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I head back to Lavender House in better spirits. But when I arrive, I find I’m not eager to go inside, to its oppressive atmosphere and dark rooms. Some of my search results mentioned exercise as a method of preventing sleep paralysis, so I decide to work my legs a little.

Gripping my laptop bag, I meander to the back of the home. The purple buds sway softly in the breeze as I stroll down one of the paths, combing the stalks with my outstretched hand. Karmela must be an expert gardener, because I’ve never experienced lavender quite like this—the hue so vibrant it looks like a saturated photograph. Plump bees hover over the flowers. The scenery is peaceful, beautiful.

I carve a path toward the stone structures at the far end of the field. Curious what lies inside, I attempt to open the door of the larger one. After a few forceful budges, it surrenders. Sunlight pours into the space, illuminating the hulking figure of a machine made of copper. Beside it is a woodfire stove, its chimney reaching up to the roof. The smell of musty lavender permeates the air. This must be where the oil was distilled. Judging by the amount of dust covering the cement floor, it hasn’t been used in a long time.

A little farther back is another small stone structure—or at least, the shell of one. It lies in ruins, its roof missing, windows boarded up. A large piece of wood is nailed across the door with “Zabranjen Ulaz” scrawled across in bold, slanting letters. Entrance Forbidden.

Foreboding builds in me as I edge closer and peek through a crack in the window. But I can’t make out much in the dim light. From what I can tell, the space is empty.

As I move back toward the door, something on the ground draws my attention. Soft gray fur, a pair of long ears. A rabbit. I step back in surprise, expecting it to scurry away, but it doesn’t move.

Its single upturned eye, black and unblinking, stares up at the sky.

My stomach churns as a putrid scent wafts beneath my nose, mixing with the overwhelming sweetness of lavender. Flies swarm its body in a sickening cloud, its limbs outstretched as if it collapsed mid-leap. A splat of dark blood leaks from its mouth.

The steady drum of cicadas suddenly escalates. Louder and louder, transforming into something else. My heart pulses as I try to decipher the sound. It’s almost . . . human. Like a woman screaming, shouting something. I spin around, but no one is there. Only me, the ruins, and death.

As the voice calls out again, I make out one word: Nikola!

Adrenaline shoots through my veins as I dash away, putting as much space as I can between me and the ruins. When I reach the back door of the house, I keel over, panting.

“Oh, Petra, there you are.” I jump as Karmela emerges from the house, carrying a bowl of knotted pastries dusted with powdered sugar. “I just made some kroštule. Let’s eat them outside.”

For a moment, I merely stare, my mind still fixated on the scream. Did the voice really shout for Nikola? Or was it only my imagination?

“Petra? Are you alright?” Her gaze dips to the bandage on my thigh. When I’d come home the day before, the tension between us immediately vanished as she doted over my injury, though I still felt a little wary.

“Yes, I’m fine,” I say, shaking the image of the dead rabbit from my head.

“Come, sit.”

I slowly follow Karmela to the table. “I was walking through the field just now, around those buildings. What happened to that one on the right?” I ask, pointing to the boarded-up structure.

Karmela’s face darkens. “Oh. There was an accident. A careless worker started a fire. Nothing serious. We never got around to repairing it. Didn’t need to, for our business.”

Faintly, I register how much I understand Karmela today. Maybe I could get her take on the story of the mora, though I’m hesitant to bring it up so directly.

As I ponder how to broach the subject, I eat one of the kroštule. The sweet, faintly citrus flavor of the knotted dough is comforting, a nice distraction. Gazing out over the field, inspiration strikes. “Do you have any old family photos?” I ask tentatively.

“Yes, of course,” Karmela says. Rising from her chair, she heads into the house and returns with a large photo album with a faded brown cover. She gently places it on the table and flips through the pages. After a few minutes of perusing the old photographs, I recognize the woman from my dream who had collapsed in the kitchen while reaching for a fig. When I ask who she was, Karmela informs me it was her mom.

“Her name was Lucija,” she tells me. “That’s me,” she adds, pointing to the baby in her arms.

“She was beautiful,” I say, admiring her soft features.

Karmela nods. “According to my father, she was very gentle. She enjoyed gardening and planted the vegetables we have there.” Karmela motions to the lush garden box a few feet away, where cabbage, carrots, and other leafy greens grow. “Unfortunately, she died when I was five, so I hardly knew her.”

“What happened?” I ask.

“Heart attack. It happened suddenly, while she was baking.”

I stiffen. As she was picking up a fig, perhaps?

I continue through the album, pausing over a photo of a younger Karmela with Šime. They’re both perched on a drystone wall, grinning wide at the camera. Karmela holds a bouquet of daffodils in her hand.

“That’s your grandfather,” Karmela confirms. “He used to always bring me flowers, but never lavender.” She strokes the photo fondly, a nostalgic sheen washing over her eyes. “He said I had enough of that.” The edges of her lips curl into a melancholy smile as she glances up at the field. “He died of heatstroke during the harvest many years ago.”

Just as my mom told me. At least their stories match.