threshold

Louder laughter erupted from the speaker, and a voice half-choked with it said something in a language that had come from somewhere in northern Europe. There was a click, and Butters opened the door. I started to follow him in—and remembered, in time, to put my hand out and check the doorway first. My hand moved smoothly past the twelve inches of stone, but then hit something as solid as a brick wall where the doorway opened up into the entry hall.
“Uh, Butters,” I said.
He smacked the heel of his hand against his forehead. “Right, sorry. Please come in.”
The invisible wall vanished, and I shook my head. “It’s got a threshold. People live here?”
“Bunch of ’em,” Butters confirmed, and we went inside. “Lot of Paranetters come through for a little while when they don’t have a safe place to sleep. Uh, visiting Netters who are passing through town. Venatori, when they meet with us. That kind of thing.”
I felt anger stirring in me, irrational but no less real. “My home . . . is a supernatural flophouse?”
“And armory! And jail!” Bob said enthusiastically.
Ghosts can sputter in outrage. “Jail?”
“And day care!” Bob continued.
I stopped in my tracks and threw my hands up. “Day care? Day care?!”
“People have kids, man. And they have jobs,” Butters said in a gentle voice. “The Fomor aren’t above using children to get what they want. High-risk kids come here on workdays. Now, shut up, Bob. And get off your high horse, Harry. People need this place.”


Ghost Story Chapter 18, Page 200-201