Page has a knack for finding out things and in getting involved in things he shouldn't have.

It was evident in the farm when he found the missing cattle that has been reported as such since three years ago. His boss told him to count the cows coming in from the field to the barn, and he noticed how the number hadn't quite matched up with what he was told. He checked their tags, and while nothing seemed amiss, he couldn't dismiss the fact that the cows just multiplied during a day out in the pasture. None of them resembled calves, and newborns wouldn't have grown into mature adults in a span of a few hours.

So, he reported it to his boss, and through rigorous investigation on their end, the answer was soon revealed. The additional cows have been escapees from a nearby farm a few years ago. The herd wandered off when the hired hand forgot to latch the fence, leaving the ranch owner puzzled and furious—the worst kind of combination in Page's opinion. Upon returning the cows, the owner was more than grateful. The whole fiasco ended up with Page getting an honorary certificate from the county mayor—something his grandma from two cities away still proudly displayed on her mantle.

Or what about the time when he discovered one of the top artists the recording studio he part-timed in was being scouted by bigger studios in the City of Lights? He was always the last one out, mostly because he only clocks in an hour after lunch and Gary always forgot to bolt the locks. They've always had to deal with leaks of demos, and Page could bet his entire house it was one of those times the door was unlocked. When he took over the guard duty, the leak cases diminished for a few months before they moved up to digital platforms. That was out of his hands, but the routine stuck.

Anyway, it was during one of those nights when he caught Jordaine puffing a smoke by the studio's backdoor. Dressed in a skin-tight leather bomber jacket and fish-net stockings overlaid with a short, black skirt, she huddled in the parking lot for Gary and the managers whenever a studio held recording sessions. For a second, Page considered offering his varsity jacket from highschool to at least cover her legs—it was cold outside, after all—but a set of headlights flashed from the parking lot's entrance. A car he has never seen before pulled up in the driveway, and Jordaine jumped right in.

Behind the tinted double doors, nobody saw Page watching the plate number speed away with their best-selling recording artist. Upon running it with Gary, they found out Jordaine had been secretly contacting the top scout for Broadway and was able to score out a deal. Negotiating a compromise deal and getting her to keep the label were two different battles, and by the time the whole ordeal was over, Jordaine looked at Gary with contempt, and has never stopped for the second year now. Gary owed it to Page, but it cost him his relationship with his highest-grossing artist because now, Jordaine had to work four more years and release two more albums for the label in between her stints in theater.

So when the sound engineers kept complaining about a ghost singing through the pipes or tinkering with the soundboard, everyone looked at Page to magically come up with an answer. It wasn't thrilling. Far from it. With him locking the studio up every night, he had been listening to that haunting voice singing in an otherworldly language for as long as a month and a half. It drove him crazy, just being peppered with trills and hymns he wouldn't understand, but he didn't dare look for where it came from. Nah. His life ain't a horror film waiting to be told to screenwriters. Gary could go and flick himself if he was bent on getting rid of that sound.

Ghosts rarely haunt the same place for centuries, right? How should Page know? He has never watched a paranormal show in his life. Real life was enough of a horror. He didn't need more.

Today was especially bad. The singing has transcended the recording sessions, going as far as layering over the artist's song. Gary was beyond furious. After the Jordaine situation, he was pressed to revive the studio and the label's reputation, and the recording artist—a big one from another country entirely—was their last ticket.

Hence, before everyone called it a day, Gary pulled Page aside and looked him in the eye. "Find out who's singing the fuck in my studio," he said, a hand clamped tight on Page's shoulder. "If you drive them out, I'll double your pay."

"For how long?" Page cocked his eyebrows.

Gary flashed him a conspiratorial grin. "For the rest of the year." He gave Page a series of pats on the back and knocked heads with him. "Consider it a huge bonus. But don't tell the boys. You know those louts can't handle the part-timer earning more than them."

"Got it," Page said with an affirmative nod. Of course, money was the best motivator.

When Gary strode out of the studio and drove away in his Bentley, Page grabbed a broomstick and held it across his body. He searched the entire studio, checking the rooms and pushing open every door he came across, but nothing. That was when the singing began, sending shivers down his spine.

The sound bled from the pipes, the mics scattered around, heck, even the air. It was everywhere and nowhere, all at once. Page craned his neck to the acoustic ceiling, tracing the geometric lines dividing the surface into neat, polyester squares. His grip on the broomstick tightened, but he closed his eyes and stayed still in the middle of the dim hallway.

The melody assaulted his ears with its relaxing tone. These songs were different every night, but each one instilled a feeling of home, of belongingness, and the far-away Christmases he spent in his grandma's coastal villa. Like a bilateral recording, the tune went in and out from one ear to the other before switching direction and soothed some deep aches he wasn't even aware of.

Should he find who was singing these songs, would they be willing to record an entire album for Gary? While these weren't in the radio songs, they could simply be the new wave or genre this world has never seen before. It would make Gary a trailblazer. A trendsetter. Maybe Page could finally leave farmwork and focus on music as he would have wanted.

His jaw clenched. He has to find this person. Fast.

Boots thundered against the floor. There was one room he hadn't checked, and that was the broom closet. No one has been there since Gary purchased the building and established the studio. Before this, the building housed an events place that mostly catered to young children. The image of a room filled with trashed clown costumes and plastic toys with faces melted off by time flashed in his head. He focused on the song wafting in the air to chase that thought away.

With his heart pounding, he reached the broom closet doors. Calling this a closet was an understatement. The unbolted double doors promised an auditorium or at least a sizable room. Then, his eyes landed on a line of light seeping from the gap between the doors and the ground. It was bright enough to chase some of the residual dimness from the corridor lining the recording booths, flooding the tips of Page's boots with an ethereal light.

The voice was louder now, and the words almost made sense. Before, the thought eluded him with the words jumbling and meshing with each other. Now, Page could tell a pause from a hum, and well, it was beautiful. Haunting, maybe, but still beautiful.

He took a deep breath, flattening a hand on the door and pushing it in. The hinges swung with ease, the only force blocking him was from the hydraulic closer from the other side. With his worn sneakers, he did his best to step inside the rubberized floor without making a single squeak. He squinted at the flood of light concentrated at a single speck in the distance. He got closer. And closer. The glow began taking the shape of a head, two arms, and legs folded underneath them. Was that...?

A dress. The unmistakable flourish of a white skirt flowed around the legs, spreading around them like an upturned flower. White hair glowing with the same ethereal light poured from their back like liquid silver. With Page getting so close, it occurred to him that the voice was female. A woman. There was a woman in the abandoned heart of the studio.

He took another step. His sole bit against the floor. A squeak rang across the room. The song halted, the light dying in a flash. Broomstick in hand, he watched the woman whirl towards him. Busted.