Vincent woke hours later. He would have chalked up the whole visit to a dream if not for the note left in the middle of his coffee table. His stool by the door was fixed, too.

  When you’re feeling better, we should team up! I’d love the help of someone with abilities like yours—Eric

  On the other side was his business card—not that he had a business. It only had his name, Eric Lim, the name of his channel, Spirit Searchers, and his handwritten phone number. Apparently, he was a certified ghost hunter.

  “Is that even something you can get a certification for…?” Vincent muttered, tossing the card back onto the table.

  Mostly free of nausea, he was starving. He threw his leftover takeout into the microwave and went to fish his phone out from amid his tangle of sheets. Two notifications for next day appointments almost made him dizzy again. Upon opening them, however, he was relieved to see they were just for tarot readings. One was for a woman who treated him like her therapist and the other was for….

  Eric Lim.

  Vincent considered cancelling the appointment, but the man would probably show up anyway.

  “Is he a stalker or something…?” he muttered to himself as the house filled with the smell of days old Indian curry.

  As the sun set, he stepped out into the fresh air of the back garden. His grandmother grew a jungle of fruit trees, shrubs, and flowers in the small backyard when she was alive. A lot of it died with her and Vincent couldn’t fully revive the garden to its former glory, but the sweet scent of the flowers and the sound of leaves rustling in the wind relaxed him. It made it feel like his grandmother was still here, though she moved on years ago.

  The poppies and wallflowers along the side of the house were her favorite, and she grew lavender and chamomile specifically for Vincent, so he did his best to keep those alive. He kept the little stone walkway that led to her bench swing free of weeds. Every spring he gave away bags of oranges and every fall he did the same with her pomegranates. He trimmed and pruned and replanted and did everything she did. It was the least he could do.

  An old shed with a long gash in the door loomed in the corner. Vincent did his best to ignore it.

  ~*~

  Vincent’s migraine had faded by the following day.

  Of course, the stalker chose the earliest appointment available, directly after the first. Vincent had no time to change out of the loose deep purple shirt and overly tight black pants. He even wore the absurdly complicated gold, multi-chain necklace that, for some reason, had only one chain around his neck with the rest cascading over his shoulder and around his upper arm. After that purchase, he made sure to click through all the photos on an item before assuming he knew what it was.

  Sandy, as usual, took longer than her appointment time, asking question after question to “the universe” until she heard the answer she wanted. She was in her thirties, only a few years older than Vincent, yet had been through two divorces and dozens of failed relationships. Every visit, she had her red hair curled into perfect, silky waves and her nails and makeup done to match her bright sundresses.

  The faster Vincent figured out what she wanted and the closer his outfit resembled a Victorian vampire, however, the higher her tip was at the end of the session. He had bills to pay.

  When he walked her to the door, Eric was there, sitting with a pile of occult magazines in his lap. He flashed a smile up at Vincent and returned the magazines to the little round table in the corner.

  “Vincent, I’ll be back soon to let you know how it all goes! The Tower means change and I think it’s a change for the best!” Sandy waved and sauntered out the door to go struggle through her next slew of poor decisions.

  “Is the Tower card good?” Eric asked, his eyes lingering embarrassingly long on the chain over Vincent’s shoulder.

  “It’s a piece of paper. Why are you here?”

  “That’s not a very nice way to greet a paying customer. By the way, are all psychic readings this expensive…?”

  “Are you really here for a reading?”

  “Yes and no. Hey, don’t look so mad! I did think it would be cool, but I also just want to have a proper conversation with you.”

  Vincent sighed and pulled the curtain aside, jutting his chin toward the table in the center of the room.

  Eric wandered everywhere except to the chair, grinning and wide-eyed like a kid in a candy shop. “Wow, I didn’t expect it to be so… mystic in here.”

  Vincent looked at the mauve painted walls and cheap starry fabric he had covering the table and various bookshelves. The fabric was simply stapled to the tops of shelves to cover the various decks of tarot cards and miscellaneous crystals people expected him to have on display.

  “I guess I have a knack for interior decorating. Do you want a reading or not?” He dimmed the lights and relit the candles on the center table. For readings, he covered the table, and the hole for the crystal ball’s cord, with an old white sheet he’d painted a shoddy star onto. A candle on each point, while meaningless, apparently made his readings more authentic.

  Eric sat across from him, tugging on his shirt to keep it from stretching tight over his stomach. His grin never faded and the candlelight glowed in his eyes.

  Vincent started shuffling the tarot deck, debating whether he wanted to put on his usual act. Seeing how Eric was already acting like he was at the circus, he decided against it. “So? What’s your question?”

  “How long have you been doing this?”

  “For the cards.”

  “Can’t I get to know you some first?”

  “I’m already behind schedule.”

  “Do you have another appointment after me?”

  “N—Yes.”

  “Liar.”

  “Fine. It’s been just a few years. This is easier than séances.”

  “Oh! Can we do a séance instead?”

  Vincent blinked slow, waiting for Eric to laugh at his joke. He didn’t. “For who?”

  “Does it have to be someone specific? Can’t we just communicate with spirits, you know, around?” Eric waved a hand through the empty space above his head.

  “There aren’t any just ‘around’ unless you’re in a cemetery. And the only reason I do séances is to help the spirit cross over. Usually, they’re stuck because their family won’t let them go or vice versa.” Vincent gave up on shuffling and set the deck aside. “Connecting with spirits gives me a headache.”

  Eric’s smile finally dropped. “Really? Never mind, then. You do look much better than you did yesterday, though.”

  “…Thanks.”

  “Oh! Here, I brought some of these for you. My grandparents don’t trust Western medicine, so I have all kinds of traditional Chinese medicines.” Eric pulled a handful of unlabeled suspicious pouches from one of the pockets in his shorts. “These are for tea. They work great for headaches. And the orangeish one is good for nausea.”

  “Why do you think I’d trust random pouches of powder from a stranger?”

  “Can’t you just read my mind or aura to know I have good intentions?”

  “I’m not that kind of psychic. It’s bad enough I have the dead in my head. I don’t want the living too.”

  “Okay, that’s my question then. How can I get Vincent to trust me and help in my investigations?”

  “You can’t.”

  “I’m not asking you. I’m asking the cards.”

  The cheeky grin on Eric’s face filled Vincent with more ire and frustration than he thought himself capable of.

  “Fine.” Vincent gave the cards another rough shuffle and spread them across the table. “Choose three. The first card will be you, the second me, and the third will be the cards’ suggestion.”

  Eric hovered his hand over the cards, humming to himself, and pointed to three cards. “Me, you, and a suggestion from the universe.”

  Vincent swiped the leftover cards aside and slid the three chosen into a line between him and Eric.

  “You.” He flipped the first card and scoffed at the result. “The reversed Four of Cups. Upright, it represents daydreams and stagnation. You live in daydreams rather than seeing the reality around you.”

  “But…?”

  Through an annoyed scowl, Vincent muttered, “…But reversed, it shows those foolish daydreams becoming motivation to seize the opportunities around you. Rather than ignoring the gifts like the man on the card, you’re leaving whatever pessimism you had behind and moving to find those who can help turn those daydreams into reality.”

  “Now, you. That one was you just telling me what I told you.”

  With a sigh, Vincent flipped the next card. His scowl deepened. “Eight of Swords.”

  Eric glanced between Vincent and the card, eagerly awaiting further explanation.

  Reading on Amazon or a pirate site? This novel is from Royal Road. Support the author by reading it there.

  “A woman surrounded by swords. She’s trapped by her own fears and anxiety, bound and blindfolded. Yet, her feet are free, meaning she can leave whenever she wants. No one’s keeping her in this prison but herself….”

  Vincent expected another cheeky grin or a triumphant proclamation of some sort. But Eric only stared at the card, his lips twitching up into a weak smile and his eyes reflecting the woman’s helplessness.

  “The reversed Four of Cups is a man who’s moved past stagnation towards new opportunity, and the Eight of Swords is a person that has had blade after blade carve mistrust and doubt into them their whole life.”

  Silence stretched between the two, the meaning of the cards sinking in for both of them. Vincent had no real faith in the universe or fate or anything at all, yet he found himself reflected in this damn card.

  “The last one. Your answer,” Vincent said to free himself of the silence. He had a feeling he already knew what they’d get. “…The Fool.”

  “As in it was stupid for me to ask?” There was a bitterness in Eric’s voice that Vincent didn’t expect. If he didn’t see the man’s lips move, he’d have thought the words were someone else’s.

  “The opposite, actually. This whole deck revolves around The Fool. The story through the major arcana is this Fool’s journey. This card represents… new beginnings. Literal journeys. It’s about letting go and diving in without another thought.”

  This answer brought the grin back to Eric’s face. “See? It’s fate. You have to work with me now!”

  Vincent rolled his eyes and shoved the three cards into the pile with the rest of the deck. “These are just pieces of paper.”

  Eric placed his hand over Vincent's as the psychic roughly gathered his traitor tarot deck. “If you don’t like being recorded, that’s fine. I just want to see you work. Even if I can’t see the spirits myself, just knowing they’re there is enough to vindicate my whole life’s work.”

  Maybe the reading wasn’t even necessary. It would just be another job, after all. Like visiting the homes of spirits that refused to leave.

  “I don’t work for free.”

  “Is that a yes?”

  “Tentatively.”

  “That’s not a no!” Eric extended a hand that Vincent begrudgingly accepted. “Our first job together will be tomorrow night! I’m glad you agreed because I already contacted the owners.”

  “Why night? Spirits don’t care what time it is.”

  “They insisted. Besides, it’s the aesthetic!” Eric took out his phone and frowned at the screen. “Can you unblock me so I can text you the address?”

  ~*~

  Vincent looked up the Old Victorian Bed and Breakfast on the train. He’d seen it mentioned in occult magazines and blogs. They claimed to be haunted by a multitude of spirits, all thanks to the antique Victorian era furniture and décor they used to theme their establishment.

  He’d never visited before despite the alleged plethora of lingering spirits. Connecting to just one spirit was enough to give him a headache. What would contact with a dozen at once do?

  That fear twisted in his chest as the train pulled in to his stop. He could always back out. What was one more person disappointed in him?

  His feet took him to the address Eric sent him.

  The first thing he saw when rounding the corner was Eric’s backside sticking out of the overly cluttered trunk of a beat-up Honda. Tripods stuck out like a forest of trees behind the mountains of film equipment. The bolt cutters and crowbars made Eric look like a burglar, and the strange ghost hunting devices made him look like a prop manager for sci-fi movies.

  Opposite him, an eyesore of a Victorian home replica clashed with the plain modern homes around it. The dark brown wood panels and black roof tiles certainly made the house look haunted compared to the soft pastels and white houses around it.

  Vincent stood next to Eric’s car while he continued to stare at the Old Victorian across the street. More lights were on in the bedrooms than he expected.

  “I don’t sense anything from this place,” he announced after a while.

  Eric jumped, hitting his head on the edge of his trunk, and stood to frown at Vincent. “Why didn’t you say something if you were here?”

  “I just did.”

  “People usually start with ‘hi, how are you’ and make noise when they walk…” Eric complained. “Are you sure you’re not a ghost?”

  “If I am, I just paid the train fare for no reason.” Vincent watched Eric resume digging through his trunk. “Do you really need all that?”

  “I have to set up in as many different rooms as I can to make sure I catch any activity. I used to have….” Eric trailed off and never finished, staring blankly at the walkie-talkie-looking device in his hand.

  “I could just tell you where to put all those things,” Vincent replied.

  Eric froze and glanced over his shoulder, as if only just remembering why Vincent was there. “Oh… yeah, you could.”

  “Can we go in and get this over with? I don’t sense anything from here, so I might make home before ‘Blind Connections.’”

  “You watch that crap?” Eric scrunched up his nose and shook his hair away from his eyes to have a clear path for his judgmental stare.

  Vincent shoved his hands in his pockets and glared back. “It doesn’t take any brainpower or use all those bright flashing lights.”

  “Okay, okay…. Nothing wrong with mindless entertainment.” His raised eyebrows didn’t provide the same reassurance as his words did. “Anyway, do you mind if I film for my channel?”

  “What? Me?”

  “If you don’t mind…. My subscribers will think it’s cool I found a real psychic.”

  Vincent shrugged. “Sure, whatever.”

  Eric’s face lit up, casting away the shadows from the dim street lighting. “Really? Okay, hang on, I’ll need a new intro and—why didn’t you dress up like yesterday?”

  “I’m not going to walk around dressed like a fucking vampire.”

  “But you looked good—I mean, on theme.”

  Vincent ignored him and leaned against the car. Maybe he could tack on some sort of fee for filming. His property tax went up and he wanted a new record player….

  “And I’m here tonight with the psychic medium, Vincent Fey. He’s agreed to help us commune with the spirits the Old Victorian claims to house.”

  A light brighter than the sun hit Vincent, followed by Eric and his tripod. A silver screen had popped out from one of the other tripods and reflected the blinding light onto Vincent’s already pale face.

  “Is all this shit necessary…?” Vincent grumbled while Eric positioned his equipment.

  Oblivious to that question, Eric pinned a microphone to one of the strings on Vincent’s hoodie. Once satisfied with the setup, he started recording again. “Okay, now say what you said before one more time.”

  “Is all this shit necessary?”

  “Yes, and I meant before that. About the spirits.”

  “I don’t sense any from here?”

  “What does sensing spirits feel like?”

  “Is this an interview or are we going to actually go inside?”

  “C’mon… walk us through your process.”

  “I don’t—” Faced with the threat of being stuck on the sidewalk all night, Vincent sighed and played along. “Spirits are energy, for the most part. They’re stuck here because of some lingering emotion, whether it’s love, hate, fear, or whatever. That emotion turns into energy, which is what causes the ‘paranormal activity’ you all like so much. I can… feel that energy, I guess. It’s like a persistent tug in the back of my mind.”

  Eric, wide-eyed and grinning, hardly even blinked while listening to Vincent’s explanation. “Why can’t you sense the same from the living? You said you couldn’t see my aura.”

  “I don’t even know why I can sense it from the dead or what the difference between a living spirit and a dead spirit is.”

  “Wow, I think that question will need its own video.” Eric’s eyebrows knit together as he fell deep in thought.

  Do that one on your own. Vincent folded his arms and stepped out of the glaring lights. “Are you going to have to set all this up every time I want to say something?”

  “Okay, Searchers,” Eric said to the camera, “Time to head inside. As always, once I get inside, no cuts in the walkthrough. And this time, we’ll have expert commentary.”

  Eric folded up his lights and screens, stuffing some back into his trunk, hefted his backpack onto his shoulders, and grabbed the camera. “Okay, let’s go inside. They should be expecting us.”

  Even as he drew closer, Vincent didn’t feel the presence of any spirits. If the owners weren’t lying outright, whatever spirits bound to the items they bought had long since faded to nothing.

  The inside of the Old Victorian matched the dark, gothic exterior. All furniture was red, black, dark brown, or gray and portraits with their paint cracking from age hung on every wall.

  Stairs lined with a lush red carpet led from the lobby to the upper bedrooms and an open doorway led to a large common area where a couple guests were engrossed in a game of cards. A fireplace sat cold and unlit at the far end of the room and another door led to a kitchen at the back of the house.

  Eric was interviewing the owner, which Vincent ignored until he heard his name.

  “Frank, this is Vincent, the psychic. Vincent, Frank and his wife, Natalie, own the Old Victorian. Do you have any questions for him?” Eric asked, panning his camera from Frank to Vincent. In a whisper, he added, “Push the button on your mic before you start talking.”

  Once the little light on the microphone was on, Vincent turned to Frank. “Where are the items you claim are haunted and how long have you had them?”

  “Are you implying we would lie? I’m not ‘claiming’ anything. Strange things happen around here. Any of the guests can tell you that,” Frank replied, stretching every inch of his height to try and appear taller than Vincent.

  “You didn’t answer my questions.”

  Frank huffed and led them into the common room. “We’ve had all the items since we opened this bed and breakfast. We managed to acquire all of them from the same estate sale. We heard the previous owner of that estate died under mysterious circumstances, so it wouldn’t surprise me if they were one of the spirits here, too.”

  He swept his arm over a line of paintings on the back wall. “These three lash out if they’re separated, so I have them secured to this wall here.”

  The dim lighting in the common room didn’t fully reach this back wall, and the intricate swirling design on the frames cast strange shadows over the faces of each portrait. As with many portraits, the eyes seemed to follow as one walked past, the effect only made eerier by the shadows.

  They were ordinary paintings with not even the lingering essence of a spirit.

  “Nearly all the furniture in this room can be dated back centuries,” Frank droned on. “Checked thoroughly for any potential health hazards, of course.”

  Eric set up his camera again and tugged Vincent’s arm until he stood centered in front of the paintings. “Okay, Vincent, what do the spirits here tell you.”

  “Nothing.” Vincent’s response earned him a glare from Frank.

  “That just means they’re content. Since they’re all together,” Frank explained, shouldering his way into frame.

  Eric nodded along and took a couple small steps over to get Vincent centered again. “Wouldn’t it be cool if you used your power to learn from ancient spirits?”

  Vincent let out a laugh through his nose. “What? Like a shaman? I have even less interest in doing that than helping police. I only care about helping spirits move on.”

  “Oh, we’re in no need of an exorcism, if that’s why you’re here…” Frank interrupted. Both other men ignored him.

  “Couldn’t you help spirits by helping people not become spirits?” Eric fussed with his camera, cheeks flushing at the nonsense that just came out of his mouth. “I mean, you could stop murderers before they murder others.”

  “Last I checked, that was what the police are paid to do. Can we move on?” Vincent turned to Frank and waited for him to resume his tour.

  The owner gave a polite nod to his guests as he led Vincent and Eric upstairs. The lack of spirits made Vincent’s presence pointless and the disappointed glances he got from Eric only made him more annoyed. He needed an excuse to leave.

  “Most of the items are up here in the bedrooms, so that’s where you’ll see the most activity.” Frank opened a set of double doors at the very end of the hall. “This is the most expensive and most haunted room. Very few are brave enough to stay in here.”

  As he spoke, the light from the brass sconces along the walls flickered. The room itself was probably five degrees colder than the rest of the house and Eric’s walkie-talkie thing started beeping.

  “Vincent! Do you see who’s in here?” Eric asked, nearly dropping his camera as he fumbled in his pocket for the beeping device.

  “…Us.” Vincent poked a few of the sconces, their looseness affecting their wiring, and controlled the flickering himself. “I don’t know why that thing is beeping, but there are no spirits here.”

  “You must be another fraud then,” Frank snapped, blocking Vincent from touching any more lights. “How else can you explain all these phenomena?”

  Vincent simply shoved his hands in his pockets and leaned against the doorframe. People who called him a fraud had no intention of changing their minds.

  Eric’s camera drooped lower and lower throughout the interaction. He’d switched off the beeping device. When Frank turned back to him, going on about shaking beds and wailing through the night, he pasted a smile back onto his face. He kept shooting glances in Vincent’s direction, second-guessing his choice to stalk a liar.

  The rest of the tour was as uneventful and spiritless as the beginning, though Frank made it increasingly clear Vincent wasn’t welcome. More than once, he was blocked from entering a room or talked over if he tried to get a word in. When he could, he pointed out obvious carnival tricks, like moving panels under bed legs or hidden speakers. He wasn’t going to be called a fraud by another fraud without a fight.

  As Eric said his farewells and filmed his closing shots, Vincent left. He was across the street before Eric ran down the walkway, clutching his equipment to his chest.

  “Wait, Vincent!” Eric was out of breath by the time he reached his car.

  Vincent leaned against the car, watching the ghost hunter hunt through his myriad pockets for his keys.

  “Are all of your investigations such a waste of time?”

  “No… I mean, I thought I caught something in there….”

  “I changed my mind. Don’t put my information on your video. I don’t want Frank trying to sue me for defamation.” Vincent shot one last glare at the Old Victorian. “Cut me out entirely if you can.”

  Vincent pushed off the car and headed back to the station before Eric could say another word.