"I hate this," Cyril mumbled, looking through the window, down to the street outside. He kept expecting Stella to arrive at any moment. For her car to pull into view. For her to storm up the stairs. He could see it so perfectly in his mind's eye.

But she still hadn't come.

"As you mentioned," Oliver called from over his shoulder. He moved throughout the new apartment, studying everything: the I Love Lucy memorabilia lining the walls, the bible study material left on the couch-side table, the array of travel mementos on the bookshelves. "But if I could go along with your decision to talk with Noah Walker, you can at least sit here for a few days."

"She shouldn't have taken the watch."

Oliver sighed. "She was upset, Cyril. You should have seen her last night. What Stella did went too far."

Cyril whipped around. "At least Stella acted from a place of compassion. She was trying to spare Bronte. Bronte taking us away without a word to Stella was malicious, if not downright cruel."

Oliver's hands clenched into fists at his side. "Compassion? For who, Cyril?"

"For us!"

"And what do you think Bronte's trying to do? You don't think taking us away from Bronte through purification is the exact same? Bronte brought us here because she was afraid Stella might try again—especially since Stella's now in a position where she could do it herself."

Cyril rolled his eyes. "Please. The name invocation? She couldn't purify us with that."

"Couldn't she? We don't know how any of this works, Cyril. For all we know she could..." he waved his hands around, searching for the word, "she could speak us into the next life. Bronte's trying to give us a chance, here. For us to decide."

Cyril turned back toward the window. "We aren't staying in this apartment."

"Not for long. Just long enough for Bronte and—"

Cyril waited for him to continue. When he didn't, he glanced over his shoulder, first at Oliver and then to where Oliver looked.

Bronte stood in the space that led to the kitchen, clutching a steaming mug with both hands. Her eyes watched them, moving back and forth between them.

Cyril forgot she could see them with the same clarity with which Stella heard them. He'd become accustomed to Stella eyes wandering, unable to land on them. Having Bronte's gaze pierce through him so completely left an uneasy feeling in the pit of his stomach.

Her eyes finally landed on him. "You're angry." She sounded convinced, not at all questioning, uncertain.

Honesty seemed the best course. "Yes," he said, then recalling she couldn't hear him, he nodded.

Her eyes swung to Oliver. Then down to his hands still balled into fists at his side. "You too?"

Oliver nodded but pointed over at Cyril.

She let out a heavy sigh and brought her mug up to her lips. Instead of sipping, she took in a deep breath of the coffee's aroma. "I didn't mean to start a fight between the two of you."

Oliver moved closer to her but Cyril stayed put by the window. He turned somewhat to face Bronte, hoping to convey that he was upset rather than angry. But he still wanted to be able to glance out the window. Just in case.

Oliver hovered uselessly, trying to speak with his hands, gesturing. After a few moments of confusion, Bronte let out a weak laugh and finally took a sip of her coffee. "We should have brought the Ouija board."

"Yeah," Oliver grunted.

Cyril caught the unexpected sadness in his tone. A thought danced through his mind that maybe Oliver longed to be able to speak with Bronte with the same fervor with which he, personally, wished Stella's eyes could meet his. But the thought vanished when he glanced over his shoulder, out through the window again.

Bronte moved toward the couch, Oliver trailing behind. "It's only temporary, you being here. Just until I can trust Stella not to try and send you away again." She'd been settling comfortably into the couch but then her eyes snapped up worriedly. "As long as you still want to stay here."

Cyril wondered at what else Oliver and Bronte discussed.

"Of course we still want to stay," Oliver said, sitting beside Bronte. Then he hung his head. "We should have brought the stupid board."

"Maybe they make travel Ouija boards or something," Bronte mumbled between sips. She gave Cyril a hopeful smile. "It's not too bad here. But Rose won't be able to perceive you or anything. I am sorry about that."

Cyril glanced around the living room once again. The room reflected the owner, without question, with its bright patterns and bohemian trends. He'd known to whose apartment they'd come without the owner even being present.

He prayed Bronte was right about Rose’s perceptions. Bronte was counting on Rose not having spent enough time at the apartment to perceive the dead yet. But still, with Rose gone for the day, they hadn’t had the chance to test that theory yet.

"And I wonder what we'll do when Rose's suitor comes to call and finds us haunting the place," he grumbled.

Oliver sighed. "Yes, as you already said, Bronte and I hadn't thought about that when we spoke last night. There's no point in harping on it now. We won't be able to convey that thought to her unless we can talk. Which we can't."

Bronte pulled her cell phone out of her pocket. She frowned at the screen. "Persistent," she mumbled. "Seven texts and nine voicemails." Her frown deepened.

"What?" Oliver asked.

Cyril glanced at them.

Bronte continued to stare at the phone. "They're all over two hours ago," she mused, more to herself than the ghosts. "But why wouldn't she..."

With her voice trailing off, she played the last message.

Only there was nothing. No sound came from the speaker. Just two minutes of silence.

Cyril took a few steps closer as Bronte played the message before it. Oliver watched from beside her.

Again, nothing but silence came from the speaker.

Still frowning, she pulled up the text messages. "What the–?" she breathed, staring at the massive green bubbles. But no text. It was like Stella had sent her nothing but empty messages.

The strange part was they varied. As if text should have been there. Some were short. Some long.

All were blank.

Bronte set her coffee mug aside and played through each voicemail. All of them were silent. No voices, no sounds echoing through the receiver, no breathing.

Just silence.

Cyril stood behind the couch and peered over Bronte's shoulder. "Malfunction?" he mused aloud.

"Like a phone glitch? Something happened to Stella's phone?"

Bronte backed out of Stella's voicemails and played a months' old message from her mother. That one worked—her mother's voice floated easily through the speaker, as distinct as a bell. Then she moved on to the last voicemail, the first one sent, and played it.

"I've got a bad feeling about this," Oliver breathed.

Bronte scowled down at her phone.

"Wait," Cyril whispered, leaning closer. "Do you hear that?"

It sounded like shuffling—no, like sliding. The way soda cans slid across the table or the sound of a mouse gliding across a desk. Only slower. Much slower. Seconds stretched into a single slide.

"What is that?" Oliver mumbled, leaning closer to the phone.

The rhythm began to pick up. Faster, as if falling into a grove, a rhythm.

Then the phone shocked Bronte. Startled, she jerked back, dropping it. Her fingers stung from the shock, the tips aching. The phone fell to the carpet. Static replaced the shuffling, loud and obnoxious.

As she reached for it, thunderous pounding resounded from the phone's background. Bronte's fingers closed around the phone and she brought it back up to rest in her lap as the thundering intensified. Louder, louder, so bellowing Cyril half expected the phone to shake from the reverberations.

A roar exploded from the phone.

Cyril and Oliver flinched back but Bronte remained perfectly still. It was only then that they realized Bronte had been watching Oliver, not the phone.

When she saw his gaze meet hers, she shook her head slightly. "I couldn't hear anything. But it looks like you could. Is it the bad thing?"

Oliver hesitated in answering. Cyril flew over the couch to dominate Bronte's vision. He nodded.

She stared at him for a heartbeat, neither one looking away. Then she grabbed her phone and rose from the couch. "Then we're heading back. Now."

On her way out, she grabbed the pocket watch from where she'd left it on Rose's kitchen table.