Black oil canvases hung in the hallway, staggered at intervals and varying heights. I felt seasick traversing the hall. The master canvas occupied an otherwise blank wall in the living room. Six-by-six feet of pure concentrated negative space. It generated the optical illusion of a portal into a formless, eternal velvet. I mildly hallucinated specks of cosmic dust, the glint of pinprick stars, and the devilish choir in my nightmares that had drawn me through the black door in the family garage. Not dissimilar to the music that preceded an entrance by Tom Mandibole. Vertigo pounced, and I stepped back and glanced elsewhere.

“Who painted these?” I said.

Dr. Campbell adjusted his glasses and stared for a while.

“The owner of the house acquired them.” He said it wistfully, head tilted. Listening to the same unearthly music. “He wouldn’t name the artist. Would you like coffee?”

“Yeah, I would.”

“Beasley!”

I looked past sliding doors and a view of stone steps winding down toward the beach. Palm plants rustled in sea-blue planter boxes and oversize clay pots. Deck chairs and a parasol were folded neatly. The beach lay broad and sugar-smooth, dimpled by seagull tracks. Thunderheads I’d seen earlier piled on the red-rimmed horizon. The deep ocean stained darker out there, spreading closer.

The living area was tiered in an L-shape basin. We moved to a spot decorated with a plush couch and wicker chairs. Photographs, knickknacks, and trophy stands were displayed through museum glass. A dour nurse in a white hospital coat attended Toshi Ryoko. Dr. Ryoko occupied a motorized wheelchair. Withered and doll-like, he was wrapped in a dark blanket that sort of matched the spooky paintings in the hall. His eyes were wide and luminous as the moon glinting off black water. A whiteboard and a marker hung from his turkey neck. Some of his hair had stuck around. The color and substance of summer clouds. The nurse kissed his forehead and strode away.

“Hello, Dr. Ryoko,” I said.

Ryoko’s nostrils flared appreciably. Dr. Campbell squeezed his shoulder and sat adjacent to his colleague on the edge of the luxurious couch. Considering that a Hollywood player owned the house, a sexy couch was mandatory.

Beasley brought in a carafe of coffee, cups, and cream and sugar on a tray.

“You’re working?” I said to the doctors.

“Toshi and I are noodling some theories,” Dr. Campbell said. “I don’t take you for a student of the sciences.” He waved aside my demurral. “The ox who pulls the plow has no use for agriculture or blacksmithing. Are you fond of popular culture?”

“Am I!” I aimed for cheerfulness rather than sarcasm.

He bared his caramel-shaded dentures.

“Splendid. Pay attention. There will be a test afterward. In the early aughts, there was an Internet phenomenon—”

“Doc,” I said. “My schedule is tight, appearances to the contrary notwithstanding. I want to discuss Sean. He bought into your Fortean philosophy with the fervor of a disciple. I’m not sure what came first, the chicken or the egg. Was he always susceptible to irrational flights of fancy? Or did exposure to you and Dr. Ryoko lower his defenses against whatever is going on in Horseheads?”