Hakuba swallowed hard. He’d been hiding from the ghosts for the better part of the afternoon… evening… and on into the night, but he now really needed to brave the hallway again for food. Biting his lip, he  again mustered enough courage to peek out of his doorway and into the hallway, wincing as the form of the girl came into view once more. 

It was just like that American film though, wasn’t it? Help the ghost, they get to move on to the afterlife. And while some ghosts were harmful, those who were ready to be helped typically weren’t. So he should be safe so long as he approached with caution, just like any other wild beast. Or so he’d been informed by the media.

Then again, was it really wise to trust Shyamalan with anything, let alone your life? 

Still, the detective knit his brows and forced himself to watch her for a moment, feeling that usual tug at his heart-strings that urged him to find out what, exactly, had made her cry like that. Poor little girl, alone and draped in darkness. 

He sighed and stepped out of his room, sheepishly making his way toward her. Cautiously, of course. He slowed to a stop five or six feet away and desperately tried to keep the fear from his voice.

“Ah, excuse me, miss…?”