In many ways, faking a séance was more difficult than performing a real one.

  The Park family, freshly mourning their beloved pet dog, blew up at Vincent when he said he couldn’t reach animals. Not because they had no soul, but because they understood death better than humans and rarely had unfinished business. Regardless, they demanded a refund and review bombed his shop.

  A pair of high schoolers brought their great-grandfather’s dog tags from when he served in the first world war. Rather than complete the research for their assignments, they wanted “first hand” information. Unsurprisingly, their great-grandfather left no trace in his tags, having moved on fine on his own.

  Vincent could have told them the truth and sent them on their way to the library with a refund to their parent’s credit card. However, towards the end of the month, he didn’t mind acting like the fraud most of his reviews said he was.

  He spewed assorted facts he remembered from movies and documentaries while the kids frantically took notes. Their project likely suffered less from his information than it would have from a soldier who might have seen nothing more than the inside of the barracks.

  Other families that simply wanted closure were satisfied with Vincent repeating platitudes and farewells he’d heard from other spirits. He technically wasn’t lying when he said their loved one had passed on.

  For two days after his interaction with the little girl in the doll, he had nothing but easy appointments. All that caused him trouble was the fact that Gracie still refused to leave, insisting he needed someone to look out for him.

  “A man can’t live on TV dinners!” she nagged as Vincent tried to enjoy his mindless reality shows. “If I could hold a pan, I’d make you a ham Jell-O salad that would knock your socks off.”

  “That sounds disgusting. How is Jell-O better than chicken and potatoes?”

  “Radioactive sludge is not food,” Gracie huffed. She turned to complain about the TV next, only to be conveniently distracted by the scantily clad women fighting over the season’s bachelors. Face flushed red, she soon retreated to her necklace.

  The doorbell rang just as one woman, Sierra, pulled some padding from Janet’s bra in front of a bachelor that had earlier revealed he was interested in neither of them.

  Vincent checked his phone to see no missed calls or texts and considered ignoring the door.

  A third woman joined the fray to mediate while the bachelors laughed. He couldn’t understand why they fought over assholes, yet he came back every season.

  Another ring and the ping of a text notification. Sorry I didn’t call ahead. Are you home?

  It was Amy.

  Vincent pulled on a shirt and answered the door. The bags under Amy’s eyes were worse than before and she carried Cici under one arm. She wrung her fingers together, staring through Vincent as she searched for her words.

  “I can’t do it…” she whispered. “All I can hear is her crying and I don’t know how to help.”

  “It was worth a try. She just needs a bit more coaxing. She’s calmed down, so it won’t take much.” Vincent’s eyes dropped to Jill hiding behind Amy’s leg. “Will you throw a fit in my house?”

  Amy followed Vincent’s gaze and reflexively leaned away from the spirit. Jill sniffed and shook her head.

  “Is she… will she be okay here?”

  “That’s up to her. If she starts breaking my things, I can trap her inside the doll for a while.” The amount of effort it would take him to do anything of the sort would probably split his head in two, but the threat alone seemed to work.

  “I’ll be good!” Jill answered. She obediently passed through Amy’s leg and took Vincent’s hand. Amy shuddered at the sensation.

  “I can let you know when she passes on if you want.”

  Amy nodded as she handed the doll over. “Thank you…. I could never do what you do.”

  With a final wave, she returned to her car. Even though she gave up, this was the most effort Vincent had seen someone put forth for a spirit not related to them. Usually, they only scream about exorcisms and demons.

  Vincent set Cici on the shelf under Gracie’s necklace, well within reach of Jill’s little hands. “Now. Why don’t you want to go to your parents?”

  “It’s scary…. I’ve never gone anywhere without Mommy.” Jill immediately pulled the doll down and hugged it to her chest.

  “Oh? Do we have a little guest?” Gracie appeared next to Vincent and patted Jill’s head. “Aren’t you just precious?”

  “Who’s we? Both of you need to move on. Jill, this is Gracie. She can go with you.”

  “I can’t go just yet. Vincent here needs someone to take care of him.”

  Jill looked up at the psychic, who was fighting to maintain his patience. “Is your mommy dead?”

  “No. And I don’t need to be taken care of. I need for you to move on. You can’t stay here forever.” He knew all too well what happened when spirits stayed too long trying to take care of him.

  Both spirits ignored him as Gracie took the girl’s hand. “I’ll show you around, dear. He has the loveliest garden outside.”

  “She doesn’t need a tour!” The spirits phased through the patio door, chattering happily to one another. Vincent stared helplessly after them. “This isn’t a damn hotel….”

  Proximity connection like this usually didn’t give him a headache, so he surmised the dull ache was from stress and frustration alone. He sighed and shuffled into his room, no longer interested in women arguing over mediocre men.

  Taking up almost an entire wall of his room was a retro record player with cabinets to store albums underneath and a second long shelf of more albums right next to it. A pawn shop owner swore it played music on its own as if possessed. It never showed that function in Vincent’s room, meaning he had to choose the music himself.

  Most modern music only worsened his headaches with its thumping bass and belting vocals. Classical music put him to sleep, which had its uses, and soft, contemporary songs were often his choice when he wanted lyrics. But, more than any other genre, smooth jazz was his favorite. It had the perfect balance of relaxing instrumentals and tender vocals.

  He chose a newer record, one at least recorded in his lifetime, placed the needle perfectly on the edge, and dropped onto his bed as the second of quiet static pulled him into the gentle waves of music. Most of his record collection was twice as old as he was, if not more, and had belonged to his grandfather. He often wondered how many records he could carry at once in the case of an emergency, determining he could probably slip them safely out of his bedroom window and effectively save them all.

  His stress headache had nearly passed when the stressors phased into his bedroom from the garden.

  “See, he’s right here. He prefers we stay out of his bedroom, though,” Gracie told Jill. The girl sniffled and rubbed her teary eyes.

  “Can you still see me? And play with me? And—”

  Vincent focused on the calming music. “Yes. Now go away. Preferably to heaven.”

  Gracie spoke over him. “Of course he’ll play with you. All he does is sit around and watch television, rotting his brain.”

  “My daddy said the TV will make your brain come out of your ear if you watch too much. Vincent, you’re old now. Is your brain okay?” Jill stood over—and mostly inside—the bed, staring at the psychic.

  “My brain isn’t rotting or leaking. And I’m not old! Thirty isn’t old.”

  “You’re older than my parents,” Jill informed him.

  Gracie gasped, hand over her heart, adding more insult. “Thirty! Thirty and unmarried! Can’t even cook for yourself….”

  “Leave me alone!” Vincent snapped. Jill whimpered and ran to Gracie, who shot Vincent a glare.

  “Come on, Jill. Leave this sourpuss be.”

  Yet the pair continued to chatter through the house.

  Vincent groaned and turned off his record player. He had no choice but to retreat himself. He got dressed and snatched his keys up with enough force that he jammed his fingers on the stool.

  “Can’t even relax in my own house…” he muttered on his way through the door.

  ~*~

  The Ghost Note jazz bar didn’t get nearly as much foot traffic as the other bars in the area around Vincent’s house. The name and its proximity to the small Eternal Light Cemetery upset some of the locals.

  The cemetery was quiet as Vincent walked along its gates. Across the street, the bar was equally peaceful. A few pedestrians wandered past, lost in their own worlds, and the minimal traffic on the road made the area feel as if it was trapped under a blanket of silence.

  The live band’s smooth sax and light drums relaxed Vincent as soon as he walked in. The handful of patrons at the tables near the stage engaged in whispered conversations while those at the bar sipped their drinks in silence as they swayed to the music. Dim lighting along the dark red walls and flickering candles on each table made it easy enough to see without ever irritating Vincent’s headaches.

  Since it was rarely busy, Vincent always had booth to himself in the back corner. He couldn’t see the stage and most other patrons couldn’t see him. Relaxing in the cushioned seat, sipping his usual negroni or old fashioned, and listening to smooth jazz was what he imagined heaven to be.

  He stayed until they closed more than a few times every month. Most of the bartenders knew him and his tips encouraged them to keep their psychic comments to themselves. The only downside was the dress code. They’d turn him away if he wore his usual hoodie and jeans. He had no choice but to at least wear a proper button-down shirt.

  Halfway through his second drink, his headache had faded, taken away by the soft notes in the air. He swirled the glass, the spiral of orange peel dancing with the ice cube in time with the music.

  “What are you doing all by yourself? Want some company?” A woman’s voice broke Vincent from his peaceful trance.

  “No,” he answered. The woman was with a group of four others, a mix of men and women a bit older than Vincent, and they all looked drunk.

  They squeezed into his booth anyway, pushing him to the edge of the bench.

  “How can you deny the company of such beautiful ladies?” one of the men asked.

  “I was perfectly fine alone. Go find another booth.”

  They ignored him yet again and began introducing themselves. Vincent couldn’t be bothered to remember any of their names or give them his. He did his best to ignore them while he finished his drink.

  “You know…” the woman next to him started, leaning in far too close. “You look like that weird psychic my sister sees.”

  Vincent took a long swig to finish his drink, hoping to escape before….

  “Oh my god, you are!” The woman had pulled something up on her phone to show her friends. “Can you really see the future?”

  “I’m not that kind of psychic,” Vincent muttered. He stood to leave them to their giggles and chatter.

  “What other kind of psychics are there?” one of the men asked, eyebrow arched to his receding hairline.

  “I’m a medium.” He took out his wallet, pausing a moment. They wouldn’t notice two extra drinks on their tab.

  “What the hell is that?”

  Vincent ignored them and went to the bar.

  “They offered to cover my tab,” he told the bartender. Tony also happened to be the owner.

  A smirk spread over Tony’s lips. “Did they? How generous. Maybe I’ll even tack on your usual gratuity.”

  The headache that had nearly gone away pulsed in the back of his head as he walked home.

  Too irritated to sleep and too tired to do anything else when he got home, Vincent riffled through his cabinets for a late-night snack. Gracie nagged against eating junk while Jill suggested any candy she could think of. Neither spirit was helpful.

  A pair of small, unmarked packets lay forgotten where he threw them after Eric gave them to him. A jolt of caffeine would give him enough energy to do something productive until he was less annoyed.

  He turned on his empty coffee maker to get some hot water and dropped in the mysterious headache-curing tea bag. In the time it took him to fish his mug from the dishwasher, the tea bag had somehow opened, releasing its leafy contents into the water.

  “Even a damn tea bag is trying to piss me off…” he muttered. The noise he made angrily searching through pots and pans for a strainer only made his head hurt more.

  If you spot this narrative on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.

  By the time he got the tea strained into his mug, it had the color and smell of fallen leaves after heavy rain. He never understood the appeal of drinking wet leaves. It tasted as bad as he expected. The bitterness coated his tongue and the back of his throat, and the lingering taste of old leaves stayed in his mouth entirely too long.

  After a couple difficult sips, he pulled out his phone to text Eric.

  That tea you gave me tastes like shit.

  As it was after midnight, he didn’t expect a response. Yet, not a minute later, his phone buzzed on the counter with a message from Eric.

  It’s not tea. It’s medicine. Of course it tastes bad.

  Vincent stood with his mug over the sink, ready to dump its contents, as he read the message. That simple, matter of fact response only annoyed him further. It looked like tea, was packaged like tea, and functioned like tea. Anyone would assume it was tea. He finished the “tea” to mask his flush of embarrassment.

  His phone buzzed with three more messages.

  Are you okay?

  That thing with the doll wasn’t too much, was it?

  Does your head still hurt from that?

  The dots that showed Eric was typing yet another message blinked at the bottom of the chat. Vincent typed a quick response in hopes to end the interrogation.

  Used to it.

  The dots disappeared for a moment, whatever text Eric had prepared now replaced with a simple crying face, followed by a line of hug emojis. Vincent squinted at the pictures, unsure what warranted such a response. How did he upset Eric via text?

  A text response answered his question.

  I’ll make sure you don’t have any difficult appointments beforehand next time. Sorry if I pushed you too hard.

  Vincent couldn’t think how to respond, so he didn’t. Eric’s medicinal tea worked some kind of magic on Vincent’s pain, relieving his headache and improving his mood enough to simply go to bed.

  “What an interesting contraption…” Gracie whispered next to his ear. She’d been looking over his shoulder for who knows how long. “Like a tiny typewriter with no paper. How does it work?”

  “I don’t know. You can send messages, like a telegraph, I guess. But satellites and towers send the messages wherever.” Vincent left her behind with that explanation, leaving out the thousands of other things a modern smartphone could do.

  “He’s a strange one, isn’t he?” Gracie was either talking to herself or to Jill. “Sending telegraphs to some sort of hunter when all he eats is TV dinners.”

  ~*~

  The next day, Vincent still had nothing but fake séances and even faker tarot readings. Perhaps other psychics heard and understood the machinations and intentions of the universe, but Vincent could only act as a glorified therapist or tell people whatever they wanted to hear.

  Sandy was his younger sister’s friend’s aunt, and she visited him religiously. Barely more than a week after her last visit, she was at his table again, asking more of the same questions. She shared her woes for over half the scheduled time.

  “Change was supposed to be for the better,” she sobbed, dabbing a mascara-stained tissue under her eyes. “I’ve had nothing but bad luck all week! I wasn’t chosen for a promotion, someone hit my car in the parking lot, and Tom is still oblivious!”

  “It’s only been a week,” Vincent reassured her. “The universe doesn’t always work quickly. To move forward, the past must be cleared away.” He’d gotten the last part from a fortune cookie. “Now, what question do you want to focus on today?”

  “Money. With no promotion and all these repairs, what am I supposed to do?”

  Stop spending hundreds of dollars on psychic readings.

  “Alright.” He spread the cards across the table with exaggerated flourish. “Choose the two cards that speak to you right now.”

  Sandy waved her hands over the cards nearly a dozen times before pulling two toward her. Vincent swept the rest of the cards aside.

  “The first card represents you and the second, what you should do. You are… the Four of Coins. You’re clinging to your current wealth, fearful of future instability.”

  Sandy nodded along as Vincent repeated what she just told him.

  “But while you’re so focused on keeping what you have, you’re also unable to see opportunities. The man on this card is hoarding his wealth, both arms holding his coin tight. If both hands are around that single coin, how can he grab the other three?” He wasn’t sure where he was going with his reading. As he said it, it started to sound like terrible financial advice.

  “Right… if I ignore chances to go out with everyone after work, I’ll never have a chance with Tom….”

  I thought you were worried about money….

  Vincent simply nodded and flipped the next card. “The Eight of Wands. Wands are fire, the sparks that ignite your passions. The universe is telling you to act rather than staying stagnant and wary. But, while your actions should be swift, they must also be intentional. Move only in the direction your heart guides you. Once you start this movement, progress will rocket forward. A simple work outing could be an invaluable networking opportunity, after all.”

  Sandy clapped her hands together, grinning ear to ear. At the very least, Vincent improved her mood. “That settles it! A bunch of my coworkers are pitching in for a nice cabin up north, higher ups and Tom included! It’s only a few hundred dollars.”

  “But, Sandy, see here, the Four of Coins, he still has all the coins near him. The focus is on obtainable—”

  “I saw the cutest hiking outfit on my feed the other day. It was a sign!” Sandy hopped up from her seat and was around the table before Vincent could escape. She squeezed him in a hug and planted a kiss on his cheek. “The trip is next weekend, so I need to hurry! Wish Robin a happy birthday for me if I don't see you before then.” She held a hand over her heart and sighed. “Thank you. I always feel light as a feather leaving here.”

  “Well, that’s what matters, I suppose. The energy you put out into the world is important.” Vincent walked her as far as the curtain before turning back into his garage. He had no other appointments and could finally change his clothes.

  “She’s a lovely woman,” Gracie commented, as she had for each female customer all day. “And someone older would take care of you. I bet she’d make a lovely homemaker for that dreary cave you live in.”

  “Can you stop? I’m not interested in any of my customers,” Vincent grumbled and cleared his table of cards and crystals. “And my house isn’t dreary. It’s just full of spirits that won’t leave.”

  Someone laughed from the curtain Sandy just left from. “A medium that lives in a haunted house?” Eric had peeked his head through the curtain, watching Vincent in silence until his little comment.

  “I thought I told you I don’t do walk ins.”

  Eric sat at the table regardless, stifling a yawn. “Who were you talking to?”

  “Gracie.” Eric stared at Vincent until he elaborated. “She’s bound to a locket and refuses to pass on. Now I’m stuck with a nagging mother and a little girl. Amy brought me the doll after all and Jill also refuses to leave. They get along swimmingly.”

  “So… was that lady who just left your only customer today?” Eric’s eyes followed Vincent back and forth as he cleaned up.

  “No, but I did think I was done for the day.” Vincent turned the lights up to normal, squinting at the change. While looking at his phone, he made the mistake of looking at the notifications for reviews of his shop. As usual, sceptics and religious fanatics left the most comments.

  “She must like you.” Eric’s tone was flat, like he was chatting with someone in line at the grocery store.

  “I guess. I just tell her what she wants to hear.”

  When their eyes met again, Eric tapped his cheek. Vincent was confused until he remembered Sandy’s parting gift. She’d left a smear of lipstick on his cheek. He turned to glare at Gracie, who’d conveniently disappeared, before rubbing the mark away with his sleeve.

  “Just like I told Gracie, I have no interest in her.” Vincent plopped down in his chair, scrolling through reviews against his better judgement. “These religious types would probably burn me at the stake if they knew I saw ghosts and preferred men.”

  Eric’s eyes went wide and he tripped over his words. “Me too—not the burning, I mean. Liking men….”

  “I know. You still have the vlogs with your ex posted.” Vincent unbuttoned the lacey collar of his shirt and scratched where the itchy lace touched the skin on his neck.

  Eric buried his face in his arms, slumping over the table. “You watched those too? Ugh, I should delete them….”

  “Why are you here, Eric? I want to change and watch crappy TV.”

  “I just… wanted to see how you were feeling.” Eric peeked over his arms just enough that his words were muffled against his sleeve.

  “Fine. Are you here to drag me to another allegedly haunted house? The spirit better leave this one….”

  Eric propped his chin on his arms, shoulders slumped and eyes studying the grain of the table. “You don’t have to if you don’t want to. Or if it’ll make you sick.”

  The pitiful glances and beating around the bush irritated Vincent more than the possibility of gaining another roommate. “I’ll get dressed.” He stopped Eric’s next question before it was asked, “No, I’m not going like this.”

  Eric’s mood only marginally improved in the short car ride. “This lady reached out to me with a really copy-paste sounding message. People like this usually have fake claims and just want to be featured in something.”

  “You’re not selling this job very well. Why accept if you thought it was fake?”

  “Habit, I guess? You never know when it might turn out to be real.” Eric picked at his poor steering wheel as he spoke. “Anyway, she claims she has video of her baby being yanked back by something. She said a lot about evil spirits, but I told her there was no such thing and how you could find the real issue.”

  “Did you ask for payment up front?”

  “No… I didn’t ask for payment at all. Do you really need to charge for things like this? I thought you just wanted to help….”

  “Just helping doesn’t pay the bills.”

  Eric sighed and pulled into a nice gated community, tapping the keycode sent in his DMs. Every house looked identical and new, with some even still under construction. The entire community was a sea of beige walls and manicured green lawns. Even a lot of the cars in the driveways were similar plain white sedans.

  The house Eric parked in front of was no different. Beige walls, a white car in the driveway, a clean-cut front yard. The only difference was the line of withering rose bushes lining the front of the house. They were in desperate need of a prune and weeds choked their roots. Vincent’s garden looked similar until he could bring himself to resume the care his grandmother put into it.

  Just like with Amy’s house, Vincent felt a presence as soon as he stepped out of the car. It felt protective, vigilant, like a knight with one hand already on his sword.

  Learning from his previous mistakes, Vincent waited until Eric had his camera out, impatiently staring him down all the while. The sun would be out for another couple hours, peeking through the foggy sky, so the lights on tripods were left in the trunk.

  “Whatever happened to the “aesthetic” of ghost hunting at night?” Vincent asked to pass the time.

  “I have work later and this lady insisted on us coming as soon as possible.” Eric handed Vincent bag after bag as he searched his trunk.

  “You work?” As he said it, it sounded stupid. Vincent simply had a hard time seeing Eric as an employed, mundane member of society.

  “I mean, yeah? This equipment isn’t cheap….” Eric shoved a fourth bag of camera equipment into Vincent’s arms while he loaded his pockets with assorted gadgets. “I’m just a supervisor at a supermarket, though. I thought working overnights would be more… haunted. But it’s just boring.”

  Vincent looked Eric up and down. A backpack and fishing vest full of sci-fi looking gadgets, a channel that catered to people who milked spiritual activity for clout, and an unflinching belief in Vincent’s abilities did not match the image of “supermarket supervisor.”

  Eric was oblivious to the judgement upon him. “Searchers, we’re here at the Dell house, where the owner reported fresh spiritual activity,” he said into the camera. Vincent was mid-yawn when the camera was turned onto him. “Do you sense anything here?”

  “Yeah, almost as strong as the last house. I’ll probably have another fight on my hands….” Vincent took the question as an okay to start heading up the driveway.

  “Why do you say that? Could it be an evil spirit?”

  “I told you—” Vincent snapped. He told Eric, but not Eric’s camera. With a sigh, he repeated himself, “There are no evil spirits. They’re all just scared and confused. Even the angry ones have a reason.”

  Eric beamed behind his camera and waited for Vincent to say something else.

  “…This spirit feels… protective of something. They might not like strangers interfering, or they might lash out if they feel the house or family is in danger.” As he got closer to the house, another feeling bubbled in his chest.

  Affection.

  Vincent trailed behind while Eric paused his recording to ring the doorbell. The curtains in the closed upstairs window parted for a split second before flapping shut. He couldn’t see who—if anyone—was in the window.

  “Oh thank God! Is this your psychic?” A frazzled woman answered the door as Vincent approached.

  “Your psychic?” he repeated, an eyebrow raised in Eric’s direction.

  A flush reddened his round cheeks as he coughed over the psychic’s question. “Mrs. Dell, when I told him about your issue, he just had to come right away!”

  Vincent felt wrinkles forming in his forehead as he stared sideways at Eric. He almost said something before he remembered he’d agreed even before Eric said anything at all about this issue.

  “Perfect! You have to come look at this. That ghost touched our baby!” The woman grabbed Vincent’s arm and dragged him to a laptop on her kitchen counter. “We set up cameras after little things like cabinets slamming shut or stuff not being where we left it.” She paused, her voice shaking as she fanned her face. “Then we saw this. Our baby being thrown by some curse or demon!”

  Her hands shook as she hit play. Their camera recorded a toddler crawling over a knocked down baby gate and walking to a door in the kitchen. The baby opened the door and took a wobbly step toward the basement stairs. At the last second, the baby was yanked backwards and the door slammed shut. She sat, a little dazed, before breaking out in tears, reaching up to the empty space next to her. Mrs. Dell then came running into frame, scooping up her crying child.

  “The spirit is a better parent than you. What are you complaining about?” The woman glowered at Vincent through her unnaturally long eyelashes.

  Eric intervened. “We’ll take a look, do a bit of sleuthing, and take care of that spirit, okay?”

  Mrs. Dell nodded and, with one more icy glare in Vincent’s direction, said, “Krissy is asleep upstairs. That’s where I’ll be if you need me. My husband is a cop, so don’t try anything funny.”

  Once their client was out of earshot, Eric muttered, “You don’t mince words, do you? Maybe be a little nicer?”

  He took the camera bags from Vincent’s arms and began a convoluted set up of equipment through the kitchen.

  “Was I wrong?” Vincent pressed some buttons on one of his electro-something-or-other tools to pass the time. The rainbow of lights along the top flickered once, then went out.

  “Did you see the spirit do anything?”

  “I can’t see what the camera can’t capture.” With a bored sigh, Vincent added, “Are you done? The spirit isn’t around here anymore.”

  Eric stared at him, as close to angry as he’d been since they met. His brows drew together and his lips dropped into a pout. “You couldn’t say that sooner?”

  Vincent only shrugged in response and accepted the cameras and microphones Eric piled back into his arms.

  “Where is the spirit, then?” He slapped his hand over Vincent’s mouth when he tried to answer. Vincent had the strong urge to bite him. “Wait! Actually, don’t say anything yet!” He fished his main camera from one of his vest pockets, somehow managing to not drop any of his other equipment, and started recording. “Vincent, do you sense the spirit’s presence?”

  After a pointed, annoyed stare, Vincent answered, “No. They’re not down here.” Eric continued to stare expectantly, a grin on his face. “I… I only sense residual energy.”

  It wasn’t a lie, since the residual energy was everywhere, even outside. But Eric gave an enthusiastic thumbs up and silently egged the psychic on.

  A flush burned in Vincent’s cheeks. “They’re probably upstairs.” Without waiting, he retreated to the stairs.

  “Wait! Explain your process.”

  Eric tried three different angles to record Vincent’s face as the psychic looked away each time. “I don’t have one.”

  “Then why do you think it’s upstairs?”

  “Because that’s where the baby is.”

  At the top of the stairs, Eric restarted his complex set up in the hallway of bedrooms. Framed photos lined the walls. The Dells’ wedding, a family photo that included a teary-eyed elderly woman and a newborn, and a smiling baby with a bow clipped to her few strands of hair were the largest and centermost photos.

  Voices from the TV in Mrs. Dell’s room drifted down the hall. Vincent, unable to stay near Eric’s bubbling enthusiasm and high expectations, took it upon himself to update her on their progress. She clung to the baby monitor and warned Vincent not to wake Krissy. Light flickered on the monitor as sunlight broke through a gap in the curtains.

  Eric completed his set up at the other end of the hall, near the nursery. He beckoned Vincent closer and leaned in to whisper. “I’m going to try this today so you don’t have to channel the spirit.” He held up another device that looked the same as the dozen others filling his pockets. The only difference with this one was the cord that connected a pair of oversized headphones. “An EVP recorder! I don’t know why I didn’t think of it sooner.”

  Vincent leaned down while Eric fussed with the earphones on his head and spoke directly into the small microphone near the top. “Does it only work for spirits’ voices?”

  Eric winced and shoved Vincent away with his hip. He, at least, kept his voice to a whisper. “It works best without a lot of background noise.”

  A smile tugged at the corners of Vincent’s lips. He hummed a tune while he waited for the camera again. After a few lines of the song, he realized he had no idea what he was humming. He’d never heard the song in his life.

  The device in Eric’s hand flickered to life and he froze in place, eyes wide. Soon, the camera was out again, but Eric could only film his EVP recorder in silence, both of his hands shaking.

  Vincent stepped closer and stopped his own humming. A female voice carried the same tune. He glanced at Eric and whispered into the ear uncovered by the headphones. “Do you hear humming?”

  Eric nodded. “I’ve never actually heard anything….”

  Vincent peeked into the baby’s room. As he expected, the shape of an old woman was humming and rocking in the chair next to the crib.

  “Ma’am?” Vincent approached the spirit, only to be angrily shushed. Bringing his voice down to a whisper, he continued, “Ma’am, you don’t need to watch the baby anymore.”

  When Eric stepped into the room to record Vincent, one of the sensors in his pocket began to beep. The spirit hushed them again, but it was too late. Krissy woke up in tears. Mrs. Dell barreled into the room, scowling at the men who disturbed her baby.

  “What are you doing? Did you get rid of that ghost yet?” she snapped on her way to the crib.

  Once they were next to each other, with matching scowls on their faces, Vincent saw the resemblance. “You shouldn’t be so rude,” he said, watching the spirit hover around her grandchild. “Your mother’s right next to you.”