco is right about being refreshed and ready to leave in the morning. Gina and myself, we must get to our new place in Brooklyn—where was it again, Gina?"

"Flatbush?" Gina asked. "Something like that."

"That's it," Napoleon said.

"Ah, grazi," Lotte said. "We will make our way there by train—call for a cab in the morning."

"And we should be getting back to Manhattan ourselves," Napoleon added, looking to Illya. "We've got work to catch up on."

"And a cat to feed," Illya added; idly, he wished that Baba Yaga was here in Maine with them, seeing how she had proven to be quite a help against Stingy Jack's supernatural army the year before.

"Well, I'll be sorry to see you all go, but I can't blame you," Hawthorne said. "Everything should be ready for you boys upstairs; let me or Junior know if you need anything else."

"We will," Napoleon promised. "Thanks a lot."

The two of them headed upstairs to their room, and the sisters headed to their room, as well. Upon reaching the room, Napoleon looked through the window.

"Nothing out there except Schuler and the footprints," he said. "He's still inspecting them; he's out there in the fog with a tape measure, measuring footprints and the space between them."

"Well, I'm glad he's keeping himself entertained," Illya said.

They changed and got ready to turn in. Illya was happy to relax at last; aside from the incident at dinner and the voice outside, there didn't seem to be any other issues, apart from Schuler going nuts over the ghost footprints.

The two of them soon drifted off to sleep, a rest that was surprisingly peaceful… Until an agonized scream filled the lighthouse a few hours later. The two of them sat bolt upright, utterly confused for a moment before jumping into action, running in the direction that the scream had come from.

They were joined in the hall by Hawthorne, his son, and the Rigassi sisters; Fusco stuck his head out of his room grumpily, saw them run past, and withdrew back into the room. They ended up outside Schuler's room, which was left ajar. Hawthorne slowly opened it, revealing Schuler in his bed with a half-frightened, half-elated expression—and glowing blue footprints all around the floor.

"It was another light! Another ghost light!" he stammered, pointing at the footprints. "It woke me up—the glowing. That was when I saw it, and it fled when I screamed…" His face fell. "It stole my Polaroids!"

"…What?" Napoleon asked

"The pictures I'd taken of the footprints outside—the ghost light was making them hover right out of my bag, and it took the pictures with it when it vanished."

"Perhaps it didn't appreciate you taking pictures of its footprints outside," Illya said, sarcastically.

Schuler missed the sarcasm, and stared at the ones on the floor.

"These are different footprints," he said. "I should know—I spent hours measuring the ones outside…" He crawled out of bed, taking his tape measure again, and his notebook. "See? The prints outside were a size 13—these are a size 10!"

Napoleon frowned as he glanced at the footprints.

"…You know, he's right—these ones are smaller than the other ones," he said, kneeling beside them. He flinched. "And for some reason, these ones… give me a bad feeling."

"What do you mean?" Illya asked.

"I don't know how to explain it," Napoleon said. "But I didn't feel that the ones outside were anything to be worried about. These ones give me an uneasy feeling. I don't know why; maybe I'm just tired."

Illya didn't say anything; as much as he wanted to dismiss this whole thing, he knew that, as enforcement agents, their instincts had to be always honed to perfection, even when tired or sleep-deprived. If Napoleon had a bad feeling about these footprints, then, as much as Illya hated to admit it, perhaps there was something malevolent afoot.

"…Do you think there's something to this after all, Dad?" James Jr. asked, sounding nervous.

"I don't rightly know," Hawthorne said. "This has never happened before—usually, the stuff with the coming inside the rooms happens after we've left for Halloween. Something must be drawing things out a night early."

"And the fog only keeps getting thicker out there," Illya added, frowning as he gazed out the window. "Is this normal?"

"…For Halloween night," James Jr. said. "Like Dad said, something seems to be setting things off a day early."

"Well, it is a Leap Year," Napoleon mused. "Maybe they're a day off because of that…?"

"No, these ghosts would be from a century ago—they'd know about Leap Year and wouldn't be confused," Schuler said, shaking his head. "Sometimes, spirits can become more active by being around the presence of mortals who have had experience with the spirit world before."

Both Illya and Lotte paled, but Illya shook his head. Sheer nonsense! Anyone who would believe that he, Illya, was a descendant of the Romanovs had to be speaking only nonsense!

…And yet, he had been right about the sizes of the odd footprints…

"Gina, we are leaving," Lotte suddenly announced. "We will take a night train to Brooklyn."

"Now?" the younger sister asked. She glanced at the footprints and reconsidered. "Si…. Perhaps that is best…"

"Ladies, I know I can't force you to stay," Hawthorne said. "But with this fog getting thicker, it's too dangerous."

"He's right," Illya said, quietly. "I do not like this anymore than you do, but we will have to wait until it clears to go. If I had my way, I, too, would wish to leave this instant."

"We'll look out for everyone here," Napoleon offered.

"Against what seems to be two ghosts—at least?" Schuler asked. "There's only so much mortals can do against them-"

Napoleon and Illya hastily shushed him as the sisters exchanged worried glances.

"Junior, perhaps you'd better escort them back to their room," Hawthorne said.

"Right, Dad," he said, moving to take Gina by the arm until Hawthorne cleared his throat, glaring at him.

"And come back in five minutes," his father added.

Gina did seem slightly amused, cheering up slightly, but Lotte remained pale and worried—and unamused.

"Well, so much for sleep tonight," Schuler sighed, reaching for his bag. "What the…? The spirit took my camera, too! It took the pictures and the camera!"

He wordlessly showed them the bag, which was empty, aside from notebooks, writing implements, and measuring devices.

"This is a bizarre haunting," Napoleon said. "We have one spirit outside, complaining about the wind, and now another spirit inside, trying to get rid of all photographic evidence of the spirit outside."

"Yeah, this is a new one, even for me," Schuler said. "I'm not even upset about the camera—it was a cheap one. I'm just puzzled about why this spirit doesn't want us knowing about the other one."

"I wonder if it has anything to do with the shipwreck and the ghost ship," Hawthorne mused. He glanced back at his son as he returned. "Junior, do we still have the logs of the lighthouse keepers?"

"In storage, yeah," James Jr. said. "Do you think we'll find something useful in those old logs?"

"Maybe," Napoleon said. "If it helps us understand what exactly is going on here, I'd call that useful."

"Give them the key and show them where to go," Hawthorne instructed his son,

He turned to Illya. "You want to come along and look through them? Or would you rather stay out of it?"

"And leave you alone with spirits possibly about? Not likely," Illya returned, without hesitation.

"I'll keep making measurements of these footprints and join you later," Schuler said. "Keep an eye for my camera, huh?"

"Right," Napoleon said.

"You two take care," Hawthorne said. "After he shows you to the storage area, Junior and I will be patrolling the halls and making sure Mr. Fusco and the girls are alright. Let one of us know if you need anything."

Napoleon and Illya nodded in agreement.

Hopefully, they would get to the bottom of this—before anything else happened.