.././.\\.\//.///

There's a zero-percent chance she opens the door after the first knock. She's way too cautious for that. Better to announce myself instead.

"You summoned me?" Zandra says as loud as she can without warbling away the drama in her voice. She listens for any movement on the other side of the door.

Nothing.

Zandra looks for a camera-enabled doorbell. She doesn't find one, much less a doorbell at all.

Figures. Maybe one of those fancy camera doorbells is too obvious. Maybe I'd stick the camera somewhere else if I was trying to be really sneaky.

Zandra feels something is off, and it isn't from the 19 hertz.

If there were cameras, there'd be no reason for the man in the van to wonder who his concubine was cheating with. He'd just look at the camera footage. So what the hell am I doing here?

Someone's soft footsteps approach the door from inside the house.

Well, let's think about this. I'm here because there aren't any cameras. The level of discretion is so high that the man in the van doesn't want to risk there being any camera footage of him and this woman. I doubt he's someone who cares if he's caught with his dick stuck where it doesn't belong. So what's he afraid of?

Zandra stuffs her hands up her sleeves again, monk style, and clears her throat.

Blackmail. That's what he's afraid of. Put it all together. Politics, money, sex, discretion. Yes. Blackmail.

Whatever it is exactly that he does, he traffics in the currency of information. That's something that I'm just a little familiar with. No wonder he likes me, professionally speaking.

Although there isn't a doorbell, there is a peephole. Zandra can almost feel herself being examined from the other side of the door.

"Who are you?" the muffled voice of a woman says.

Twenties or thirties. Accent local to Wisconsin, or local enough. This might be something or nothing, but she asked me to identify myself rather than ask what I want. "What do you want?" would've been perfectly acceptable in this situation, but she went with, "Who are you?" It makes sense that she'd want to know given her peculiar situation.

Now, if I give that answer to her, I'm yielding control of the conversation right away. If I delay my answer, I get the chance to take the reins.

An average person, thinking through all this, would come off as suspicious if they didn't identify themselves right away. They might get told off or—since this is America—shot.

I, however, am not an average person. The mystique of the psychic can explain away those suspicions. It can arouse curiosity.

"I should ask you the same question, child. You summoned me, but for what?" Zandra says, leaning hard into that mystique.

"Why were you digging through my garbage?" the woman says from inside the house.

See? Told you there weren't any cameras.

Also, is that a hint of a Canadian accent I hear in her voice? Ontario is closer to Wisconsin than most of the United States. Let's test it.

"I don't dig through garbage cans, child. I was merely summoned here by the psychic process," Zandra says.

"What's the psychic process?" the woman replies.

Yes. Definitely Canadian. She pronounced "process" as "pro-cess." In the States, it's "prah-cess."

"I can explain later, child, because there is an emergency," Zandra says.

"I'm not unlocking this door," the woman says.

That's OK. I can manipulate you from here.

"Have you been feeling particularly anxious tonight, child? Bogged down? Heavy? Confused?" Zandra says, throwing out as many symptoms as she can without overdoing it.

A pause.

A long pause.

Long pauses are good.

"I'm still not opening this door," the woman says in her Canadian accent.

"You know me. You have a sheet of paper with my name on it, don't you?" Zandra says, referring to the flyer. Even through the door, she can hear the woman shuffle the flyer.

"You must've put it there," the woman says.

A sensible person would've called the police by now. That she hasn't confirms this really is the right house, and the right person. That she's remained next to the door for this long tells me something, too. It's not quite time to reveal that, though.

"If I put it there, I must stink like garbage, don't you think?" Zandra says. She shows her palms to the peephole. "My hands must be dirty, too. They're not. Why don't you open the door and see for yourself?"

Unwarranted dread boils in Zandra's stomach. It's harder and harder to keep her confident composure under the weight of the 19-hertz loop.

So it must be for this person behind the door, too.

"People don't just show up and offer to help for no reason. You're here to rob me. Psychics aren't real anyway," the woman says.

And that's my cue.

"You've had a gun pointed at me this entire time. Who should be afraid of who?" Zandra says.

There's no way Zandra can see inside to know that that's true. It's a guess, but a calculated guess. And, as it turns out, it's correct.

"How did you know that?" the woman says.

Got her. I'm practically inside the house right now, eating out of her refrigerator and going through her mail with my feet on the couch.

"I know lots of things, child, including how to get rid of the malevolence that's attached to this house. Or, more specifically, attached to you," Zandra says at the peephole and stuffs her hands back up her sleeves. "I sense this spirit is the source of your discomfort tonight, as well as the disturbance in the driveway. It's deeper than that, though, because this is the sort of spirit that attaches itself to people in states of high distress and drama. Does that sound familiar?"

The house creaks and pops with a sudden gust of wind.

"I can't pay you," the woman says.

"And I'd never ask you to, child. I only want to help. I've been given these supernatural gifts, and it is incumbent upon me to use them however the universe sees fit. If you suspect my intentions are otherwise, well...," Zandra says and pauses for dramatic effect. "...you're the one with the gun. I stand to lose a lot more than you do."

A lock pops. The door opens a crack. Then another crack. And a little more. It's as if the woman inside is expecting Zandra to lunge at her with a knife.

I'd never.

"OK," the woman says.

Zandra steps into the house and gets her first good look at the woman inside. As Zandra predicted, the woman is armed with a 9mm pistol.

Not sure if a 9mm would've shot through the door, but let's skip that for now. First impression is that she's quite comely. Second impressions count more, though. That means teeth and feet.

She's breathing heavy from the adrenaline, and the overhead lights in here are strong, so I've got a good look at her teeth. They're immaculate. Picture perfect. I'm talking about the evenness of the whites. In most adults, the top four front teeth—fuck if I know their scientific names—are a shade darker from drinking pop and coffee. That's because teeth are naturally porous.

Since these top four front teeth aren't a shade darker, they must not be porous. That means they're not natural teeth. So what are they?

Veneers. That might be telling of something, and it might not be.

Are both top and bottom rows of teeth veneers?

The lower front teeth look just as evenly white as the top row, and—most importantly—they're evenly spaced. If this woman is in her early 30s, as I now suspect, then I'd expect some crowding in her lower front teeth.

So, veneers in the top and bottom rows.

It seems the rest of her received the same treatment. Nice, comfy summer dress—with pockets. Beautiful hair. Healthy skin with a good amount of shine to it under these lights, indicating good blood circulation. That means her heart is probably in good shape, but radiance of skin is hardly a definitive indicator. Beyond that, she's quite lovely.

What about her feet? She's not wearing shoes inside, which is a shame because those are terrific sources of tells. No, she's got on socks. Plain socks. Nothing useful there.

These observations, as they always do, take place in a few seconds. It's not as if Zandra stands in the doorway to examine her subject.

Similarly, it only takes a couple seconds for Zandra to get the gist of the house once she's inside.

Nice place. Cozy, but not cramped. All the creature comforts you could want. I bet there isn't a single generic brand between these walls. This is a cushy prison cell for a concubine.

"My name is Zandra. It's a pleasure to meet you, child, although I wish it were under different circumstances," Zandra says.

The woman keeps her distance from Zandra and says, "I'm Pixie. Before you ask, yes, that's my real name."

Then that's what I'll call you. For now.

"I know. There's no time to waste, Pixie. These spirits are growing stronger by the minute. I can cleanse you and the house, but first I need something from you," Zandra says.

"What?"

One part of exerting control in a situation is to do something so extreme that it forces the other party to follow. They'll assume you know what you're doing, because why else would someone do that?

"I need your urine," Zandra says.

"I'm sorry. What did you just say?"

"Give me your pee."