“I’m losing it.” Mosh rubbed his face in his hands. He could’ve sworn he’d heard a man’s voice, like an old dude, with a thick accent, sort of Eastern Europe, kind of like Mom when she got excited, but way worse. He found a bottle of Tylenol in the kitchenette and popped four of them. “Can alcohol give you hallucinations? Is it a hallucination if you hear it?” Unlike many of his peers in the music business, Mosh didn’t mess around with drugs. He’d seen too many other musicians fry their brains, and he liked being the smart one too much.

The drinking was just to help him sleep…Until things picked back up.

“What is it with this family? None of them can listen to instructions!”

Mosh leapt back and crashed into the refrigerator. “Who’s there?” There was no response. He had heard that clear as day. “If you’re messing with me, it isn’t funny.”

Who would play a trick on him? His so-called friends had bought the government’s line. Nobody wanted to have anything to do with him. His name was mud. The only people that would have anything to do with him anymore weren’t the kind he wanted around. A bunch of sycophant groupies weren’t the best company, and he couldn’t even remember the names of the ones he’d found here in the mornings.

“None of Pitts can listen. Is simple request. Watch news program, dummy.”

Mosh jumped. That had come from right behind him. Now he was really freaked out. “Okay, assholes. It’s on now.” He hobbled back to the bedroom and picked up the Glock 19 he kept on the bedside table. He wasn’t the family gun nut—that honor went to his brother—but he’d been raised by a fanatical survivalist, which meant that Mosh knew damn good and well how to take care of himself. After a death cult had kidnapped him, and a psychotic bitch had sawed his fingers off, Mosh was more than happy to shoot first and ask questions later. “You want trouble, you got trouble.” He came back around the corner with the 9mm in both hands. “You better get out of here. I’ve got a piece and I will shoot your ass dead. I mean it.”

“This wreck is the best we can do?”

“G’ah!” Mosh turned around and stabbed out the gun. That voice had come from a different man, deeper, with a slow southern drawl. His hands were shaking. His finger was on the trigger. But there was nobody there. “Stop that!”

“Can make contact. Is same blood as champion. You have better idea?” the disembodied old man’s voice said. “Idiot boy. Turn on television.”

“This place is haunted!” Mosh shouted.

“Yes. Boo,” said the southerner. “I’m a haint. Now do what Mordechai said already. We’re burning daylight.”