Donny dismisses us all with a wave of his hand.
I bring Bob to a vet in the nearest town to get his cast changed. The doctor tells me I can start increasing how much walking he does, so when we get back to the house, I take him for a stroll around the property, staying close so I can pick him up if he sees a squirrel and decides to push the limits of his cast. The property stretches way farther back than I realized, with narrow trails cutting through the trees. Bob will love it out here once his cast comes off.
I never pictured myself living in the woods. I never pictured myself living anywhere but New York or Jersey, honestly. But standing here with Bob in my arms, listening to nothing but wind through the trees and the occasional bird call, I’m struck by how quiet it is here. Dad loved the energy of the city. I did, too, but ever since he died, the noise has felt less energizing and more like I needed it to drown out all the noise in my head. All the sirens and voices and car horns gave me something to listen to, so I was never alone with my thoughts. I hate being alone with my thoughts. Being alone with my thoughts is not a good place for me.
I read in the library all afternoon, Bob curling up on my lap as I crack the cover of a paper written by Benji calledScientificExplanations for the Existence of Spiritual Entities (Or As Close As We Can Get to Them).
After an hour, I find it hard to concentrate on anything when all I can do is wonder how much progress Zoey has made. It feels wrong that she’s working to put together a list, and I’m sitting here reading about how ghosts are emotions given solid form. According to Benji’s paper, animals, especially prey animals, are highly sensitive to changes in energy and can sense if a person’s nervous system is amped up as soon as they walk into a room. It’s why Bob can sense ghosts. He can’t see ghosts the same way I can, and yes, he’s not a prey animal, but he’s still more sensitive to energy than a normal person.
I set the book aside and pivot to looking through the tapes again, my fingers trailing over the labeled cases until I find one I haven’t listened to.
Kate. The survivor from the final trial.
I slide the tape into the player DJ used with hands that aren’t quite steady. The recording quality is worse than the others we listened to, with a lot of static and distant beeping that sounds like a hospital monitor.
“State your name for the record.”
“Kate… Kate Hart.” Her voice is barely a whisper, hollow like an echo in an empty house.
“What do you remember about the man who abducted you?”
“He called himself a scientist,” she says. “Of sorts. Said he was conducting an experiment.”
“Can you tell us what happened in that warehouse, Kate?”
When she finally speaks, each word sounds like it’s being dragged out of her with pliers.
“I told him there had been a mistake,” she says. “Kenny—he was my sister’s husband. There was no love between us to break. But the man didn’t believe us.”
The recorder picks up fabric rustling.
“What did you say to him?”
“I told him to check our driver’s licenses, our addresses, anything to verify we were telling the truth, but he wouldn’t listen.” Her voice breaks on the last word. “He told us we were in love. Nothing I said would get through to him. He made up his mind, and there was no changing it.”
“Tell me about Kenny.”
“Kenny tried to protect me until the end. That’s the kind of man he was.” Her voice goes quieter, like she’s talking to herself now instead of the interviewer. “I died in that warehouse, too. Just forgot to stop breathing.”
The tape ends with a click.
I sit there staring at the player. Hearing her say she died too… It’s like listening to my own thoughts played back on a recording.
I grip the edge of the table, my fingers going white. Kate survived, but what does that even mean? Is that really survival if you have to kill everything human inside yourself to do it?
I eject the tape with shaking hands and dig back into the case file. There’s only one tape on her. She had to have done more than one interview. Maybe Donny knows where they are?
I make it halfway down the hall toward his office when I hear voices drifting through his partially open door.
“I need to leave,” Nico pleads. “Please, Donny, you have to let me out of here.”
CHAPTER 22
The brain has natural filters that keep most people from perceiving the dead. Alcohol strips those away. Of the two hundred and two possession cases my team has documented, forty-five victims were frequent drinkers or had been drinking at the time of initial contact.
—Journal of Donald Dellman, December 2025
I pause against the wall next to the door, careful not to touch it in case it creaks and gives me away.
