Mira got off on the platform at Kormoranowo, where the wind smelled of peat and smoke. It was Halloween, and she was returning for the first time in years, seemingly just for the weekend. Her aunt Basia had asked her to help with the mask ball at the community centre. In her bag she was carrying a box of old decorations she had found in the attic, next to the fragrant apples. A thin moon hung in the sky, like a fingernail, and the lanterns dangled from the fierce wind. At the bottom of the box lay an envelope with a black seal, a crumpled raven in the centre. Inside she found a sketch of a map, drawn with soot from a candle, with tonight's date. The arrow led through the market square, past the mill and the cemetery to an abandoned greenhouse by the lake. Underneath was added in cursive writing: The Night of Whispers begins when the pumpkins stop blinking. The community centre was bustling, costumed children circulating between tables full of paint and crepe paper. Mira hollowed out pumpkins, checking to make sure the candles didn't go out, and listened to gossip about old customs. Kuba, the sound technician, turned the music down and chuckled half-jokingly that the pumpkins sometimes blink for real. Apparently, when the mist over the marshes bites your eyes, a voice appears to ask for a favour. Mira shrugged her shoulders, but twitched when she saw the flame in one pumpkin blink twice. As the ball came to an end and the parents gathered the children, Mira slipped the envelope into her pocket. She took the torch, one small pumpkin lamp and slipped out the side exit to the market. Paper bats fluttered, the mill by the river was silent and the graveyard flicked with red lights like breathers. The range on her phone disappeared as she stepped into the mist that tickled the bushes like an old cat. The greenhouse by the lake crackled from the wind; the glass was cracked and ivy covered half the roof. Inside there was a wooden table, rows of empty beds and a box with masks cut from pumpkin peels. On the lid someone had written in pencil: breathe quietly, and next to it lay a rusty key on a string. Mira took the key and searched for the lock; she found it by a low door, hidden behind bags of earth. Before she turned the metal, her pumpkin blinked three times: short, long, short, as if trying to say something. A heron's squawk came from outside, followed by a soft whisper that sounded just like her name. If you want me to open it, blink once now or give the password from the map. Instead of an answer, the masks in the box rustled as if someone had moved them with a finger, and the glass darkened. The locked door twitched of its own accord, the key vibrated in her fingers, and the whisper again unfolded right next to her ear. This time he repeated her words, tone for tone, as if a second Mira was hiding in the glasshouse.