“See what!?” I tried to keep a calm voice, but I was shaking. “Sarah, you were having a dream.”

  She paused, as if processing it, thinking about what she just experienced. A confused look on her face, as if she couldn’t believe it could have possibly been a dream. She seemed completely disoriented. She was sweating, still breathing heavily.

  “Sarah. You’re okay. It was a nightmare.” I tried to use the gentlest, most soothing voice I could conjure up.

  It happened right at the end of that countdown. And then there was the snap in the corner of the room. And the breathing.

  And Sarah freaked.

  I tried to remain calm, and I focused on Sarah.

  “Sarah? You’re okay. Right? You are, okay? It was a dream, Sarah.”

  Her breathing began to return to normal and finally she spoke.

  “I guess it was a dream, but it seemed so real.” She swallowed and cleared her voice, her eyes still scanning the room with dread and suspicion.

  “There was a guy hiding in the corner of the room.” Her eyes shot to the corner. The same corner I saw the little boy –or whatever it was– I thought I saw the night before.

  “He was crouched down. I could make him out perfectly. His shape. I couldn’t see his face, but it was a guy. I was frozen because I couldn’t believe what I was seeing. I was paralyzed. I couldn’t even scream. And the guy was shaped weird. And he started creeping closer and closer to the bed and he got right up in your face and started screaming words in some weird language. Loud. He sounded like a demon or something. And that’s what I was doing, I was trying to fight him off you. And I guess I woke up. But Jim, it was so real.”

  Chills ran through my body and I felt dizzy, feverish. I hugged her.

  “And for a split second, when you were waking me up, I couldn’t see your face. It was just all shadows, so I thought it was him.”

  She was truly shaken.

  It felt like ice shards were sliding down my body. What the hell was happening?

  “Sarah, it was a total dream. No creepy man here, unless you count me,” I tried to joke.

  She smiled. Finally, a sign she was okay.

  “Can I get you anything? A glass of water? Did you want to get up and watch TV? Something light to clear your head?”

  “I’m okay. I’m probably over-tired. I’m good. I’m gonna go back to sleep.”

  She still sounded shaky, but better.

  “You sure?”

  “Honestly, I’m good. I just wanna go back to sleep. I’m good.”

  I stared at her for a moment as she fluffed her pillow and laid back down and then I got up and flicked the light back off and crawled into bed.

  “Jim?” she asked in the dark.

  “Yeah?”

  “Care if we leave the lamp on the night table on? Just as a nightlight? It’s stupid I know…”

  I reached for my phone and turned the lamp on with the app.

  “Love you, Jim,” she said.

  “Love you too.”

  As I was putting my phone back on the charger, I noticed a notification of a new email.

  That was quick:

  Peggy Watts got back to me. The message she left had me wondering if I was in over my head or if I truly was losing it.

  I barely slept. The next morning I was staring at Peggy’s email, debating what to do.

  Peggy Watts’ message was short and to the point, and I couldn’t help but read it in her hoarse, no-bullshit voice when I went over it again and again.

  Hi Jim,

  Thanks for reaching out. This is tough to speak on through an email.

  Some general advice, and again I don’t know your situation, but be careful how you acknowledge these voices. You very well could be picking up some transmissions from a place I call “The Void,” which I often reference in my books.

  It’s okay to listen to them, most of what they say is nonsense. But they will reach out directly to you if they see you as an “in” because they are looking for a way out of The Void. Don’t let them in.

  Don’t invite them in.

  It’s okay to listen. But you’re in dangerous territory when you start talking back to them, especially if you don’t know who they are.

  If you want to speak to me in person, I do one on one sessions.

  The fees are on my website and you can book a time slot.

  I also recommend my book Transmissions from The Void, which is specific to what you are experiencing.

  All my best,

  PW

  Figures. So, I get a pitch to call her 1-800 number and a plug for her book.

  Now what?

  I did a quick search for her Transmissions from The Void book. Zero copies in stock.

  Of course.

  Browsing through her website a bit deeper and looking at the different options and packages she had, I came to realize that a session with Peggy Watts was not cheap.

  Two hundred and fifty dollars for a half hour.

  That was the lowest price point I could find. It included a Facetime chat, and I could ask whatever questions I wanted.

  Two hundred and fifty dollars.

  It was a lot of money but not an insane amount either. I’d spent more on concerts, and shopping trips.

  I couldn’t deny what I’d heard and seen. I couldn’t deny what I was experiencing or what might have been trickling over to Sarah.

  When you gonna introduce me to your friend?

  What if this was actually real, as Peggy Watts stated, and I was wading through “dangerous territory?”

  I shook my head as I found myself clicking on the “book now” link and reached for my wallet to grab my credit card. I made a silent plea to the universe that I wasn’t flushing a quarter of my cheque down the toilet to someone who very well could have the credibility of a fortune cookie.

  I opened my laptop and logged in with all the coordinates I received via email from Peggy’s “team” after booking with her yesterday.

  It was mid-afternoon, dazzling bright light from the snowy mid-day sun shining through the window.

  An eerie calm settling in.

  Sarah wasn’t home from work yet and wouldn’t be for a few hours.

  It was for the best. I didn’t tell her I was doing this. A whirlwind was going through my head while I waited to connect with Peggy.

  What was I doing? Was I crazy? What kind of danger could I be in? Is there a way to stop hearing these voices? Was I being taken for a $250 ride and giving away a half hour of my life I’ll never get back to some quack?

  Valid question, but I probably wouldn’t ask Peggy that.

  My screen flickered and lit up–a camera being turned on. A bright light, the lens and contrast adjusted, and Peggy Watts came into view.

  I was a bit star struck. I had been reading up about her, reading bits of her books that were published online, watching old TV show clips. I mean, I knew of this woman since I was a kid and here she was about to have a one-on-one chat with me.

  She looked a bit older than her website showed. Less makeup. Less fancy lighting.

  Honey brown hair, considerable amount of eyeliner, tanned skin that saw years of sun-bathing and gold lipstick. Lots of beads and crystals around her neck and bracelets around her wrist. Exactly what you’d expect. As seen on TV.

  From what I could see it looked like she was broadcasting out of an office. Nothing special. A brown bookshelf behind her and some kind of cloth wall hanging with what looked like cycles of the moon on it.

  “Hello,” she said in her raspy, cigarette-stained voice. “This is Jim? Can you hear me, Jim?”

  “Hi!” I said, sounding a bit too enthusiastic and like a fan. I toned it down ever so slightly.

  “This is Jim. I can hear you.”

  “Hi honey. Alright so I’m recording all of this, and I’ll send you a copy to your email as soon as we finish. You can ask any questions you want. You’re the one who I was emailing with so we are already ahead of the game on that. Just a quick rundown sweetie. I’m going to start the timer and I’m going to give you some of my thoughts just based on what you wrote in your email and in your consultation request and then I’ll open it up to your questions. Sound good, hon?”

  She had a warmth about her. Straight forward. I got the impression she didn’t need to be here. She was just doing this because this is what she does. Not a whole lot of bells and whistles, just cutting right to it.

  I nodded.

  “Okay I’m going to hit the record button and we can get started.”

  She pushed a button on her screen, her image flickered and stabilized, and she began.

  “Alright Jim, I’m approaching this conversation assuming you are of sound mental health. People with mental illness, schizophrenia and such, they often hear voices. I’m going to assume you are not mentally ill, but if you are unsure you have to speak to someone else and it’s not a psychic, okay? I’m not your girl if that’s the case, and I can’t help you with mental illness. You need someone who went to school and knows the science of the brain and psychiatry for that. But what you say you are experiencing is something I have heard over and over. You’re hearing voices as if they are coming in. Like a radio broadcast. One you can barely hear. That’s what I call a transmission from The Void. Now I don’t know what The Void is, that’s just what I call it. I only know it’s not here. It’s somewhere else. It’s filled with good and bad, and they are constantly broadcasting out messages. Most of us here don’t pick up on it. But some of us, people like you and I, do. Some of us have an antenna in our heads that picks up these messages and we can listen in. And that’s mostly what it is. Listening in. You’re overhearing a conversation in progress, and it probably doesn’t make sense. Most people pay no mind and dismiss it. Others can home in and hear it more clearly. Now I’m not asking you to believe any of this, okay sweetie, I’m just telling you what I believe to be true because you paid me to do exactly that.”

  She paused as if waiting for me to respond.

  “Okay,” I said. Everything she was saying was nothing I hadn’t heard her say before on talk shows, even the talk show I saw as a kid.

  “Okay. So before we go any further I have to ask you, Jim. Did you speak back to these voices or invite them in, in any way? Did you acknowledge the voices in any way at all that could even be interpreted as inviting them in?”

  I told her about some of the websites I’d been looking at, how I’d been reading up on clairaudience and the instructions on how to develop it. I admitted I had called out into the beyond, as the site suggested and how the messages became more direct and then things started to happen.

  Hesitating, I confessed that I was pretty sure I actually used the word “invite” when talking to this voice.

  “NO, no, no!!” she said, slapping the palm of her hand down on her desk.

  She actually looked angry. And exhausted, like she’d dealt with this before and was sick and tired of it.

  “This is exactly why, Jim, we don’t invite them in! This is exactly why! Half of those sites have no idea what they’re talking about, and they’re reckless with the information they give out. Here’s the thing, Jim, half the people who believe they hear voices are sick. The other half want to hear the voices, but don’t have the antenna in their head. There are a small few who have a perfectly good antenna, and they pick up messages. The transmissions from The Void are looking for antennas. That’s their way in. You gave them a way in, and they’re going to try to force their way through even more. More power, more influence. They’re going to be harder to ignore. The more you acknowledge them, the more influence they have over here.”

  She wasn’t selling anything. Well, she was, but I already bought it so that was irrelevant. She seemed genuinely concerned. I told her about the dreams. About Sarah. About the little boy with no head. About the sounds. About what I saw in my bedroom. She wasn’t remotely phased by it, but she seemed to express general worry about my wellbeing. And Sarah’s.

  She slanted her eyes at me almost suspiciously. As if she knew something.

  “This is not your first run in with these voices, is it? You have spoken to them before. Is this true?”

  I laughed for a minute. It was a nervous laugh that came out when I truly had no idea how to respond to someone. I wasn’t sure what she was talking about and then she said:

  “When you were a kid, hon. This would have been when you were a kid. That’s what I’m picking up. Were you ever really sick?”

  Back when I was a kid. I let my mind travel back to that time. Something I didn’t like to do. I didn’t like to swim through those memories. At least not too deep into them.

  Yes. When I was a kid I was home sick quite a bit. I had what the doctors called viral pneumonia, but even they weren’t fully sure what it was.

  I started to tell her about that time in my life. Something I hadn’t thought about for decades.

  But now, thinking back: It all made sense about what was happening today.

  Thirty Years Prior

  I’m six years old and I’m in my bed. Except it doesn’t feel like it. I hear bees buzzing in my ears and I keep swatting them away. I can hear my heartbeat like it’s inside my head. I’m sweating but I’m cold. I can see the light from the hallway, and it looks so far away even though I know it’s right there. Why does my doorway look so far away?

  The bees get louder in my ears, and I hear voices.

  My body aches.

  I can see the silhouettes of my toys on my shelf and suddenly it’s as if I am inches away from them. The faces of my stuffed animals and figurines smiling at me. They look scary.

  Suddenly my face is so close to the ceiling it’s like my nose is about to bump the light fixture that hangs above my bed.

  But my body can feel my mattress. The weight of the blankets is heavy on me, but it’s like I’m floating above my bed. Colours are swirling in the dark. The buzzing is getting louder.

  I can hear walking on my bedroom carpet, but I can’t see anyone.

  Swish, swish, swish. What is happening?

  I’m spinning. I start coughing. I’m going to be sick. I’m scared.

  Now my face is pressed against the far corner, higher than I’ve ever been before in my bedroom. Am I flying? Why am I so scared? I feel like I’m in bed, but when I open my eyes, it’s like the dimensions of my room keep changing. Nothing makes sense. I feel gigantic and I feel tiny.

  I call out to my father, and I am back in my bed, the bees still roaring in my ears.

  I see my father’s shape come into the room. He doesn’t turn the light on.

  “You okay, Jimmy?” he asks.

  “I need a glass of water.”

  “I’ll get you some,” he says. I start coughing as I hear him walk away.

  But something is wrong. Something is not right.

  He left my room, but his shadow—his shape–remains in my room.

  Standing. Staring. Motionless.

  Yet, I can hear him, his slippers on the hallway carpet leaving my room. His feet hitting the smooth tile of the kitchen. Rummaging for a plastic cup in the pantry. Turning on the faucet in the sink. The cup filling.

  I hear all of this, but his shadow remains in my bedroom, over my bed, staring at me.

  It looks just like my dad, but I know it’s not my dad.

  And there is something else I know, but I don’t know how I know it: This thing that looks like my dad wants to hurt me. I am scared of it, and I don’t know why. I have to pee.

  I can hear the buzzing in my ears getting louder. And I hear whispers, behind the buzzing.

  Right in my ear. I can practically feel the breath of whoever is speaking, hot on my skin, but I can’t tell who it is. The shadow remains still. It seems to have gotten bigger.

  “…he wants your head, Jimmy…”

  The shape of the thing that kind of looks like my dad moves ever so slightly towards me and begins to slowly crouch down. I still can’t make out any details.

  “…give him your head, Jimmy…”

  Its voice sounds like an angry whisper.

  Whatever is in my room is now completely crouched by my bed. Face to face with me. Except I can’t see a face. It’s just shadow. This close, I should at least be able to see some detail.

  I hear my father rummaging in the kitchen, and I look back to the shape in front of me.

  I lean in closer.

  “Dad?” I whisper.

  Bright red eyes appear in the dark, the buzzing becomes deafening and the voice in my ears screams so loudly the pain causes me to cry out.

  “GIVE HIM YOUR HEAD!” the voice shouts.

  Suddenly my dad is switching the light on and handing me a cup of water. I am crying. He feels my forehead. I am burning up. I peed in my PJS.

  The buzzing is still there but quieter. The shape, the image of whatever that was in my room, is gone, disappeared when the light turned on. My real dad is here and the other thing is gone.

  I tell my father what I saw and what I heard. I’m crying and shaking.

  “It’s the fever, you have nightmares when you have a fever,” he touches my forehead and looks worried. “You’re getting really sick.”

  My parents let me sleep in their bed that night. I feel better and safe with them on either side of me.

  As I drift off to sleep, I see the image of the thing in my room again, now in their room. In the corner. I stare. The buzzing begins.

  “I’ll be right here, Jimmy,” it whispers as if in my ears. Crystal clear. Loud.

  “Gimme, gimme, gimme...”

  Chills trace down my spine and sweat pours off my body.

  It’s just the fever, it’s just the fever, it’s just the fever, I say to myself over and over.

  I lay frozen all night long, staring at the shape, and it staring back at me, poised as if ready to pounce. Only darkness where its face should be. The entire room feels like it’s quilted in a shadow. I’ve never felt so afraid, like I’m going to die.

  It was a long time ago.