"Where do they go? Do they feel pain?"
I stared at her a moment, slowly pulling on my best impression of hurt. "Madam! Do they feel pain when they slam themselves against the walls of your home, rattling portraits off the wall and howling in the night while you sleep? Do you ever wonder if they ask themselves: 'Does the owner of this house feel pain when I smash the glass on her nightstand inches from her face or tear open cupboards and fling pots and pans across the room?'"
"But there must be a reason!" She was sobbing now, and the tears ran streaks down her dirty, haggard face. "I don't understand why he's doing this now! At the very least..."
She eyed me desperately and clasped her hands together, pleading. "At the very least, he should be moving on."
I glanced back at my partner and nodded. He extended the two antennae of the black box in his hand and set off down the hallway, sweeping the gadget back and forth as he went. Arcs of white energy surged between the two leads like tongues of lightning. Her anxious eyes, shot through with blood and worry, followed him down the corridor.
I could tell what she was thinking. "Mam, I'm sure he would move on if he could. Sometimes they just need a little push."
We sat at the tiny dinner table in the kitchen, her hand in mine when a quiet buzz warned me of a text from my partner. I slid the phone from my pocket and glanced at it where she couldn't see. "Found him," it said, and a snapshot of the ectoplasmic disperser's screen revealed what, exactly, my partner had found.
The disperser read the room in tones of green to black, a scale that grew brighter with the presence of psychic residue. A glowing glob of ghoulish color exactly the size of a twelve-year-old boy sat bubbling on the bed in its old room. The antennae also picked up a flurry of pulsing signals in the ambient air, which it decoded into rough English on a live ticker at the bottom.
At the time of the picture, the ticker read, "Socoldletmestaypleasemommysodark--"
My phone vibrated a second time, and another text popped up at the top. "It's done."
I looked up at the old woman weeping across from me and smiled. "As I said, mam. I'm sure your son will be fine. Now, about your invoice..."
I stared at her a moment, slowly pulling on my best impression of hurt. "Madam! Do they feel pain when they slam themselves against the walls of your home, rattling portraits off the wall and howling in the night while you sleep? Do you ever wonder if they ask themselves: 'Does the owner of this house feel pain when I smash the glass on her nightstand inches from her face or tear open cupboards and fling pots and pans across the room?'"
"But there must be a reason!" She was sobbing now, and the tears ran streaks down her dirty, haggard face. "I don't understand why he's doing this now! At the very least..."
She eyed me desperately and clasped her hands together, pleading. "At the very least, he should be moving on."
I glanced back at my partner and nodded. He extended the two antennae of the black box in his hand and set off down the hallway, sweeping the gadget back and forth as he went. Arcs of white energy surged between the two leads like tongues of lightning. Her anxious eyes, shot through with blood and worry, followed him down the corridor.
I could tell what she was thinking. "Mam, I'm sure he would move on if he could. Sometimes they just need a little push."
We sat at the tiny dinner table in the kitchen, her hand in mine when a quiet buzz warned me of a text from my partner. I slid the phone from my pocket and glanced at it where she couldn't see. "Found him," it said, and a snapshot of the ectoplasmic disperser's screen revealed what, exactly, my partner had found.
The disperser read the room in tones of green to black, a scale that grew brighter with the presence of psychic residue. A glowing glob of ghoulish color exactly the size of a twelve-year-old boy sat bubbling on the bed in its old room. The antennae also picked up a flurry of pulsing signals in the ambient air, which it decoded into rough English on a live ticker at the bottom.
At the time of the picture, the ticker read, "Socoldletmestaypleasemommysodark--"
My phone vibrated a second time, and another text popped up at the top. "It's done."
I looked up at the old woman weeping across from me and smiled. "As I said, mam. I'm sure your son will be fine. Now, about your invoice..."
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