One A rusty, pockmarked No Trespassing sign dangled from the Hotel Seabrink''s massive wrought-iron gates. It clang-clang-clanged against the open gates, swaying slightly in the breeze; the mournful sound echoed off the high stone walls surrounding the grounds of the former hotel. Aubrey got out of her car and paused, breathing deeply of the damp mountain air scented with evergreen needles-redwood and Monterey pine-as well as the distinct but indefinable aroma of the decaying plants that carpeted the forest floor. In the normal course of her life Aubrey Spencer was a rules follower, sometimes to a fault. But when she was on the hunt for photographs, all bets were off. After another brief moment of hesitation, she slipped through the gates. The Seabrink''s once-manicured grounds were now choked with weeds and wild plants native to the Northern California coast; the forest was reclaiming its own. Leaves and pine needles blanketed the brick and stone pathways, and ivy had run wild, climbing over the walls and winding itself around lichen-encrusted statuary whose original forms were now left to the imagination.

Vibrant ferns dotted old stone benches, and a thick carpeting of moss encased long-empty stone planters. Gravel crunched underfoot as Aubrey walked up the long drive. The grounds were otherwise quiet, the only sounds those of nature: the birds flitting through the trees and the breeze rustling the oak leaves. A squirrel eyed her from the top of one high stone wall, chattering indignantly at her presence, and two hawks-or maybe turkey vultures?-glided through the air high overhead. The drive ended in a large loop encircling a massive fountain in front of the hotel''s main entrance. The pool was filled with stagnant rainwater, bright green with algae. The fountain''s sculpture featured three women, their faces distorted in anger and their hair entwined with snakes, attacking a cowering young man as he attempts to flee, his head covered by his muscular arms. "Welcome, one and all, to the Hotel Seabrink," Aubrey murmured to herself.

She snapped a few photos of the fountain and gardens but did not linger. It was the building itself that called to her. Aubrey had first stumbled across a brief reference to the Hotel Seabrink while perusing the musty aisles of her favorite used bookstore in Oakland. In a slim, self-published volume on the history of coastal Northern California, she read: The famous Hotel Seabrink, tucked into the hills north of Stewarts Point with a spectacular view of the mighty Pacific Ocean, was from its beginning mired in scandal and lurid rumor. The pet project of the fabulously wealthy salt miner, T. Jefferson Goffin, the lavishly decorated hotel (reminiscent of Hearst Castle much farther down the coast) was host not only to the Hollywood and financial elite from the 1920s through the 1940s, but also to several mysterious deaths. The most recent known fatalities were of a teenager murdered in the hotel''s famed spa baths on her prom night by a security guard who had been hired to protect the abandoned building, and his own subsequent suicide. Perhaps overcome by guilt, he was found hanging in the hotel''s main stairwell.

That''s all it said. Just those four tantalizing sentences before the author turned to a discussion of the nearby coastal communities of Stewarts Point, Sea Ranch, and Gualala. Aubrey tried researching the Hotel Seabrink on the internet, but although T. Jefferson Goffin''s life was otherwise well-documented, she could find only passing references to the actual hotel. Now she studied the massive building through her camera''s viewfinder and took a few shots of the exterior. The hotel was four stories tall, built in the Spanish Gothic revival style popular during the Golden Age of Hollywood. There were intricate stucco decorations surrounding the windows and doors, multiple panes of dazzling stained glass-many of them now broken-and two soaring towers. A Hearst Castle wannabe indeed, she thought.

Half a dozen shallow stone steps led up to the main entrance, where massive wooden doors hung on black iron hinges. A drawing in smeared yellow chalk marred the dark wood doors; the design was a stylized cross bisected by several crooked lines and circles. At the base of the door was something that looked like a line of salt. Aubrey took photos of each. The metal doorknob was cold and slick in her hand as she tried to turn it. Locked. No surprise there. She went back down the steps and explored the area to the right of the building, where she found the remains of an atrium, half of its glass panels smashed.

Moving carefully to avoid the jagged shards at the edge of a low window, she climbed through and slipped inside, glass debris snapping underfoot. A bird''s nest was lodged in one corner, atop a caryatid. The floor of the atrium was a now-mossy mosaic with an intricate design featuring a symbol surrounded by stylized snakes. Long strands of ivy hung down through the broken sunroof and still more moss blanketed the frayed remnants of a woven loveseat. Its pillows had been shredded, the stuffing no doubt long ago harvested to line the nests of birds and rodents. Aubrey shot photos with abandon, marveling as always at how different everything appeared when viewed through the lens of her camera. She often preferred the camera''s version of reality to what she saw with her bare eyes. Was it the addition of boundaries, of parameters that appealed to her? The barrier the camera created between her and the world? Without it, she often felt overwhelmed by her own feelings.

In the viewfinder there was also no smell of mildew and must and neglect. Empty buildings carried a scent, an aura of something . almost sacred. But also rank. Aubrey jumped as a mouse scurried past. That explained some of the odor. She took a small vial of Thieves oil from her backpack and rubbed a dab of the clove-scented oil under her nose. Funny to think how appropriate the name was: Thieves oil.

Not that Aubrey ever stole anything, no matter how tempting. There was a code. A massive set of French doors connected the atrium to the building''s interior. She pushed one door open, revealing a wide corridor with intricately tiled floors. A detailed frieze near the ceiling ran the length of the hallway, echoing the mosaic''s design in muted colors of ochre and sienna and sap green. Half a dozen small oil paintings in gold gilt frames decorated the walls, depicting anonymous landscapes and seascapes. Several hung crookedly, as if jostled by a long-ago elbow. Aubrey proceeded down the hall, toward the front of the building.

The massive hotel lobby was paneled in some kind of wood that she didn''t recognize but that looked expensive. The high, water-stained ceiling featured a mural of cherubs frolicking in celestial clouds with an occasional star twinkling through. A fireplace with an art deco marble surround was big enough to walk into without ducking. Ferns sprouted from an old banquette, and ivy snaked in through a broken window and wrapped itself around a heavy wooden desk with carved rococo detail. Round upholstered benches made of what appeared to be tufted velvet were caked with dust and grime and splitting at the seams. A huge cloisonné vase in an arched niche held a cluster of ragged peacock feathers, furry with dust. A tall grandfather clock, its brass pendulum long since silenced, stood in one corner, its ornately wrought hands frozen at 4:07. Aubrey took photos of a couple of old-fashioned wooden wheelchairs and a single gurney, forlorn and dusty.

What was that about? Holding pride of place in the precise center of the lobby stood a grand piano. It was covered in fallen paint chips and a thick layer of dust, but it otherwise appeared to be in decent condition. Aubrey tapped a couple of the piano''s keys; their discordant notes echoed in the emptiness of the once-bustling lobby. Behind a long wooden counter was a wooden grid of tiny boxes marked with room numbers, with many of the old-fashioned brass keys still in their allotted nooks. How are those keys still here? Or the paintings, or even the wheelchairs, for that matter? How has this building not been entirely looted? Perhaps it was due to the Hotel Seabrink''s remote location and lack of presence on the internet. Still. The building had been abandoned for decades. Surely those with the soul of an intrepid scofflaw-like her-had walked these halls before.

A smattering of graffiti testified that Aubrey was hardly the first trespasser. Taking a seat on the edge of a sturdy oak chair, Aubrey closed her eyes and soaked in the profound silence unique to abandoned places. She let the history envelop her, settling on her shoulders like a soft blanket. In her mind''s eye, Aubrey could see the laborers who had built these walls; the staff who had run the hotel; the guests hustling in and out, looking forward to a pampered respite, glittering parties, and water cures. Romantic trysts and high-powered deals, secret jealousies and raucous good times. She heard jaunty piano music, and could see a beautiful, bejeweled woman perched on the bench, smiling flirtatiously as she played for the new arrivals. All those moments were now gone; the commotion of new arrivals, the dinging of the service bells, the clattering of silverware, the laughter and whispers and conversation, had been replaced by a bone-deep stillness. It was an abnormally silent void, simultaneously eerie and comforting.

Most of Aubrey''s life was so . noisy. The weight around her neck reminded Au.