I woke up at the crack of noon, stretching like a satisfied cat in my motel bed. The sun filtering through the cheap curtains cast bars of gold across the rumpled sheets—prison bars for lesser men, perhaps, but mere decoration for Rodney Holmes. Last night’s encounter with he talking bird had dissolved in the light of day, I filed it away as a bad reaction to the whiskey I’d downed after leaving Mrs. Davies’ house, or maybe the pills from Tommy’s cousin. Hallucinations were for the gullible; I was the one who created illusions, not the one who fell for them.

  The drive to Fresno had been uneventful, just how I liked it. I never worked the same city two days in a row—a professional courtesy to myself. Distance created both safety and scarcity; Rodney Holmes was a limited engagement, not a regular attraction.

  The estate sale was being held at an old Victorian on the outskirts of a wealthy neighborhood. This was the kind of place where money and secrets had accumulated in equal measure over the years. The lawn was dotted with folding tables bearing the sorted remnants of someone’s life—kitchen goods, paperbacks with yellowed pages, costume jewelry that caught the light like real gems but wouldn’t fool anyone with half an eye.

  I wasn’t interested in any of that. I made my way to the back porch where a wizened man with nicotine-stained fingers was selling what appeared to be oddities—crystal balls with imperfections, tarot cards missing the Empress, and a small collection of what he called “genuine ceremonial talismans.”

  “These are bone,” he told me when he held up one of the trinkets. “Cattle mostly, but carved by a fellow who studied with some Haitian priest. Powerful stuff, if you know how to use it.”

  The talismans were actually quite beautiful—yellowed bone carved into intricate patterns, small enough to be concealed in a palm, polished to a dull sheen that suggested authenticity born of age rather than artifice. They looked just real enough to be convincing.

  “How much?” I asked while examining one that had been carved to resemble a birdcage with something inside.

  “Fifteen apiece. Or thirty for the set of three.”

  I paid without haggling—showing too much interest would suggest knowledge of their actual value. When I tucked them into my jacket pocket I felt a momentary chill, as if something cold had brushed against my spine. I dismissed it instantly, the mind plays tricks when it wants to be tricked.

  Two hours later, I sat at the counter of a diner called Lola’s, working my way through a burger that tasted like it had been cooked on a grill that hadn’t been cleaned since Korea. The milkshake, however, was excellent—thick enough to stand a spoon in, with real vanilla. The talismans sat heavy in my pocket, an investment waiting to pay dividends.

  Three booths away a small cluster of people sat picking at their food, their black attire marking them as clearly as if they’d worn signs around their necks: RECENTLY BEREAVED. I watched them over my milkshake, noting the dynamics. A woman in her fifties, dabbing at her eyes with a handkerchief. A young man—late twenties maybe—staring at his coffee like it contained answers to questions he’d never thought to ask. And an older gentleman, his back military-straight despite the stoop of his shoulders, suspicion etched into the lines around his eyes.

  Fresh from a funeral, or perhaps a wake. Perfect.

  I waited until the younger man excused himself to the restroom before making my approach. Timing is everything in this business.

  “Pardon the intrusion,” I said. I slipped into the booth across from the woman and the older man. “But I couldn’t help noticing your grief. It hangs about you like a shroud.”

  The woman looked startled but not alarmed. The older man narrowed his eyes.

  “Who the hell are you?” he demanded.

  I smiled my professional smile—practiced, perfected, the one that said I was both trustworthy and slightly mysterious.

  “My name is Rodney Holmes. I’m… well, let’s just say I work with transitions.” I kept my voice low, intimate, as if sharing a secret. “The veil between worlds is thinner than most people realize.”

  “What kind of nonsense—” the older man began, but the woman touched his arm.

  “Harold, please.” Her voice was raw from crying. “Let him speak.”

  I directed my attention to her, recognizing the more receptive audience. “You’ve lost someone very dear to you. Recently.”

  “My husband,” she whispered. “Richard. The funeral was this morning.”

  I nodded solemnly. “I thought as much. There’s a particular quality to recent separation—like a thread still vibrating after being cut.”

  The younger man returned from the restroom, hesitating when he saw me in his seat. I gestured for him to join us. Confusion crossed his face, but grief makes people compliant in strange ways.

  “This gentleman says he works with… transitions,” the woman—Richard’s widow—explained.

  “I was just telling your mother—”

  “Aunt,” the young man corrected.

  “Aunt, of course, that sometimes, when the separation is fresh, there’s a possibility for one final exchange.” I reached into my pocket and withdrew one of the bone talismans—the one carved like a birdcage. “A whisper across the veil, if you will.”

  “You’re selling something,” the older man—Harold—said flatly. He wasn’t wrong.

  “Not selling. Offering.” I placed the talisman on the table, letting the carved bone catch the light. “This is a medium vessel—a way to direct your voice to those who have crossed over. One whisper, at midnight. And if they choose, they may whisper back.”

  The woman reached for the talisman with trembling fingers. “Is this… witchcraft?”

  “No, ma’am. Just an older science than most people remember.” I watched her examine the bone, her fingers tracing the intricate patterns. “There’s a simple ritual. A candle. A personal item of the deceased. And the vessel to carry your words.”

  Stolen from its original source, this story is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

  “How much?” The younger man’s voice surprised me. His eyes were fixed on the talisman, hunger evident in his gaze.

  “For you? Two hundred.” I named the price with confidence—high enough to be valuable, low enough to be almost accessible.

  The widow clutched the talisman to her chest. “I’ll take it.”

  I withdrew the second talisman—this one carved to resemble a keyhole—and placed it before the younger man. “You had things left unsaid.”

  It wasn’t a question. Everyone had things left unsaid, always.

  “My dad… I didn’t make it back in time.” His voice cracked. “There were things I needed to tell him.”

  “Now you can.” What? Everyone has a sob story. It’s not my fault the kid had shit luck. I pushed the talisman towards him. “Same price.”

  The youth nodded without hesitation, already pulling out his wallet.

  I turned my gaze to Harold, whose suspicion hadn’t wavered. “And you, sir? Nothing you like to ask the departed?”

  “I don’t believe in this garbage,” he said, but his eyes betrayed him—flickering to the third talisman I’d placed on the table, carved with what appeared to be a spiraling vortex.

  “Belief isn’t necessary,” I assured him. “Only intent.”

  He stared at the talisman for a long moment. “My son… there were circumstances around his death that never made sense.”

  I nodded in sympathy. “The dead know many truths that the living cannot access.”

  “How does it work? Harold asked. His voice dropped, as if he were afraid of being overheard.

  I launched into my explanation—one part mysticism, two parts vague scientific-sounding jargon, all of it complete nonsense designed to sound just plausible enough. The ritual was simple: place the talisman on a grave at midnight, light a candle, whisper the name of the dead, followed by a simple incantation I scribbled on a napkin: Veni, vocem audiat meam, loquere et abire. Come, hear my voice, speak and depart—basic latin, impressive enough to sell the illusion.

  Twenty minutes later, I walked out of Lola’s Diner six hundred dollars richer, with instructions to three people so desperate they’d stand in a graveyard at midnight, whispering to the dead. They would hear nothing in return, of course. The dead don’t whisper; they rot. But the living would feel something—a breeze, maybe, or their own imagination giving them what they needed to hear. Rodney Holmes delivered, one way or another.

  When I slid back into my Stingray, I caught myself humming. It really had been a productive day.

  The motel bed creaked beneath me as I arranged the day’s earnings in neat stacks—two hundred from the widow, two hundred from the son, two hundred from the paranoid father, plus the five hundred from the dog miracle. Anna’s check had cleared. Eleven hundred dollars in two days; not bad for a man whose only real talent was understanding people’s desperation. I allowed myself a moment of satisfaction, a private smile in the yellow light of the bedside lamp, before the first ripple of wrongness crawled across my skin.

  A chill invaded the room. Not the gradual cooling of a failing heater, but an immediate plunge, as if someone had opened a door to arctic in December. My breath clouded before my face. The dollars on the bedspread seemed to dim, their green faded to a sickly gray in the suddenly inadequate light.

  “Damn drafty motels,” I muttered, but my voice sounded thin, unconvincing to even my own ears.

  The lamp beside me flickered once, twice, then went dark with a soft pop of the bulb. Not blown—the filament hadn’t flashed. It just extinguished. My room plunged into a darkness deeper than it should have been, considering the parking lot lights that had been visible through the thin curtains moments before.

  In the darkness, the radio clicked on. I hadn’t touched it. I hadn’t even noticed it was there, tucked on a nightstand beneath a Gideon Bible and yesterday’s newspaper. Static hissed from its speaker, a sound like sand being poured over dead leaves. Then, beneath the static, a voice. No—voices. Multiple, overlapping, speaking words I couldn’t understand because they flowed backward, like a record played in reverse.

  My hand found the lamp switch, I clicked it frantically, uselessly. “Enough,” I said, louder this time. “I don’t know what kind of game—”

  The radio went silent. The darkness remained absolute. In that silence, I heard the soft tap of something against glass.

  My eyes had begun to adjust to the darkness, enough to make out the shape perched on my windowsill outside—a large bird, a stark outline against the night sky. Not just any bird. The same impossible raven from Mrs. Davies’ neighborhood.

  “No,” I said, my voice steadier than I felt. “You’re not real. What the hell did Tommy’s counsin slip me?”

  The tap came again—the raven’s beak against the glass. Deliberate. Demanding. Then the bird spoke, its voice filtering through the closed window with unnatural clarity.

  “Time to reconsider your career path, Sham Man.”

  I rose from the bed, anger replacing fear. This had to be a trick, a setup. Maybe Tommy was trying to muscle in on more of my profits, or maybe one of my marks from the past had finally caught up with me. Maybe someone painted a parrot black? But this… talking bird routine wasn’t going to fly. I stormed to the window and yanked the curtain fully open.

  “What the hell do you want?” I demanded. “Who put you up to this?”

  The raven tilted its head, its eyes reflecting something that wasn’t in the room—a cold blue light that radiated from nowhere.

  “Put me up to this?” The bird’s voice had that same gravel-and-glass quality from before. “You misunderstand our relationship, Rodney Holmes. I am not the one performing tricks for money.”

  “Look, bird, or whatever you are—”

  “Raven,” it interrupted. “A distinction worth making, under the circumstances.”

  “Fine. Raven.” I spat the word. “I don’t know what kind of… of ventriloquist act this is, but I’m not buying it. So why don’t you take your feathered ass back to whoever sent you and tell them they’re not getting a dime from me.”

  The raven adjusted its wings slightly, feathers rustling like pages of an ancient book. “No one sent me, Rodney. I told you that yesterday. I came because you’ve stumbled onto something you don’t understand.”

  “Those bone trinkets?” I laughed, though it sounded hollow in the dark room. “They’re cattle bone from some tourist trap. Nothing magical about them.”

  “The bones aren’t what matters,” Raven said. “It’s the words. The ritual. The promise. The thing you didn’t know you knew.”

  An uncomfortable sensation spread through my chest. “What are you talking about?”

  “That ritual you sold them wasn’t a lie. Not entirely.” The Raven’s eye gleamed brighter. “Which means what follows… won’t be pretend either.”

  A chill that had nothing to do with the room’s temperature crept up my spine. “You’re talking nonsense.”

  “Am I?” Raven’s head tilted again, studying me like a curious problem. “You told them to speak a name at midnight. To light a candle. To use a bone vessel as a conduit. You spoke Latin—poorly, I might add—but you spoke it. And tonight, three people will do exactly as you instructed.”

  “So what? Nothing will happen.” My voice lacked the conviction I was certain I felt.

  “Something always happens when you call the dead by name in the dark,” Raven replied. “Especially when you invite them to speak. Even more so when you provide them with a vessel.”

  I shook my head, forcing a laugh. “Those people will stand in a graveyard, feel a bit spooked, then go home thinking they’ve had a spiritual experience. That’s all.”

  “Is that what you think?” Raven made a sound like dry laughter. “You humans are so predictably arrogant. You think because you don’t believe in something that it can’t hurt you.”

  “This conversation is over,” I said, reaching for the curtain. “Go find someone else to haunt, you stupid black parrot.”

  “Raven,” the bird said dangerously. “Run if you like, but when they come—and they will come—remember that I tried to warn you. Twice now.”

  “Fuck off,” I said, yanking the curtain closed.

  Through the fabric, I heard the raven’s voice one last time.

  “They’ll be expecting you to fix what you’ve broken, Rodney Holmes. And they don’t take disappointment well.”

  The lights flickered back on. The radio remained silent. The temperature slowly returned to normal. But long after the sound of wings had faded, I sat on the edge of the bed, staring at the closed curtain, trying to convince myself that talking ravens were more absurd than the possibility that I’d accidentally conjured something real.

  Money, I decided, focusing on the cash still spread across the bed. Money was real. Everything else was just an overactive imagination and too much cheap whiskey.