Dr. Benson sits across from me in the painting room. It’s a short walk down the hall from my bedroom on the second floor. He pulls a thin recording device from his coat pocket and lays it on the end table next to his chair. One of the kerosene lanterns burns on the same surface.

“This shouldn’t take very long,” he says.

My attention’s still musing over the fine art on the walls and their unfinished siblings leaning against covered boxes on the floor. “Fine.”

I follow his gaze to the small fire in the fireplace and back to his device.

Benson: “This will be a relatively informal interview. I just want to get your information on record and a brief history of you – if that’s okay.”

“Sure.”

Benson: “Excellent. Let’s start with our full name and age, please.”

“Sean Wayne Douglas. I’m sixteen.”

Benson: “Where are you from?”

“Here in the area.”

Easy enough, so far.

Benson: “Then, you’ve heard of this estate before now?”

“A little. Everyone always told tall tales about the House in the Hollow. That’s it, really.”

Benson: “I see. How is your home life, Sean?”

My muscles clench. “I don’t see how --”

Benson: “Typically, special gifts like yours come from a specific event or circumstance.”

Me: “Oh. Well, mom was always there. Dad came in and out. Good childhood, so far.”

(Benson chuckles)

Benson: “When did you first become aware of your talents?”

I clear my throat. “I was seven or eight. I had an invisible friend, Norm.”

Benson switches which leg he crosses. “You mean an imaginary friend?”

“No, I don’t.”

Benson: “Norm? Do you recall what he looked like?”

A sigh. “Tall. Skinny. Long greasy hair. He kept it up in a ponytail.”

Benson: “What about his clothes, or distinguishing features?”

“That’s what gave away my talent for the first time.”

Benson: “Really?”

“Yeah. Norm wore a gray jumpsuit all the time. When I asked him what it was for, he told me he had to wear one where he lived.”

Benson: “And, where was that, Sean?”

“An upstate prison.”

Benson: “Did Norm tell you much about himself?”

“Oh, yeah! He was from Maine originally. Got the chair for murdering a dozen people in the ‘50s. Pushed his first victim off a fishing boat with a line around his neck. He fried in ’65, as he used to put it.”

Benson: “Why do they contact you?”

“Dunno.”

(Benson sighs in frustration.)

Benson: “What led you here, then?”

“The nightmares.”