I cannot speak to the dead.

I suppose, after all these years and heartache, I must clarify that.

I thought I could for some time.

You must understand.

For what were those voices in the dark, if not the dead?

But I was much too enthralled by the concept back then to notice.

I always reached out to the ghosts, muttering their names and lives to them, and they always reached back. The whispers were comforting, a constant hum beside me.

They used to repeat what I said, not speak, and to me it was confirmation enough that they were the dead I am still searching for.

I told my clients their loved ones were here. They were safe. that they were the dead I am still searching for.

I told my clients their loved ones were here.

They were safe.

They were talking to me.

It was a struggle, so their words were few, but heartfelt.

I always meant to help.

But one day they stopped repeating what I said. I didn't tell my clients what they said after that. It was easier to carry on with the charade, wiring lights to flicker and stringing fishing line to the bookshelves. It is easier to fake a seance than to hold one. I can hardly

blame them. I promised them one final chance to speak to their loved ones. I promised them words.

But what else was I to do? I had made promises and I meant to keep them.

And after so many came to me with the same stories and same tears and same questions, I knew what to say.

It wasn't as if I were lying. I could hear voices.

I could not hear the voices they wanted me to hear.

I am not sure what they are even now, but Payne Manor is drowning in them.

Their voices seeping between the walls and fading in and out with the tide.

...