Winter meets us near the food court when she’s done with her errand. Wrath and I sit there and share a strawberry milkshake and watch the people streaming in and out of the shops. There’s something about mall watching that’s so interesting. People you’d swear you’ve never seen before in your life appear and disappear over and over again. Like I would definitely notice someone wearing those hot green biker pants as they power walk through the mall, and yet it feels like the first time I’ve ever seen them before.

  “Do you think they go home like that? Or do they change before they leave the mall?” I ask Wrath, chewing lightly on the straw.

  “Are you kidding? This is their fashion runway. They probably wear those pants loud and proud all over town.” He replies.

  “Does he, though? I’ve never been in the Mi-Go Cafe behind this guy when I’m trying to get a croissant.”

  “That’s because you hate croissants.”

  “No one hates croissants.”

  “No one goes to the Mi-Go for their croissants,” Wrath argues.

  I roll my eyes. It’s true. No one in town really likes going to the Mi-Go. “Ever since they got shut down for that infestation of fungi, the place has a weird smell about it.”

  Winter saunters over with a pair of shopping bags like she’s just done an afternoon of shopping. “Hello boys. How was the rest of the ordeal?”

  “Did you get your Dali?”

  She pats a black and white bag that she sets down on the chair next to her. “All wrapped up and ready for its forever home.”

  “Gonna put it on your mantle place?” Wrath asks.

  She smirks. “Oh, I wouldn’t put this in my home. Are you crazy? I know better than that. Haunted objects go to the people who want that nonsense. My house gets the new and remarkably fragile only. Remember your downstairs television? I bet that’s not the first device explosion you’ve had lately, is it?”

  I think about the coffee maker that blew up a few weeks ago. “No,” I admit. “But Morecroft Manor is a bit of a special case.”

  “Yeah,” Wrath says in an oddly challenging tone, like I just said something extremely cutting. I give him an odd look.

  “Mind if we swing by the collector’s house?” Winter asks. “I’ll drop you boys off after, if that’s alright.”

  She ends up driving us to a house near Hollow Hills University. She goes to the door while we wait in the hearse, and I see a Professor I don’t know by name but recognize from campus answer. He accepts the package graciously, bowing to her in absolute delight. That’s weird. But also, you’d think a university professor would know better than to deal with a haunted artifact.

  “It wasn’t a painting. You couldn’t have fit a painting in that shopping bag,” I point out when Winter gets back in the car.

  “I never said it was a painting. It was a Dali. Like one of his bones. I think it was a metacarpal, but truth be told I wasn’t paying too much attention.”

  “And you just launder human remains for fun and profit?”

  “Nah, just for profit. My clothes budget is out of control. My taste is dead bitch, but I wouldn’t be caught wearing something from a resale shop. Just like my house, everything’s got to be brand new. No haunting allowed. That unfortunately means custom, and custom means money.”

  She drops us off a bit later and Wrath watches her drive away with a curious expression on his face. “What’s up?” I ask.

  “I think she might be the coolest person I’ve ever met.”

  ***

  I get lunch with Isaac between our classes, and while we eat in near silence, he checks his horoscope. “What are you, I’ll look at yours, too.”

  “Ophiuchus,” I answer.

  “Oafy-what-us?” he asks blankly.

  I repeat myself. He still stares at me, then glances down at the horoscope column. “I’m not an astrology guy, but I don’t think that’s a real sign.”

  I look over at his paper, sliding my finger down the line of astrological signs until Ophiuchus. He glances at it, then at me, then back at it again. “I would have sworn…”

  “It’s the thirteenth sign,” I explain patiently.

  “But there are only supposed to be twelve.”

  I shrug, unsure why he doesn’t know about it. I go ahead and read the horoscope to myself. You are your soulmate are about to be on the rocks! He’s always known he’s better off without you. Don’t prove it to him now!

  I flinch and push the paper away from me. “Nevermind, I don’t want to know my future anyway.” Isaac looks down at the paper again, then back at me.

  “Where’d it go? Wait, what’d you call it again?”

  “Don’t worry about it.”

  And then just a moment later, almost like clockwork, the blank expression settles over him. “Worry about what?” I roll my eyes and finish my lunch.

  After class is over, I bike over to Carcosa Medical Group, an office building on the outskirts of town near the university. Normally I would stop home and see Wrath, but something about the horoscope settles wrong in my stomach, and I avoid going back to the Manor first. Besides, I haven’t been back to Carcosa since Doctor Lowenthal abandoned on me. That was the name of my last therapist. Luckily, Doctor Malphas also takes my insurance, so it was easy enough to switch.

  This is the first time Malphas has had me meet him at the office. The first visit, if you could call it that, was over the phone. Then he showed up to my house. Then the session in the cemetery. He explains it away by saying his office is still under construction. And upon walking into Carcosa and heading to the Psychiatric Services department on the third floor, I see that it’s true. The outline of Doctor Lowenthal’s name is still visible on the glass of his former office door, the text scraped away by the building staff at some point since his disappearance. And the office where Malphas is set to take up residence still has construction tape and work permits posted in the door.

  If you encounter this narrative on Amazon, note that it's taken without the author's consent. Report it.

  “Over here,” comes a far too jovial voice when I slow at my approach. Meeting at the office, I thought the construction would have been done by now, but Malphas’s office barely looks to have been touched. But the voice comes from a nondescript door off to one side of the hallway. Not a big glass door like the other offices. Just a regular wooden door, like a utility closet.

  And it is, in fact, what it appears to be as I open the door and start to step inside only to realize there’s only a few feet of space. Malphas has turned the broom closet into a makeshift office space. Counter top space cleared away for a small black notebook and a wicked looking pen. It’s like pen made from a peacock quill but if the peacock was instead all black and gray. It’s still an actual pen, though, just with the elaborate flair at the far end.

  I almost ask him about it. It’s the sort of pen that I’m surprised doesn’t already exist inside Morecroft Manor, but I feel like that would also be a bit rude. “We’re meeting… in here today?” I ask carefully, squeezing into the room and trying not to get too close to Doctor Malphas. Not because of any particular reason but I just don’t like to get too close to other people.

  “Oh it’s fine for today. Don’t worry about it,” Malphas says, his tone suggesting that I’m the one who needs to be forgiven.

  “Your office isn’t ready yet?”

  “Not quite yet.”

  “Why couldn’t we meet in Doctor Lowenthal’s old office? No one else has started moving in yet, have they?”

  Malphas looks annoyed at the continued questions but his tone is still bright and cheerful. It’s weird. “Oh we wouldn’t want to meet in there. Not after the way we lost Doctor Lowenthal.”

  Oh, there must be repairs needed for his office, too. I’d heard stories of doctors with patients who were…excitable. Maybe that’s what drove Lowenthal to run for the hills. Or run from the Hills, in this particular case. I’m sure Hollow Hills has its own share of crazies.

  I’m probably not supposed to call them that. But more people act out of pocket here than average. It has to be true.

  Malphas clears his throat. Today his sweater is an intricate pattern of designs that pull and drag the eye. I look at it for only a moment before I start to get sucked in, and instead focus right on his face. I’m not usually one for prolonged eye contact, but the sweater is distracting and it’s better than nothing.

  Maybe that’s why I notice the gleam in his expression today. Is it always there, or is today’s session triggering something specific?

  “Why don’t we start with how class is going this semester. You’ve been back for a few weeks now.”

  “School has been going really well,” I respond, avoiding the topic of Freddie and the weirdness of the early semester. “I’ve made some new friends in one of my classes, which has been weird, but good.”

  “And your parents, have you heard from them lately?”

  I give him a strange look. The last time we met, didn’t I tell him I didn’t want to talk about my parents? Nevermind the fact that he knows we’re not in contact. I’m sure Mom and Dad could reach out if they wanted, but they’re off doing… I don’t even know what they’re actually out there doing. Something important, at least. Or more important than Wrath and I.

  “No…” I say slowly. “You know that. They’re busy.”

  “Busy doing what. You’ve never asked?” There’s something off about Doctor Malphas today. A bead of sweat hangs near his temple, and he seems more jittery than he has in our past sessions.

  “Is something going on?” I ask instead of answering.

  “That’s not relevant right now. I was asking about your parents.”

  “And I told you I don’t know anything. That hasn’t changed since the last time you asked me.”

  The smooth cadence of his voice doesn’t change, but if anything the bead of sweat on his forehead grows more pronounced. “There’s no reason to get agitated, Theo. Why do you think these sorts of topics always provoke such a defensive response from you?”

  The one day I didn’t bring Wrath to school with me. I already know he would have some biting words for the doctor. Wrath isn’t a fan of most humans, but this one especially seems to rile up his contempt.

  I take a deep, pointed breath. “I don’t come to therapy to talk about my parents. I know that some people do, but mine have been out of my life for long enough that their decisions have nothing to do with me. It’s not going to change just because you keep asking me the same questions over and over again.”

  “Sometimes we may think that a thing doesn’t bother us only to later discover that it’s a core facet of our undoing,” he counters. And I worry that he might be right. It hits me suddenly, the realization that I spend so much time arguing with him about my parents that I don’t actually listen to what he’s saying.

  Maybe it’s what’s going on with Grandpa Ghastly and the loss of Maulie. “Okay.” It’s not a full agreement, but maybe there’s something to be said for the therapy thing. Maybe I don’t have to always be so adversarial.

  “I don’t want to push you on the topic,” Doctor Malphas says, his tone cautious, “but I do want to ask you again. Why do you think you get so defensive when I ask about your parents?”

  He’s not wrong. I start to answer, realize I’m proving his point exactly, and then stop and think about what he’s actually asking. Why do I always get so defensive? IT takes me some time to work through the thoughts in my head. He’s right, I can see that much. The topic comes up and I am immediately on my guard. Deflecting and turning the conversation away, or refusing to keep talking. It’s automative. Instinctive.

  “I don’t like to think about them, because I know they’re not thinking about me.” I say quietly. In a way, it’s a truth I can only share because Wrath isn’t here to listen in on it, either. I didn’t plan it, but I know that it’s something I couldn’t say in front of him. I know he would have feelings about it. “Everything they did was to make sure they could leave me without having to worry about me. But really it was so they wouldn’t have to think about me. I’m just something they needed to check off their list for some reason.”

  “Did you ever ask yourself what that list was for?” Malphas asks, and I have to stop and consider that, too.

  Why did my parents have me? They were, apparently, cult leaders and really good ones at that. They were power-hungry and stole from the cult. We still don’t know the full scope of what they took. Neither of my parents had much in the way of parental genes. Even in my few memories of them, they’re scary archetypes rather than maternal or paternal in any way.

  “I think they probably had a plan for me,” I say eventually. “And maybe that means they’re going to come back for me someday. Maybe they were just waiting until I was old enough.” That sounds right. It fits into the weird shape they make in my head. They absolutely would abandon me for nearly two decades just to come back once I’m fully grown. “Maybe they’re waiting for me to graduate.”

  He leans forward just a little. “Do you think that’s it? How soon is your graduation?”

  I shake my head. “I don’t think any of us will know until it’s time. The stars haven’t been right.”

  He gives me a look like he thinks I’m joking. “Theo.”

  “There’s a specific arrangement of stars that my major requires before I can graduate. They haven’t aligned yet.”

  “Can’t scientists predict the stars with star charts?” He sounds honestly curious now. Like he thinks he knows the answer but that he can’t trust what he knows. And honestly, I understand that. Life in Hollow Hills has taught me that exact lesson more times than I can count.

  “Not these types of stars,” I confirm his suspicion. “The only way we know is when the portents are right.”

  “But you think your parents will return when it’s time for you to graduate.”

  I think back to Grandpa Ghastly and Maulie. “Or possibly just my funeral.”