It was not an easy couple of days for Isaiah.

While both women he had talked to were nothing but obliging, hearing their stories was emotionally exhausting. One of them was trapped in a cage of her own memories, left behind as the man she loved escaped the very world they had built their lives in. The other suffered at the hands of an abusive parent and cared for her brother so deeply that she was still holding on tight to the notion that he’s out there somewhere. For someone as compassionate as Isaiah, it was difficult to take these stories as simple facts divorced from their emotional weight. The fates of Queenie Douglas and Celia Rowse were pressing on his heart like a heavy stone. That what he was feeling was only a fraction of the pain they were going through made him feel even worse.

Add to it, he felt like he wasn’t making much progress. The identity of the lingering spirit was still frustratingly hazy. It could still be Ezra – with how reserved Celia made him out to be, it was easy to imagine that there could be somebody else he was missing. It could definitely be Milo Bax, assuming he was deceased: everything about him was still very much a mystery. Or it could be a completely different person, connected to the photograph in an entirely unexpected way.

This were the thoughts stewing in Isaiah’s head as he made his way up the stairs of his building, eager to return home. Nigel had left to the farmer’s market not long after Isaiah had gone out. Knowing his meticulousness in picking fresh produce, he was probably not back yet.

As he reached the third floor, Isaiah noticed his neighbor. The old man who scoffed with disapproval when he and Nigel moved in was standing in front of his door, both his hands holding bags full of groceries. He was attempting to unlock the door while still holding the bags, a feat that would’ve been challenging even for someone with hands far less shaky. The outcome was predictable: he missed the keyhole, the key slipped, and in an attempt to get a hold of it while not dropping the bags he dropped everything and let out an annoyed huff. Oranges, jars, bottles, everything started rolling away from the hapless grump. Admitting defeat, he bent down slowly to start picking things up.

“Let me help you,” Isaiah said, approaching him. The neighbor’s head turned ever so slowly, until Isaiah had one particularly mean eye peering at him.

“I don’t want your help,” the man said coldly.

“I’m aware of that,” Isaiah responded, “but won’t it be much easier for you if I help you?”

“I said I don’t want your help,” the neighbor repeated, slight irritation giving way to a more menacing tone.

“Sir…” Isaiah began as if he was trying to negotiate, “I know you don’t really think highly of me or my husband, but please don’t be this way. I’m not trying to start up conversation, I’m not expecting us to become friendly. I just want to do something that will make your life better today.”

He reached to pick up one of the bags off the floor, but the man snatched it in a fury. He was now looking directly at Isaiah with unconcealed animosity.

“Leave me alone you… you…”

That last you was packed with so much vitriol and loathing that he didn’t even have to say anything after it. He slammed the door, leaving Isaiah standing in the hall. Keeping him company were all the groceries the man didn’t bother picking up. He would obviously rather leave them to waste than spend another moment in Isaiah’s presence.

Isaiah’s throat tightened as if there was a physical clump of emotions forming inside it. The thoughts inside his head began to swirl into a nauseating whorl. Somewhere in that vortex, a most disturbing idea was spinning around with all the other feelings of helplessness and sorrow.

“Kill him,” a voice whispered seductively.

Isaiah’s heart stopped in his chest and a cold sweat poured out of every pore in his body.

“Kill him,” the voice repeated, this time louder and clearer. “He deserves it.”

Realization spread across Isaiah’s horrified face. The parasite inside him was attempting to seize a chance and take over his body.

He instantly crouched down and covered his ears with his hands, as if the voice was coming from outside him. He began to do what his therapist advised him to in the event of another attempted possession.

“My name is Isaiah Hargraves,” he said out loud. “I live at Muriel Greenwood 37, third floor, flat 19. I’m 35 years old, I’m married to Nigel Hargraves, my parents are Lydia and Thomas Hargraves.”

He repeated the same sequence of sentences like a mantra, trying to keep himself anchored to who he was. But the spirit had obviously caught him in a very vulnerable moment, which made it more difficult to resist.

“My name is…” he began to speak, only to audibly gasp with horror as the voice inside his head spoke with the clarity of someone who was standing beside him.

“…Ambrose Annable,” it finished the sentence.

Tears started sliding down Isaiah’s face, his body shaking. He started over, trying to speak more loudly and ignore the murderous spirit.

At that moment, in a truly fortuitous turn of events, Nigel walked up the stairs.

“Hey darling, what’s up?” he said as he noticed Isaiah crouching down, surrounded by fruits and containers. It took him a split second to recognize what was happening, drop his bags and rush to Isaiah’s side.

“My name is Isaiah Hargraves…”

“Yes it is!” Nigel said tearfully. “And you are my husband. We were married on the beach behind your parents’ house. You wore that purple tuxedo because they didn’t have anything else your size and it was short notice, and you looked so cute even though you didn’t want to wear it! Remember?”

The image cut through the chaos in Isaiah’s head, him in his purple tuxedo and Nigel in his trademark checkered waistcoat, standing against a backdrop of the calmest sea you could ever imagine with the sun slowly approaching the horizon. Just recalling the memory conjured feelings of safety, tranquility and contentment. Isaiah focused on this scene with all his might, still repeating his sentences as Nigel held him tightly in his arms. Soon the voice of Ambrose Annable began to fade, and Isaiah found himself present in the moment. He felt the pounding of his heart, the breeze circulating up the staircase, the warmth of Nigel’s body. He was back in control, out of the woods. For now.

“I remember,” he said to Nigel as he looked deeply into his eyes.

“Good to have you back,” Nigel smiled, wiping away the tears.

They stayed like that for a little while, crouching in front of their neighbor’s door in a tight embrace. When their emotions settled, they picked up their bags and went back to their apartment. Isaiah insisted on at least huddling the old man’s dropped groceries into a neat pile, but after hearing what happened Nigel felt that he did not deserve the luxury.

“He can come out and pick them up on his own time,” he scoffed as he started putting away the greens he bought at the farmer’s market. “That wrinkly sac of bile should consider himself lucky I wasn’t there.”

The phone rang, and Isaiah answered. The voice on the other end of the line hesitated before stuttering a meek “hello.”

“Hello, Milton,” Isaiah replied wearily. “This isn’t really a good time, could you please call a bit later?”

“I’ve… I’ve been trying to reach you all morning,” Milton said with an apologetic tone. “I have information about my uncle.”

Isaiah’s ears perked up. “When are you available to talk about it? I could use a few hours of rest but after that I’m ready when you are.”

“Um, I was wondering if I could come to your place,” Milton mumbled. “We could go over each other’s notes and figure out what to do next.”

“Don’t worry, I’ll go through them before we meet,” Isaiah said. “I’ll have all the info in my head.”

“Ah, well, er…” Milton stumbled. “I suppose that’s alright too. It’s just that I’d really like to see all the information you have in writing. Makes it easier for me to remember it like that…”

“You can bring paper and a pencil,” Isaiah said helpfully, “and write it down as I’m talking.”

“That’s… true,” Milton agreed reluctantly. After that, they decided on a time and place to meet, and the call ended.

Isaiah couldn’t help but feel suspicious after the conversation. He couldn’t put his finger on it, but something felt off.

The purpose of his meeting with Milton would be to discover what exactly.