Slowly, I take one step, and then another. People’s basements are all different, but there’s a heaviness to them that unnerves me. Sometimes it seems like I can feel the memories of objects, and in rooms with so many forgotten things, it can be tiring. Not to mention I’m pretty sure I’m afraid of the dark, though I’d never admit this to Jackson. He made fun of me enough as a kid when I’d wake up screaming in the night.

As my feet touch the cool cement basement floor, I scan the space, waiting for my eyes to adjust to the dark. Even though the basement is as we’ve left it, the boxes neatly stacked around us, I feel tilted, as if I’m seeing everything for the first time.

My eyes rest on three mannequins draped in fabric, the makings of unfinished dresses hang from their limbs. I remind myself that Maddy was a seamstress and this is just the remains of her past life.

“Maddy? We’re here to help. Okay?” I say. “You don’t have to be afraid.”

We move deeper into the basement, past the boxes and shelves. In the middle of the room, a faint ringing noise drifts into my ears. I touch my head.

“My name is Angela Sayers. Your husband, Frank, called me here,” I say, struggling to stay focused. “I’m here to ask you…if you would consider leaving this house.”

A wave of nausea hits me. I’ve done this so many times before, why is today any different? Sleep. I need sleep. With a deep breath, I hold my ground, waiting for Beth’s signal. Jackson’s gone over the routine in detail, covering all the bases. What happens now is he gives Beth the signal by the computers, tapping her on the shoulder, or maybe touching her wrist with his hand. Then she’ll discretely brush one of the keys and the waveform monitor will blip.

The voices are already programmed into the system. Sometimes it’s a whisper, other times it’s a hiss or a giggle. It gets the client every time. But I try not to think about that now, Frank with his desperate face, so hopeful to connect with his lost love.

I hear the click on my walkie. Once. Twice. The signal. There it is. Maybe after this I can sleep. Sleep is nice. Dreaming not so much, but sleep, the act of closing my eyes, of not being here.

“Your husband,” I say to the shadows. “Your daughter. They love you. But they need to move on.”

The ringing in my ears grows louder. Sharper. Piercing. What the…? My head throbs. “Carrie misses you. Very much. But she needs to grow up happy. Normal.”

I steady myself, the words hitting a little too close to home. Having a mother as a medium doesn’t exactly constitute a normal childhood.