Jennifer Clark felt a presence in the second floor bedroom, no doubt about it. Not every time she crossed the threshold, but often enough during the two years she spent cleaning out the antique saltbox her husband's family had owned since 1728. It happened when she rifled through boxes of old letters and books in the room. It happened when she lifted up century-old corsets and dresses from the trunk. It happened when she stood up and caught her reflection in the antique dresser's mirror. There was nothing there, of course. But she could feel a woman's eye boring into her, watching her every move, neither approving nor disapproving. Just watching.