“Alright,” Jackson says, giving me a long look. “Let’s get to work then. Get in, get out. Remember?”

“Ange, your…” Elliot gestures to my nose. I wipe my nostril. Blood smears on my hand. I step back, acting like it’s no big deal. Jackson studies the blood. He narrows his eyes, knowing something isn’t right.

“I’ll be right back,” I say, hurrying down the hall.

*        *         *

In the master bathroom, mildew tiles and a row of low sinks line one side of the wall. I move to the first sink and turn the knob. It whines with rust before murky water dribbles out. I wait for the water to become clear and then splash some on my nostrils. Still trembling, I eye my reflection in the warped, cloudy mirror.

“You’re okay, Ange,” I say. “You’re okay. You’re…”

Behind me, I hear feet pad softly on the tiles. I startle, spinning around, just in time to see a shadow quickly flit by. Scanning the bathroom, I step away from the sink.

“Ange.”

I jump, but it’s just Elliot. “Jesus.”

“Sorry. Wanted to…make sure you were all right.”

“Thanks. Yeah. I’m fine.”

We share an awkward silence, but then I hear a faint whimpering behind Elliot. It echoes over the tiles. I turn back to the row of stalls. Mold and cobwebs frame the doors. The whimpering is soft, like a little girl crying. It’s coming from the last stall.

“What’s wrong?” Elliot asks.

“You don’t hear that?” I reply.

He shakes his head. I close my eyes, but the stifled cries only grow into raking sobs. There’s no way to shut them out. I steel myself and move down the row.

“Ange?” Elliot asks.

“Shh,” I reply. He follows cautiously behind me. The ticker on Elliot’s EMF meter bounces. Gentle, this time. Intermittent. He studies the EMF meter and gives me a worried glance.

The whimpering grows louder as we delve closer, creeping along the chipped linoleum. Elliot tries to make out the EMF meter reading. The needle spikes. “That’s impossible,” he says.

When we’re at the door to the last stall, the sobbing ends abruptly. Through the dim light, I make out the rusty door handle. Rain pitters on the skylight. The sound’s almost soothing. I try to breathe deeply, but only manage steady, shallow breaths. My quivering hand taps the door. It yawns open with a rickety squeak.

But there’s nothing but a rust-stained toilet on the other side. I share a shaky smile with Elliot. My heart rate slows.

“You want to get out of here?” he says.

“Please. Let’s get this over with.”

We walk to the exit. Right as we’re about to step into the hallway, the first stall door groans open.

“What the…?” Elliot says.