DrTomT18

This is part 1 of uhhhhhh - and still subject to edits.

“You've reached Tulpa-Matter Detective Agency. Sorry we're unable to answer your call right now, if you could please leave a message with your contact details, we will get back to you as soon as possible. Thanks!”

You have: 1 New Message. Beginning playback…

“Um, hi. My name is Abigail Snyder and um” [Sob] “My husband has gone missing, but no one believes me. Everyone thinks I've gone crazy, and - I have nowhere else to turn.” [Wailing] “I live here in town, up in Rose Guard Heights, Plot 26.”

End Message

Olly

The call came in when we were at a showing of the old Frankenstein movie. Somehow, neither of us had ever seen it. Dad had ordered us to take some time off of work at the lab, and it seemed like an acceptable way to acquiesce to his demands in a way that didn't carry the risk of a fire. That said, the Tulpa-Matter Detective Agency is always on call.

We don't get a lot of missing person cases, for obvious reasons. Most people have the common sense to call the proper authorities before calling us. The ones that we did get, fell into three categories: Cold Cases, which were hit or miss. Sometimes they were just too cold and there wasn't enough left to find. Those ones are a real gut punch. The ones that we managed to solve didn't really have what you would call a happy ending either, but we could at least give the client closure. I tried putting a firm stop on taking any after Mot had a pretty bad breakdown a few years back. He refused, and punched me in the balls.

Then there’re the ‘Weirdoes’: The ones who thought it would be a good idea to call ‘paranormal detectives’ about a missing person before the actual police. These were always a good time. For us, not the person who called. Overbearing parents or abusive partners, and in one very odd case, a kidnapper tried to pay us to find his escaped captive. Obviously we didn't know that until after we found the dude hiding the basement of an old boom town out in the desert. That was a weird day.

The third category, we had dubbed: Genuine What The Actual Fuck. Those were the ones that made headlines and got us a visit from the Fun Police. In spite of, or perhaps because, this has never stopped us. Last time we got one of these, we found a colony of Chupacabras living in a cave, and they'd escalated their hunting from cattle to humans. Did you know that once a Chupacabra tastes human blood, they will exclusively hunt humans?

Anyway, Ms. Snyder passed both Mot and I's qualifier for a legitimate case with the five magic words. ‘Everyone thinks I've gone crazy’

Mot and I stopped by our place to grab some gear, paperwork, and make ourselves look at least partially presentable. When we first started the whole ‘detective’ thing, we tried the whole black suit and tie gimmick, but the New Mexico heat made that unbearable. We'd decided on the plainclothes approach. Sometimes we still wore the suits if we were feeling fancy, or the weather permitted it.

I donned my ‘luckiest’ outfit: A beatup old Frank Sinatra T-shirt that had not yet been retired to the role of pajamas, the only pair of jeans that weren't in the wash, and my boots. The boots weren't lucky, but are better for kicking monsters. I used to have a pair of lucky socks, but those got lost in the woods.

Mot went to the bathroom for a quick shower, so I poured a bowl of Captain Crunch. There is a certain tranquility about leaning over the kitchen counter, demolishing a bowl of cereal while listening to the water flow through the pipes. I like to think of it as my pre-shit show meditation. No thoughts, head empty, mmm crunch.

I started to load the dishwasher when Mot exited the bathroom. He’d chosen to wear his unofficial work uniform; a dark blue flight suit with a golden trim. Neatly combed hair, freshly shaven face. Mot looked as prim and proper as a zonked out psychic could. He made a B-line for the coffee table in the living room, took one last hit on last night's bowl of the devil's lettuce. There wasn't much, but still enough to send him into a coughing fit. He offered it to me, but I declined. One of us had to drive.

Just because he couldn’t drive, didn't mean he couldn't throw shit around with his mind. Mot loaded the car with several bags of stuff that we tenuously considered ‘work’ related while I finished off a cigarette that I'd been working on for the past few days. Watching him toss things around with his mind was an infinite source of entertainment.

We spent the drive over discussing Frankenstein. Rose Guard Heights was on the other side of town, not far from the College. Traffic wasn't rough, so there was enough time for us to start an argument regarding the legal classification of the Monster as a Construct or a Synthetic.

Our argument settled on ‘it's complicated’ just as we pulled into the driveway of the gated community. Neither of us had ever seen the tall, black iron entrance up close before, and I will admit that the sheer scale of it was impressive. The monolithic gateway served as the only means of entering the impenetrable wall of brick that encased the world within. If viewed from above, it would appear that someone had sealed off a nine-hundred acres of land to construct a hedonistic art project that common folk were not permitted to see. A golden plaque hung above the gates, announcing to all who dare approach that they were now entering ‘Rose Guard Heights’

I hated that name. Where was this rose, and why did it need to be guarded?

“Hey, Olly.” Mot tapped my arm, and pointed at the cameras that were watching us. Two of them were visible on either side of the gate. “Those are… Punitive Security. That's the good shit right there.” I raised an eyebrow, and noticed several other gizmos in plain sight. At the top of the wall were small metal spikes, spaced evenly every three feet. I'd bet good money on them being some kind of taser. That was when I started getting curious. This wasn't normal rich person paranoia. Punitive Security was serious hardware, the kind that Uncle Sam pays for. Mot and I started to get that funny feeling. The funny feeling that feels… funny.

I mused before killing the last of my cigarette, “You think they ever get missionaries from the Cult?” I flicked the butt out the window into a nearby rose bush. Part of me kinda hoped it would catch fire.

“Many things in life are certain. Dead, taxes, cultist missionaries. These are universal. Even on other planets!” Mot declared, then procured a pack of Warheads from the glove compartment. I watched with passive curiosity as they tore themselves free of their wrappers and crumbled to the floor. “You are right though, this place has really bad juju.”

“How bad we talking?” I asked as I brought the car up beside the speaker outside the gate. Mot threw three of the candies into his mouth in response.

There was a rent-a-cop shack on the other side, occupied by Sheriff Andy Taylor's overweight doppelganger. He was looking at a security monitor, oblivious to us. I smacked the horn a few times to get his attention. He was not pleased by my tomfoolery.

“An exploding vacuum truck would do this place a bit of good.” Mot rubbed his eyes, and I felt his mind begin to unravel from its proper place in his skull. A slight shudder ran down my spine. He was out now.

“Can I help you?” Sheriff Taylor was also a professional Richard Nixon impersonator, and made no attempt to hide his genuine disdain. I tried to ignore the unwelcome sensation that there was someone sitting behind me.

“Do you mind?” I growled at Mot in a low whisper, refusing to indulge his shenanigans. The presence behind me retreated. I returned my attention to Sheriff Taylor Nixon “We have a meeting with…” I checked my notepad, “Abigail Snyder, Plot 26?”

There was a noticeable pause, and I watched him look at his own notepad. “I don't have you on the schedule…”

“We're Tulpa-Matter Detective Agency.” Annoyance was creeping into my tone.

Another pause. There was a loud buzz, and the gates swung inward. I made sure to pull in nice and slow, so Officer Andy could get a good look at our ride. The look of envy in his eyes that brought me no small amount of mirth. “Oh man, he's gonna start making phone calls.” Mot laughed, then stopped with unusual abruptness. A lighter floated out from under the back seat and found its way into my loose change cup. I took it and lit a fresh cigarette. “Doesn't like the look of our car.” Mot downed two more pieces of candy, eyes wide but not focused on anything. In his own words, the metaphysical floodgates were open. I opened my mouth to begin a tirade, but Mot silenced me. “They know who used to own it, Olly.” He said, equal parts amused and resigned. Whatever anger I had left me as quickly as it had arrived, and I laughed. If Dad had been there, he'd probably have laid on the horn and flipped Sheriff Taylor the bird. I wanted to do that, but was still pretending to be a professional detective.

We drove through the rows of McMansions that made up Rose Guard Heights, and Mot called out each house that gave off a particularly bad vibe. “That one right there.” He pointed to what was quite possibly the most gaudy house I'd ever seen. It could best be described as anti-gothic. White with gold trimming, granite angel statues playing various instruments where one would expect gargoyles, and an uncomfortable lack of symmetry that made the whole thing look like rough draft that was never really inspected by anyone with an artistic eye.

“What about it?” I ask, flabbergasted at the taste of the ultra wealthy. Then again, if I were to put statues on my house, I would probably get something like griffons. Or Bionicles.

“That person is already calling 911.” Mot answered with a hollow sigh. He had that zoned out expression as he leaned back in the seat, rolling a Warhead on his tongue over and over again. He was barely present in his own body.

“Seriously? And I thought I was paranoid… should we be worried?” I wondered briefly if the house's occupants knew the car, or just didn't like non-residents visiting. Judging by their taste in home decor, I assume the latter.

“Not yet.” He turned to look at me, and I immediately turned away. I didn't like looking at him when he was operating on full blast. There's just… something wrong about his eyes. Like they weren't his. Maybe they weren't. Most people will instinctively avert their gaze. You have to train yourself to actually look at them. Why anyone would want to, I wasn't sure. Maybe it was different for other psychics.

I mused on Mots answer as we rounded a corner, and decided I didn't like it. Further attempts to coax anymore out of him failed, and we fell into a dull silence.

It took us a few minutes to find the right house, and we almost parked in the wrong driveway. A maid came out and yelled at us that we were in her boss's parking spot, and he'd be home any minute, and he would be so angry, and blah blah blah.

I did ask Mot why the hell he couldn't call out the clients address, and he responded with a vacant stare before saying, “I didn't see it.” I chose not to press the issue. For now.

We parked outside a slightly less gaudy mansion. Much more modern, New Money type place. I spotted several security cameras around the place, and pegged it for a smart house. Beyond that, it didn't have much in the way of personality, probably came in a catalog. Still cost more money than I'd ever make in several lifetimes.

I knocked on the door while Mot hung back. ‘Getting a feel for the place.’ He'd said. Currently he was standing by a rose bush, and deeply intrigued by one of the flowers on it. He kept looking at the house and then back to the flower. He whispered to it in a conspiratorial manner, then moved onto a garden gnome that looked like Godzilla. Gnomes were always a good source of intel.

“WHAT?” A middle aged woman flung the door open and glared at me with eyes filled to the brim with that special flavor of annoyance that teeters on blind rage. Red hair, green eyes, freckles. Ginger all the way down to the roots. Looked like she'd been crying. Like, a lot. She was kinda cute, in that ‘rich house wife that throws empty wine bottles at people’ way. I should add that my option is extremely biased. Or at least, Mot told me I should mention my bias in the documentation of this case.

“Tulpa-Matter Detective Agency? The uh - guard let us in. I'm Oliver, this is Mot.” I held up my badge, which was something I had made during a moment of inspiration granted by the Devils Lettuce. It was mostly just to impress customers, make them feel like they are working with professionals. Mot had one as well, but rarely flashed it. He worried that they would get us arrested someday. I argued that was stupid and he was dumb for not flashing his cool badge.

She blinked away the tears and took a few short breaths to steady her voice. “Were you followed?” She whispered shakily. Anger had left her like a balloon. Her body untensed, and slumped against the doorway.

“Not so far as I am aware.” I answered in my best professional voice. That wasn't the greeting I was expecting, but you have to learn to roll with the unexpected in this job. Then I remembered what Mot had said.. “My partner mentioned that one of your neighbors was calling the police when we drove by.” Mot looked up at us, suddenly aware that other people existed. Godzilla Gnome was no longer alone, and now joined by three others. He waved, then returned to his conversion with them. “It won't be an issue for now, but don't be surprised if you get a phone call from the Sheriff later.” The real Sheriff, not Andy Griffith. That wasn't Mot using some psychic foresight, it was just common sense. The Sheriff didn't like the supernatural and made it a point to keep tabs on us when we were ‘working’.

She took a breath and slowly exhaled, expelling all her bent up frustrations in order to don a mask of control and authority. “Okay. Please, come in.” I whistled at Mot to join us, and followed her into a coat room that had far fewer coats than you would expect a rich person to have. There was exactly one coat hanger, and a shoe rack. I got the feeling they were just for decoration. Mot joined me, and immediately became enthralled with the rug on the floor. “Please take off your shoes.” She said in a tone of one who has said that to every single person that's ever entered their home. Mot kept staring at the rug, an expression of befuddlement seared into his face.

“What?” The rug was red, with a single black rectangle in the middle. “Do you see something?” I motioned to grab my pen and notepad, just in case this needed to be recorded.

“Yes.” Mot said distantly, “Olly, I need your help. Please.”

I got behind him, put my hands on his shoulders, and drove him into the Snyder family's living room. It was a modern set up, lots of tan, beige, and white. All of this is offset by the midnight black walls. Also, I know I called it a living room, but it feels more apt to call it a home theater. The television was enormous.

Mot put up no resistance at first, but broke free to walk over to the western wall of the room. He stared at a picture on the wall behind a couch. It was Mrs. Snyder with her children, a boy and a girl, standing on a beach. “Mot?”

Mot kept staring, and I gave him a nudge. He shook his head and looked towards me. I looked away. Psychic stuff.

I took my notepad out and started my usual sales pitch. “So..” I stopped and caught Mrs. Snyder's eye. She'd taken a seat on the loveseat opposite a couch, a coffee table between them. I sat down, and Mot followed a second later. The mask she had donned only a few moments ago was beginning to show cracks. “We'd like to start with a few questions. You said in your message that your husband was missing.”

The mask broke, snapped in half like a twig. Mrs. Snyder broke down crying. It was a deep, aching wail that came from the gut. That kind of sobbing where all you can do is collapse, and wait for it to be over. I remember seeing my dad cry like that at a Vietnam memorial service for my uncle. It's a kind of pain that you carry with you. It never really goes away. A scar on the soul, Mot calls it.

We waited until Ms. Snyder calmed down enough to talk. Mot got her a glass of water, completely unprompted. She thanked him and took a deep breath. The fact that Mot never left the couch in the process of doing so seemed lost in Mrs. Snyder. “My husband is gone.” She barely managed to string together those words.

“There's supposed to be another person in that picture, isn't there?” Mot asked, looking back to the empty space next to Ms. Snyder in the vacation photo. Now that he mentioned it, the whole thing did look a bit off. Mrs. Snyder stands in a very compelling bikini with her two children. She stood directly behind her daughter, with a hand on her shoulder. Next to the daughter is her son, who looked… There should be someone standing behind him, next to Ms. Snyder. I'm not a photographer, but the ‘composition’ was all wrong, I think.

“Looks like a really good photoshop job.” I whispered.

Ms. Snyder launched into wailing again. “Yes.” She managed to half whisper. We let her cry a bit more, but the tone of it changed. There was relief in there now. I leaned over to Mot.

“You good?” I asked. Mot was a capable and talented psychic by any measurable standard. He could shield his mind if needed. That didn't stop me from worrying.

“Yeah, I'm filtering most of it out with pain.” He said, then stuck out his tongue. I winced at the sight of it. “I ate too many Warheads. Sore tongue.” I reached back and gave him a smack across the back of the head for that.

Mot glared at me, “You better still eat your goddamn dinner tonight.” I wagged the condescending finger of responsibility at him. He raised his hands in mock surrender. I turned back to Ms… Mrs? Oh god, was I being affected by this… whatever this was?

“When did he stop existing?” Mot asked in a blunt tone. It took me several seconds to register the word he had used: Existing.

“What?” I almost laughed at the absurdity of it.

“W-what?” Mrs. Snyder looked confused. Can't blame her for that, in all fairness. I had no idea what the hell that meant. “Two months ago. I - we - were in bed-” I liked Mots method of interviewing clients. Just skip right to the important part.

“What time was it?” Mot cut in. I took a few notes while they talked.

“Um… it was probably early in the morning. The sun wasn't up yet.” Mot nodded and leaned back into the couch, then closed his eyes. “I thought something was wrong. I don't know why, it was just a feeling.” It was my turn to tag in.

“Like someone was in the house?” I asked. That was one of the most common sensations in individuals who cross paths with the paracasual. Also dreams about owls. We are still investigating why that happens, but we have some theories.

“Yes.” Ms. Snyder said. Her water was now refilled, and she registered mild surprise at the glass, but still drank it. I wondered how many times Mot could do that trick before she noticed. “I woke up my husband, and told him that I-”

“What is his name?” Mot asked.

“I… I don't know. I can't remember. .” She buried her face in her hands and started sobbing again. Mot and I waited. He turned to look at me, eyes open. For once, I looked back. Waterfalls of smoke poured out of them, their sockets filled with an impossible fire. All I could think was, damn we should get him some sunglasses.

“I could help her carry the load. Just a little bit.” He whispered, and held out a hand filled with the unnatural purple light of raw psychic power. The way it danced around fingers made it look as though his hand was on fire.

“Don't. Not now. I need you to be lucid enough to figure out what the fuck is going on here. Besides, you just ruined your tongue to keep her out of your head.” I knew this would happen, every time a client starts to cry he does it. The Warheads were just an excuse to eat candy.

“Well yeah, but that doesn't-” Mot is a damn fine Technomancer and Telekine, but his Empathic abilities either turned him into a howling mess that ended up hugging the client until they could pull themselves together, or a rage filled psychic monster that burned with fiery passion for vengeance.

“Shush! You are tagged out.” We looked so unprofessional, like a pair of stoners taking advantage of an emotionally disturbed woman for a quick buck. Thankfully Ms. Snyder wasn't paying any attention to us. She was busy attempting to put herself back together to continue her story.

She finished a second glass of mysterious ice water, took a deep breath, and pressed onward. “My kids… They remember having a father, they remember him being there, but now when I try to talk to them they just - ! Just!” She sobbed again. A tissue box arrived on the coffee table between us, and Ms. Snyder took several to blow her nose. Again, no reaction to its sudden appearance.

“Where was that?” I whispered to Mot. It had floated into the room from what I think was the kitchen.

“Upstairs.” He said from within my skull. I knew that tone. His Second Site was firing on all cylinders and He was making himself at home with how much of his mind was out of containment. There was nothing in the house he could not reach with but a thought.

“Ma'am, what happened that night?”

“I asked my husband to go look. He said… something, and got his gun from under the bed. He got up, and…” She trailed off. “That's it. I woke up the next morning, and went about my day like I normally would. Just… without him.”

“When did you first notice something was off?” I asked, and tried to ignore Mot sinking into his psychic fugue.

“I don't know - I'm sorry, that's a useless answer. After it happened, It was like… I knew something wasn't right, but couldn't focus on it long enough to realize it. I had all these men's clothes in the house and couldn't for the life of me figure out why I had them. It was… kind of surreal. I was a single mother of two, living in a beautiful mansion that I could never afford on my salary. I mean, I bring home a good chunk of change, but nowhere near enough to live in Rose-Guard Heights.” I leaned forward, and gave her my full attention. Now we were getting somewhere. This is part I call the Therapy Session. “It… it's like there is this hole in my world where my husband is supposed to be. And I was completely oblivious of it until… last Monday! I-I-” She looked like she was about to break down again, and I quickly handed her another tissue. Mrs. Snyder blew into it, and that was enough to keep her stable. “I was getting ready to settle in for the night. I had spent the whole day on the phone with the bank, and just wanted to relax. I saw that Scarface was on and I said to myself, ‘Oh, we love that movie!’ And started watching. Have you ever seen it?” She asked abruptly.

“Oh, yeah! That's definitely in our top ten.” I glanced back at Mot. He wouldn't have looked out of place in a plant shop, placed on a large pot and covered in soil. He'd left his body for greener pastures.

"Is… Is he alright?” Mrs. Snyder asked.

I nodded. “He's doing… psychic stuff. Don't worry. If there is a problem, he'll let us know.”

Ms. Snyder considered the implications of that answer, and asked, “How?” It wasn't unusual for clients to ask about psychic phenomena. I found it best to use metaphors.

“Have you ever seen Poltergeist?” In hindsight, I recognized that this might not have been the best analogy. I gave her that award winning, extra reassuring smile of a guy who liked to pretend he was a detective, and seized the intuitive. “You were saying, about Scarface?”

“Right, sorry - the part where Push It To The Limit starts?” From a place between places, where the real and unreal meet in tentative agreement, I could actually hear the beat in my head. Mot cracked a small smile on his lips. I didn't need to see it to feel that little shit eating grin of his clawing at the back of my head like a pangolin digging through stone.

“My husband loved - no - loves - that song. He used to…” For a split second, a smile crossed her face, and fell away into even more tears. “After that, I noticed that photo.” She pointed to the vacation picture behind us. “I asked the neighbors, our family, our friends, his co-workers. They all acted like I'd lost my mind.” She reached the end of her emotional strength, and fell into sobs again. I took the opportunity to check my notes.

Fact: Missing husband, memories of him removed/altered from anyone who knew him. Wife does not remember name.

Fact: Vanished investigating a ‘strange noise’ in the early morning

Fact: Client only one to partially remember him (so far)

Item: Physical evidence also altered - missing from photos.

Fact: Memories of missing husband returned upon hearing a song he liked, while watching a movie they enjoyed together.

Mot opened his eyes, back in the seat of his own body. “Ma'am, I need to look around the house.” He stood up, and walked like a marionette controlled by an amateur puppeteer, and ran into the frame of a door. I sighed. Mrs. Snyder gave him a quizzical look. “Olly, you know how to find me.” He walked backwards into the kitchen, and vanished from sight.

“Out of body experience, he'll be fine. Just has to remember that he's solid.” I said quickly, trying my best not to alarm the poor woman. I looked back at my notes, and tried to work out my next question. “How much do you remember as of right now?”

Mrs. Snyder turned her attention back to me, accepting my statement without question. She reached under the table and pulled out an overstuffed trapperkeeper. “I tried to find some kind of outline in my life, to see how far back this… ‘hole’ goes.” She thumbed through the collection and handed me a cut out from a Rockwell High year book. I had to stare at it for a full minute of excruciating silence before I realized that there was an obvious blank spot in the center of the page.

“Is it all like this?” I handed it back to her, and took a handful of paperwork Ms. Synder offered and thumbed through them. Loan signings, contacts, medical files, a birth certificate. All of them had rather glaring white spots where another name should have been listed. “Holy shit.” I whispered to myself. I could feel Mot looking over my shoulder again. “I've never seen anything like this.” It is important to reassure the client that you don't know what you’re doing.

She let out a bitter laugh and said, “I have a certificate of marriage to no one. Try explaining that one to a priest.” I noticed for the first time that Ms. Snyder was wearing a cross necklace. This felt like turbulent water, and I made the executive decision not to pursue it. Ms. Snyder took my befuddlement as an opportunity to say, “So… Mot. He's the real deal.” That was an understatement, but not an unfair one. Most people didn't understand psychics any better than they understood theoretical physics.

“Insufferably so.” I said with misanthropic dryness, and decided it was my turn. “Did you notice his little tricks?” She nodded, and took another tissue from the box, as if to emphasize the point.

“I've never met one before. I read that article in the paper about… what was her name? Sally Borak? Little psychic girl who met the Fae?” I nodded. That was a sore subject for Mot and I, albeit for different reasons. I chose not to go on a tirade about it. Mrs. Snyder blew her nose, and shifted gears. “So, Mot. What is he doing?” I looked up at the ceiling.

“I can give you a loose explanation.” Mrs. Snyder followed my gaze for a moment, then looked back to me, and nodded, “Mot is looking for a disturbance in the…” I waved my hand in a vague motion that encompassed the room. “It's called the Psychosphere - which is the energy field that all psychics draw their power from.” That was a bastardization of the metaphysical realm if ever there was one, but it was easier than getting out white board. “He's looking between the borders of Here-” I tapped my finger on the coffee table. “-and There.” I waved my hand again to encompass the entire house. “For whatever shouldn't be there.”

Mrs. Snyder leaned back on the loveseat, and let out a long sigh. She looked so, so tired. “I called your number the moment I saw it in the penny saver. I figured -” She stopped to take a breath, forcing herself to stay composed, then shrugged. “What the hell? Everyone thinks I'm nuts.” This was good. We'd passed the Bitch Crying stage, cleared the Therapy, now we were getting to the meat and bones of it all.

“You know, if I had a dollar every time I heard that, I would have at least enough to buy myself a nice lunch.” That made her laugh. She had a nice laugh. I think at that point I realized I was actually starting to like her. Or maybe I just saw her problem as an excuse to beat the shit out of some kind of horrible monster. Or maybe it was both?

“How long have you been doing this?” I suppose it was only fair to want some kind of tally to know what her odds were in hiring us.

“Officially? About two years, but we've been ‘investigators’ since we were kids. Now we are all official, with licences and everything. It's really more of a side gig. Most people don't need or want paranormal detectives.” That said, Rockwell was a weird town. We got more legitimate calls than most other places. “We even documented Rockwell's own Cryptid - The Witch of the Woods? Maybe you've heard of her?” Ms. Snyder gave me a curious look and shook her head. That was definitely a blow to the ol’ ego. “Oh, well - the woods around town, there's this-” My words were stolen from me by the psychic wail of Mot.

“OLLY!” Mots voice BOOMED throughout the house, and an earthquake of psychic energy shook the building down to the foundation. For me, it was a sensation of whiplash as all of the energy surrounding the house snapped back into Mots head all at once. I tried to stand, but immediately fell over. My tongue tasted like citric acid and weed. I laid on the floor for a couple of humiliating seconds before rolling over to look up at the equally shocked Ms. Snyder,

We stared at one another, her emerald eyes wide. All five of her senses were discombobulated. This did have the unintended side effect of ripping all the sorrow out of her, and replaced it with confused terror. She'd brought her legs up to her chest and covered her mouth to hold in a scream. “He found something.” Is all I could offer. I probably didn't look much better. Ms. Snyder later reported that I ‘looked like a deflated balloon.’ Which is an accurate summation of how I felt.

It felt lame to need a client's help to walk upstairs. I tried to nurse my ego by telling myself I was helping her as much as she was helping me. That might have even been true. “Third door on the right.” Mots words were much softer now, but retained an ephemeral quality to it. A telekine field enveloped us, easing some of the burden. I was used to this sort of thing, the sensation not unlike being dipped in water, only without getting wet. Mrs. Snyder didn't seem to notice, or didn't care. I couldn't tell which and I never got a chance to ask.

“That's the guest room.” Mrs. Snyder whispered as rounded the spiral staircase. The psychic resonance here was thick, almost visible now. It appeared as a wispy purple smoke. Mrs. Snyder waved a hand through it, and shuddered with discomfort. “Is this normal?” She asked

It wasn't, actually. I placed my hand on the wall when we reached the top and took several deep breaths. “Just out of curiosity, how attached are you to this house?” She looked at me with eyes of glum suspicion. I really hoped she didn't think I was joking.

“Why?” That was a more than fair question, so I gave a more than fair answer.

“Because most insurance companies do not cover psychic damages.” To my knowledge, the only insurance company in the United States that did was Farmers. They know a thing or two, because they have seen a thing or two. Those things being horrors beyond the comprehension of the psychically disadvantaged, and drunk hillbillies. A dangerous combination if left unchecked.

Mrs. Snyder tossed my words aside and shoved us along to the guest room. We found my partner had seen fit to shove all the furniture to the opposite side of the room from himself. Mot was standing in front of the room's closet, holding a pillow. He threw it into the closet. “Mot?” I asked. Mrs. Snyder circled around “What is it?”