On the worn couch by the pot of wilted herbs, I huddle under a ratty quilt as my breath vaporizes in front of me. Past the crooked trees, the sun slowly rises. I watch the sky turn pink and red until I can’t keep my eyes open anymore.

*        *         *

Ring-Ring. Ring-Ring.

Deep-seated pressure pounds against my skull. Lifting my head, I rub my face. I’m curled up in the fetal position, and although my hands are numb, it’s the first time I’ve slept in days.

Ring-Ring.

Disentangling myself from the blanket, I stumble inside. “Jackson? Beth?” I check the clock on the stove. It’s about noon. The phone rings again. “Okay, okay,” I mutter. Each shrill ring makes my head pound more. I pick up the phone.

“Hello?” Static. “Hello?”

“Yes?” The frail voice of an elderly woman crackles through the line. “Is this the Medium Service?”

“It is,” I reply.

There’s silence on the other end, then a sigh of relief. “Thank heavens. I’m looking at your website here. Can you help me?”

I shift from foot to foot. “What’s the nature of your problem?”

“Oh.” The elderly woman’s voice catches. She clears her throat. “It’s the children,” she says. “I can’t get them to stop screaming.”

I press the phone into my ear, wondering if I’ve heard her correctly. “Children? Look, if this is some prank…”

“Please don’t hang up. They’ve been so loud, you see. I haven’t slept.”

“They?” I ask.

The elderly woman’s voice trembles. “The girls. I hear them. Every night. Since the accident it’s been worse.”

Even though I know Jackson would kill me, I consider hanging up the phone. “Where are you located?” I ask.

“Down near Wakefield,” the elderly lady continues. “Off Highway 31. Cypress Street. Number 624. My name’s Mrs. Green. I used to run a foster home.”

A knot coils in my stomach. Why does that sound familiar? Something happened there. Something bad.

“Hello? Please. How soon can you come out?”

“Um…well.” I tap my fingers against the receiver. “We’re, uh, busy right now, so…I don’t think we…”

“Please. I’ll pay you twice your fee.”

“Sorry, we’re…I’m sorry.”

I fumble with the phone. Hang up, I think. Hang up.

And with a deep breath, I do.

Click.

I stare at the phone, thinking about how I could use some Tylenol, but I don’t move to the kitchen. I don’t move. Instead, I contemplate that address, 624 Cypress, and how I can’t remember what happened there, though I know it wasn’t good.

Ring-Ring. Ring-Ring.

I jump back, startling myself. The phone rings again. I turn and grab my laptop, heading up the stairs to my room, but even with my bedroom door closed, I can still hear Jackson’s measured voice on the answering machine: “You’ve reached the Sayers Medium Service…”