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The iron spike probably wasn’t any good for the tree anyway, not if it was leaking sap.

Fern took out their hammer and carefully wedged it against the tree. It couldn’t hurt to be careful—they were up on all their shots, sure, but tetanus aside, they weren’t gunning for an infected injury!

They did a few test presses, but surprisingly, given how the tree had started to grow around it,the spike slid remarkably smoothly with just a little pressure. They thought they’d really have to lean on it, so it was probably a good thing they hadn’t just slammed the hammer down and rocketed the spike at themself, they figured. It was honestly like the tree couldn’t wait to have the spike out. Which, like, mood, but it was still wild. 

More deliberate now, they leaned on it slow and careful, sliding the spike slowly out to clatter to the ground at their feet. As it fell, they almost staggered, almost bowled over by a sudden rush of triumph that they weren’t entirely sure they’d earned, a euphoric rush of emotion that threatened to choke them out. For some reason, there were tears on their face.

How absolutely absurd, they thought distantly, running their hoodie sleeve over their eyes. It took them a few long moments of ragged breathing to get themself back under control. And for some reason, it felt like it should have been worse, as if something had stopped it from completely taking them over.

Sap was leaking slowly, and they didn’t fancy leaving what was essentially an open wound exposed to moisture and bugs. Fortunately, there were plenty of fallen leaves and branches around, so they dug around until they found one about the size of the spike, along with some leaves to hold it in, and pressed it to the hole. They reached for the hammer to tap it—

There must have been some kind of slickness from the sap, though it had seemed sticky to them, because it felt exactly as if something inside the tree had grabbed the end of the stick and pulled it into place. 

They stared at that for a long moment, but couldn’t seem to bring themself to care, their heart still beating too fast from the euphoria of having the spike out. After a long moment, they reached down, covering their hand with their hoodie sleeve, and picked up the railway spike.

Once inside, they let out a long breath. The strong rush of wild emotion was fading rapidly. The situation still seemed odd, but they often read too much into things anyway, Fern figured. They put the spike on the counter next to the sink so they could wash it off later, as they changed out their water bottle and dropped off their mostly-empty cereal baggie. It was lunch time, but they’d snacked on enough cereal that they figured they could do that later. Washed their hands for good measure.

With the afternoon stretching ahead of them, they briefly considered writing, but there were too many mysteries left in front of them. Jingling the spare keys, they headed upstairs to the hallway.

For a moment, they eyed that second bedroom door and its sign. It was an obvious keep out, but nobody would know. Their nightmare echoed in their head, but that was just a nightmare.

They slid the key into the lock and turned it. It unlocked with a too-loud click.

Fern opened the door and entered, feeling a weird chill as if they were being watched. It made them clumsy, fumbling for the lights, but they came on with an alarming hum.

Nobody had entered this room for a long time. Clearly someone had come in here since the Victorian era—there was electric lighting, for one thing, so unless the original owners had been very ahead of the curve or very rich, it didn’t seem likely that it was fully in the initial state. But it looked Victorian-style, and was coated with a layer of dust and cobwebbing.

Fern slowly entered. It looked like it must have been a woman’s bedroom. One wall had a big wooden bed with a musty canopy on it, pillows piled high. At its foot was an ottoman, which Fern suspected had storage in it. There was a bureau with drawers, and a chiffonier. A washstand. A bedside table with a cupboard. Even a fireplace—they’d noticed the multiple chimneys but hadn’t realized one connected here. There was even a large, free-standing wardrobe, though this they noticed was sealed with a padlock, one with some kind of odd ornate design on the outside. They might have a key for that as well.

Every single surface was cluttered with the personal belongings of its owner, enough that they couldn’t even get a grasp of the room’s contents. A parabolic candle magnifier, a hair brush, a jewellery box—they’d need to take time to explore the room properly to figure out what all was here, let alone what was in various things or what it all meant. It could take days to really be sure they’d seen everything, though a high-level review wouldn’t be too bad. And it wasn’t like they needed to be thorough. This was all idle curiosity.

Where, they wondered, should they even start?

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Fern’s gaze travelled back to that spike. The angle of the head seemed like Fern would be able to use the back of the claw hammer to pry the spike out, if they wanted to. It’d take a little bit of elbow grease, but shouldn’t pose a problem.

It was definitely iron, and the only iron they’d seen so far—still not sure if it was cold, but they could always put it in the freezer and see if fairy tale bullshit rules held. Or they could try to find a steam iron somewhere in the house. That they were less sure of; they hadn’t seen one by the washer/dryer, and that’s where they assumed it’d be if the owner had provided one. 

Those were the sort of things that might be relevant if any of the ghosty stuff was real, anyway, which they certainly weren’t willing to assume on the basis of misplacing a bowl of beer.

They touched the spike gently, as if testing. Firmly in there, that was for sure, but yeah, sticking out enough they didn’t think would be an issue. On an impulse, they touched the sap as well—but it was definitely sap, not beer. Tree blood, they thought, and felt a little bad for the tree again, though they doubted it could feel pain. Yet despite that, their heart ached unexpectedly.

…Well, they didn’t need to decide right away. They didn’t super want to carry a railway spike with them on their walk, anyway, so they could decide when they were back if they should pull it out.

Fern headed down the path, heading west toward the river. It was a beautiful morning for it, the sun shining, birds singing, leaves crunching underfoot. The trail was fairly visible, but… well, narrow. Fern was delighted to be taking it during the day, but glad they hadn’t taken it in the evening yesterday. It would be much, much easier to lose their way on it in the dark.

It took about forty-five minutes to reach the river, but was well worth the trip. The river was wide, far too wide to cross without a vessel, but the sunlight glittered off it, and the soft sound of the water and the wind through the trees made a soft harmony to each other. The rocks that lead down to it had large, flat surfaces that were warmed by the sun. Fern flopped down on one and just let themself relax for a long moment, the tension leeching from their muscles. Maybe they could take their laptop out here tomorrow with a packed lunch and do some writing if the weather was still good. It felt like it’d be great for focus.

They spent a while just relaxing, enjoying the atmosphere, snacking on their cereal and sipping water. A good distance upstream, they could just make out the silhouette of someone fishing. Maybe another cottager. They were too far away to talk to, a distant speck of a person, but when Fern waved, they waved back. 

Good to know it wasn’t totally isolated out here. Not that Fern anticipated needing company, but it was nice to have some sense of what direction to go if something came up, even though the other cottage would be some ways up the road.

They gazed at the river and found themself thinking, absurdly: Running water is protection from vampires. No vampires here, though, unless they really liked beer instead of blood, at which point they were probably not a threat. Maybe it was protection from other spirits too, though? They weren’t sure exactly what to do about that if so, but looking at it was at least good for their heart. 

If there was a theoretical—which, Fern thought, meant non-existent—river spirit, they could make an offering. For luck, at least. They scrounged around in their embarrassingly salty pockets and pulled out the galvanized screw. It was shiny, at least, and still wasn’t iron, so they shrugged, throwing it in. “Take this offering,” they intoned, unable to take themself seriously. “In return, I ask for your aid and protection.”

Nothing happened, which is exactly what Fern expected. Nobody even offered them a silver or gold screw in return. Letting the folk tales down.

That was enough of that, they supposed. They packed everything back up, and headed to the cabin. Once it was in sight, they let out a breath, just glad the path had been equally fine to travel in the daytime when returning. They texted Adrian a quick follow-up, I’m back! 

They hesitated again by that pine, though. 

Should they do it? Pull the stake out to keep some iron on them, or leave it in there?

And regardless of that choice, what next? They could do just about anything—go explore that locked room, focus up on work, or something else altogether.

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As Fern pondered, they glanced uncomfortably out the bedroom window. The trees… hadn’t moved, of course. They were exactly where Fern had left them, which they felt absurd for even thinking about. Where else would they be?

But the discomfort from the dream wasn’t leaving, sticking with them as nightmares tended to, a second shadow following behind every thought. They’d been encouraged before not to give those things the time of day, in case acknowledging them made them more real, but…

Nobody was around to see them and judge them if they ritualized just a little to make themself feel better. It wasn’t like they really believed it had been a supernatural occurrence, but right after messing around with the mirror, it had felt supernatural. So maybe doing something in that area would help. They tried to think of folk stories they’d read and the things people did to ward off the evil eye or other horrors…

Iron was a big one, they remembered. Cold iron specifically, though Fern wasn’t sure what made iron cold rather than regular. Maybe it didn’t matter for their purposes, though—as long as it wasn’t an alloy or another metal, it’d probably be a good enough placebo. But finding iron was a harder thing in the modern era. Even nails tended to be steel; iron just rusted too damn fast.

So there wasn’t much around. The only thing they were sure was iron was the railway spike in the tree outside. 

Still, they could at least get some salt—also a ward, they were pretty sure—and grab something so they didn’t feel totally unarmed. But that could come after a shower.

Fern headed to the bathroom and made use of the facilities. It was a really, really nice bathroom: roomy, clean, with a frosted window that still let in sunlight. It had a clawfoot bathtubs, so that’d be nice to luxuriate in later. Right now, they just wanted the shower portion. The bathroom was all done up in black and white tiles, and a modern washer/dryer set stood in one corner. A towel and some packaged soaps had been left out for them, which made them feel a lot better about things. It really was just a normal place here, rented out by an attentive owner, not some weird horror movie cabin in the woods. 

Their shower done, they got dressed, grabbing their phone on the way out of the room. Before breakfast, they quickly photographed those weird Victorian photos to use for evidence, before putting them back again as they had been. In the kitchen, they poured themself a small cup of cereal, along with more of the milk that they’d used yesterday.

Ugh, the milk. Fern made a face to themself. What had they been thinking? They should go pick that up before it went off and stank up the entire basement. The beer, too, should go down the drain—it’d probably attract bugs. And then the bugs would attract spiders, and before they knew it, Fern would end up in a bug-spider spiral. No thanks.

They downed their cereal quickly, and, before they could really second guess themself again, poured some salt into their jean pockets. They headed down into the basement, then… hesitated, staring at the base of the mirror.

There was only one bowl there: the bowl of milk.

Had they actually set out two? They combed their memories frantically. They thought they had, but they were no longer sure. Certainly, they’d originally considered just milk, then knew they’d at least thought about beer—the White Gilgamesh conundrum—and felt like they remembered heading downstairs with a bowl in each hand. But… it wasn’t like they had evidence, and they’d obviously been really tired last night. Maybe next time they did something they needed proof of, they’d have to take a photo of it. Even so, it had to be their tiredness rewriting their memory.

Otherwise… that meant that something had actually taken the beer, bowl and all.

Which meant either that mirror ghosts were real—and if so why had Fern never seen any before??—or that someone else was secretly living in this cottage. A chill shuddered through them at the thought, the locked second room coming to mind, though they forcibly dismissed that thought. They’d have heard someone else in here by now if so, and there would have been more food in the kitchen when they arrived. This wasn’t a horror movie. Nobody was living in the walls.

…Nevertheless, it probably wouldn’t hurt to go armed, they decided. Nothing too violent, no knives—they didn’t want to risk carrying an unsheathed kitchen knife around all day, among other things. But a hammer and a screwdriver? Safe to carry, and useful in a pinch. Besides, if there was something they could pry up or screw down, they’d be prepared.

Fern grabbed those quickly from the storage unit, trying not to let their imagination get away with them as they shoved them into their front hoodie pocket. Then they hesitated, checking the nails and screws as well. They looked like they were steel, and the packaging said they were galvanized—zinc-coated. So probably not cold iron. They threw a single screw into a pocket regardless, just in case they were wrong.

It occurred to them that it wouldn’t need to be someone living here if they were instead able to get in, remembering their nightmarish image of a door in the cellar. Steeling themself, they checked that room as well, quickly—but the cellar layout was how they remembered from their first visit, and they didn’t see any other doors in it at a glance. Just a dream after all. Still a bit unnerved, they backed out after a quick scan.

They had to get out of here, if only for a little bit. And it was bright and sunny outside. A good time for a walk.

Fern took the bowl of milk upstairs and dumped it out in the sink, then filled their refillable bottle with water and grabbed a baggie that they filled with more cereal. They tossed both of these in their backpack, swinging that over a shoulder, and sent a quick text to Adrien—Hey, going for a walk, don’t call too early as I’ll be busy. I’ll text you when I’m back.—and could only hope it’d send in time to be useful in case they fell down a ravine or something.

The sunlight outside was immediately soothing, and they drew a deep breath of fresh country air, letting their shoulders relax. They began another quick perimeter check regardless, since they’d had those weird dreams about the scratching… but there weren’t any footprints or anything else unusual. The only thing that gave them pause was that staked pine tree—there was a wetness around the spike today that they didn’t think had been there yesterday, the sap pooling. Maybe the temperature change between night and morning had caused it to expand or contract? Poor thing.

From their spot next to that tree, they scanned the paths, trying to decide which way to walk: East, toward the road? North, technically parallel to the road—though it wasn’t visible from here—and toward the denser forest? South, also parallel to the unseen road, toward the fields that eventually would lead to the hour-away city? Or west, toward the river?

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The mirror was on Fern’s mind. Might as well spend some time demystifying it like they’d discussed. Hell, why not follow Bannick’s suggestions and really get into it—just to prove to themself how silly they’ve been?

Libations would be a fun idea. They were pretty traditional as offerings, and while Fern didn’t really want to pour anything out on the ground down there and then have to clean it up later, this place was fully stocked with bowls of various sizes.

They took down two little bowls and poured milk into one and beer into the other. They did think for a second about putting both in one bowl (what did they call that, the White Gilgamesh, and one of the worst drinks of all time?) but the idea almost made them gag, so separate bowls it was. Besides, this way, it’d be even better proof—if a spirit had their choice of offering, the aforementioned witchy folks out in their cottages couldn’t put the lack of paranormal behaviour down to “just not liking milk.”

Carrying them carefully, they headed down the basement stairs, nudging the light switch on with an elbow as they went. Everything was as they’d left it, which did make them feel a little better, if no less stupid about it.

Fern put the two bowls down in front of the mirror and then stared at its uncanny surface again. They did not like the experience. Again, it was hard to put their finger on the subtle ways it felt wrong, but it didn’t feel like themself staring back, an experience they’d had to struggle with for too many years to really love having it crop up again. 

Probably the only thing it was a portal to was dysphoria.

Bannick had suggested an incantation, which felt dumb as hell to do now that they were here standing in front of it, but they supposed there was nobody who could judge them. Fundamentally, it was like a writing exercise, right?

They cleared their throat and tried to imagine what kind of portal they’d want if such a thing were real. Where would they go? Somewhere just… not here, probably. They didn’t want to die, but there were times they wanted to just disappear and wake up in a better future, or something like that. Go somewhere otherworldly. Become a mystery themself: disappearing from a locked cottage, all their things left here, their shoes at the door, no sign they’d walked out. Even if this were that kind of portal, they didn’t think they’d do that to people they cared about.

Maybe better to try for an opposite: a way for someone who felt trapped the way Fern often did to come out and just live freely. They cleared their throat and tried to come up with some kind of recitation. Harder to do on the fly, without looking at a written script. But still…

“To those who are held away from the self they wish to be, for those who look to leave their circumstances but cannot find a way out that suits them, to those struggling against the self others want them to be, I leave this offering of milk and ale. Come and claim it, if you can.”

Not a terrible one, Fern decided, and pushed their hand against the glass.

It was slightly cool to the touch, but warmed rapidly under their palm. A wave of tiredness washed over them, nearly dizzying; it had been a long fucking day, and now they were digesting a heavy meal. Pasta was so good until about half an hour after you ate it, Fern thought.

They pulled their hand back; it felt sticky, sweaty. They shook their head to try to clear away the fog of exhaustion; while they were down here, there was more they wanted to get done. They could head to bed after that.

The cellar had kept popping into their mind since cooking. It’d be good to know what was in there if they did run low on groceries, or even wanted to supplement what they’d brought. Surely it wouldn’t have been left here if they weren’t allowed to use it, even if the door had been locked. 

They headed over, pushed the tapestry aside, and unlocked the door again, pushing it open and fumbling for the switch. The same rows of the root cellar greeted them as they headed in. Glancing at the jars, though, second thoughts began to claw through the sleep-haze that had washed over them. 

The jars looked interesting—canned okra, carrots, green beans, pickles, beets—but many of them were dusty, and, without knowing how old they were, Fern wasn’t sure how safe they’d be. If they’d been canned properly, they were theoretically edible indefinitely, though whether they’d be tasty after a while, that was another question. If they weren’t, the worst case scenario was poisoning. Botulism. All those dreadful things. It was a big risk, when Fern already had groceries. But surely the cans weren’t that old, if the building was still in use.

Why were there so many shelves? Had they always been here? Was it always this winding? Fern leaned heavily on a shelf for a second, then rounded a corner. The shelves were so narrow, Fern was beginning to feel like the ball in one of those tiltable mazes, rocked this way and that until eventually they’d find a hole and fall into it—

No hole, when they rounded another corner, but… another door at the end?

No. They felt a full body rejection of the idea, whiny and tired. It was too late in the day to deal with more doors, but not knowing was worse. They pushed off the shelf and went to the door, pulling it open. Only darkness seemed to be beyond, so they stuck an arm in, feeling around for a switch, and fell.

They were staring at the mirror. There was a man standing in it as if on the other side of the doorway, but he had no face, just a hole, a space, a gap where a face ought to be. It vanished into darkness that looked too deep for his skull. There was something wrong with him, similar to the way the mirror was warped. His body was wrong somehow, uncanny. Fern couldn’t put a finger on it, twisted limbs, maybe? A distortion? That lack of face, the lack of face, no face at all? The man stuck his faceless head and shoulders through the mirror toward Fern, beginning to push his way free. Fern couldn’t run, or move. The world felt slow. The man’s head tilted, hair showering down—what color was it? He laughed at Fern, not unkindly. It sounded like a susurration, a voice—

There were voices outside. Fern was in the living room, standing and listening to them, facing the window, not a mirror at all. A tree brushed against the window and Fern howled at it in outrage, leaning on the display unit to slam a hand into the glass in return and make it rattle. The tree and Fern batted at each other, the glass the only thing separating them, a sudden absurdity. BANG. BANG. BANG. The glass rotated horizontal— 

Fern looked up from the surface of the writing desk in the bedroom at the sound of something slamming into something else, hard. BANG. BANG. BANG. They pushed their chair back from the desk (BANG!) and peeked out into the hallway. The sound was coming from the locked second bedroom. Something was slamming hard into the other side of it, hammering on it like they were begging to be let out. The sign on the door was fluttering every time the person inside hit it. Fear gripped Fern and a scream bubbled up. They tried to keep it in, afraid that the sound of their voice would alert whoever was in there—

They stared out the window. Someone outside was screaming. It hurts, it hurts. Save me! A feeling like a dagger stabbed through Fern’s chest. They tried to grab at it, but their hand wasn’t being responsive. Instead they slowly doubled over. I’ll make it worth your while, the voice continued sweetly, as if it hadn’t just been screaming in pain.

Beneath the ground, a sound started up. Fern knelt to hear it. Not quite a pulse but something shifting. Fern ran their hands over the floorboards of the living room as if they could figure it out that way, and their hand brushed over a hoof. They looked up to see the faceless man standing there. Hell, Fern wanted answers; they opened their mouth, but the man shushed them at once, a finger in front of where a mouth should be. “No. He’ll hear you. Can’t you tell? He’s hungry.”

Fern could tell. There was a yawning hunger here. A mouth opening wide under them. Fern began to throw food in: canned jars from the cellar, their pasta, but it wasn’t enough, it wasn’t what it wanted, it wasn’t what Fern wanted. It, they, needed more, more, more, always more. They yearned to be free, free, let them out, let them out, let them out—

***

Fern woke in bed with a jolt, struggling upright. Their mouth was dry and throat hoarse from screaming or snoring, and when they put a trembling hand on the pillow to help push themself up they realized that it was wet. Probably snoring, then.

They couldn’t remember exactly when they’d fallen asleep, whether they’d even entered the cellar last night or if that had been part of the dream. They vaguely remembered stumbling back up the stairs half asleep, just a fragment of oh, yeah, that happened that didn’t have any real detail associated with it.

It had been a weird dream, but just a dream, and not even the worst of the nightmares they’d had. No wonder, with all the weird shit in this house. As with most nightmares, they grimly did their best to dismiss it.

Fern sat up to get out of bed, then groaned, realizing that in their exhaustion they hadn’t even got undressed the night before. Their legs felt numb from where their jeans had twisted around them as they’d tossed and turned. 

Well, the first order of business was a shower, that was for sure. The second was… hmm, maybe to take a cell phone picture of those weird photographs for later, just to get it out of their head.

But after that… it was unusual to have a day so open, theirs to do whatever they wished with it, and nobody at all to expect anything of them, but frankly, they could do anything they wanted. 

Which just made it harder to figure out where to start.

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Well, it wasn’t like they had anything else to do while they finished eating, Fern decided. Normally they’d be all over researching those weird photographs, but… without internet, they didn’t think that was possible. They could take a cell phone photo of them to follow up on when they eventually left, but that was about it. Given how long sending a single line of text took, they couldn’t imagine sending a photo would be successful any sooner.

And honestly, even if it did work and they got an answer back in a day or two, they should probably be focusing on their writing. The photos might be a mystery, but their small podcast audience wanted things they’d at least vaguely heard of, not randos Fern had seen in photographs. Well, maybe they could add it as a fun bonus for subscribers. They weren’t usually involved in their own stories—their last episode had been about the Princes in the Tower, and it certainly wasn’t like they had anything to do with the Dionysian Mysteries, they just thought it’d be a fun tie-in with a video game release—but maybe some people would like the personal touch.

Whatever. No more delaying, or the radio host would move on. Refusing to think about it any further, Fern picked up their cell phone and dialed. They could have used the house line for this, of course—but that vague, overly-worried part of them didn’t want a number that might be traced to a specific physical location.

“Listeners! We have another caller.” No screener? Weird. Small radio station, probably. “Will you introduce yourself for us, Caller?”

Shit. They hadn’t planned on that, somehow. Scrambling, the only thing that popped into their head was an old episode of the Simpsons. “Guy,” they blurted. They managed to avoid adding Incognito after.

Bannick laughed. Fern became abruptly aware they were still hearing Bannick’s responses over the radio, not into the phone. Their own voice wasn’t out of sync, the way they expected it to be in case the call needed to be censored, but so perfectly aligned to not trip them up. Like they were having a conversation with the radio and not someone on the phone. Weird, but they imagined radio tech had changed somewhat since they were younger. 

“Well, Guy,” Bannick said, in a tone like he was in on the joke and welcoming Fern to share a laugh at the situation. “What did you want to talk about?”

They hadn’t thought at all about what to talk about, only what not to talk about, but they supposed they could let Bannick steer the conversation. Well, with one exception. “That previous caller. Are they your ex?”

“Aris? No, no,” Bannick said with another laugh. “We’ve never fucked.” Fern didn’t know they could say that on the radio, but with no screener to bleep it or delay to bleep it in, who could stop him? “Personally I think it’d be better if we did, but that generally should be a decision both parties agree to, and, oh, it’d really just ruin our social circle. But enough about Aris. Tell me about you, Guy.”

What felt safe? “I’m not really a local, so this is my first time catching the show,” Fern said. “I’m renting a cottage up here.” That wouldn’t surprise anyone; this was cottage country. “Weird little place. Lots of odd decor choices.”

“Anything particularly fun?”

They should avoid anything that would be too obvious from the outside—or maybe even to someone who might have rented the cottage before. No mention of the locked room, then, or the spiked tree outside that someone who visited could easily see. “There’s a weird mirror in the basement.” 

“A weird mirror?” Bannick’s voice sharpened with interest. He sounded almost hungry for a moment—it was a slow radio night, though, and Fern’s own podcasting experience had shown that little details were the thing people got caught up on. “Weirdly shaped?”

“Just… odd. It’s free standing but kind of busted. Wavy, so things don’t look quite right in them. Gives me the creeps,” Fern offered.

A laugh from Bannick again, almost too sharp. “Yeah, mirrors can be creepy. You know, some people think they’re portals into another world.”

Fern slowly spun spaghetti around their fork. “Don’t those people mostly say it like oooh, don’t let two mirrors, liiiiike, faaaaace each other or you’ll create a poooortal to heeeelllll?”

“Hah!” Bannick took a moment to recover from that impression. “Well, for people who believe that, the mirror’s already a doorway. The issue they have with making mirrors face each other is, I guess, that you’ve then created a tunnel. I’m not a fan of mirrors at all.”

“No?” Fern prompted.

The radio crackled for a moment. “Sorry, almost lost you,” Bannick said. “No, body issues, we all have ’em to some extent, right?”

Oof. “Right,” Fern said. “Anyway, I uncovered the mirror when I first got here, but I’m thinking of covering it back up. Out of sight, out of mind.”

“That’s one way of dealing with it,” Bannick said. “But you know what would be more fun? Go ahead and see if it is a portal. Put your hand on it. Recite some kind of incantation, I don’t know. I’m not going to suggest you slaughter a chicken—”

“All the chicken I have here is pre-slaughtered,” Fern said.

“Right, accessibility is but one of several notable issues with animal sacrifice,” Bannick rejoined immediately. Fern grinned a little; this guy was fun to talk with. Good banter, great sense of humor. Gorgeous voice, too, honey-smooth and inviting. “But I don’t know. Have some fun. Call back tomorrow to update us. Any weird ghost visitations after? Nightmares or visions? Or you can tell us blankly that nothing, of course, happened, and really disappoint all the witchy fans who like to come out to cottage country to get in touch with Mama Nature.”

Fern found themself laughing, an undignified little snort-choke. “Maybe,” they allowed, not committing to anything. “I’d probably feel better if I demystified it.”

“That’s the spirit. Anything else interesting around there?”

The urge to bring up the other oddities was very strong. “There are some odd photographs here. A Victorian woman and, I think, her father.”

Bannick paused for a long moment. “Is that so? That’s odd…”

“That’s what I’m saying,” Fern said. “They were hidden, but I might be a little bit of a snoop.”

“What a person snoops on in the cottage they are privately renting is their business, I always say,”  Bannick said lightly. “We’re running out of time, Guy. Any last messages or comments?”

Only one came to mind. “I appreciated what you said. About loneliness, I mean,” Fern admitted. “I came here to be far away from the press of humanity, but it’s so quiet. I was pretty glad to hear your show when I did.”

“It’s a good place to come if you want to leave humanity behind,” Bannick agreed. “Lousy for company, though. Glad to hear from you, Guy. I hope you let our worlds overlap again before you leave.”

Fern’s phone line went dead, and Bannick laughed again through the radio. “Wasn’t that fun, all? Another lonely light in the darkness. But it’s time to snuff out those little lights and head to bed. Let me play you out. Good night, good night, Bannick out.”

No station identifier—this was definitely not a commercial broadcast. There hadn’t been ads, either, come to think of it. The station went to music, but it was all Baroque tunes, nothing modern. Fern plugged their phone back in and ate their last bite of food.

They did the dishes still listening to that music—they thought about changing the channel again, but they were reluctant to get too involved with number stations; spy stuff freaked them out, because unlike most of history’s mysteries, spy stuff was too real and dangerous. Besides, they felt like they owed it to Bannick to keep listening for a little while.

But when the dishes were done, they clicked the radio off. They felt too-wired, nervous in a new place with pitch darkness outside all the windows now that the sun had set. They could just go to bed and try to sleep, or go work on their writing until they got too tired to stay up, but they wondered if there was anything else they might want to do instead…

[Comment below with a suggestion for Fern]

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