I wish I could get paid for hunting down demons. But really, how much do you get paid for almost being strangled and drowned in garbage water before you can consider it worth it?

Next message. “Hey Chess, it's Charlie. Come rescue me Saturday. Mom and Uncle Bill want to murder me with Scrabble. And Mom wants to borrow my Death Cab For Cutie CD. Can I borrow your Charlie Feathers box set? I'll let you hold my Johnny Cash in return. Give me a call at work tomorrow. I'll tell the secretary to put you right through.” Her sister chuckled and hung up. Chess made a face at her dirty scraped knees in the dark.

Next message. “Francesca.” A piercing childish giggle. “Frannncessssssca…"

Damn phone. It had been doing that a lot lately. Well, what do you expect when you find a clutch of priceless sorcerous books in a dusty boiler-room basement of a building built in 1906, since the damn city was too cheap to buy a new one?

Still, Chess loved the old library; its mellow wooden floors, its cranky heat, its moldering shelves and groaning ceilings. Its antique Art Deco elevators—in the twenties, apparently, the citizens of Jericho still cared about their library. She even loved her crammed little nook of an office—as head librarian, she was accorded that one luxury, the office that had been the head librarian's since 1922.

"Frannnnncessssssca…” The voice turned even sweeter, more piping. “Frrraaaannnnncesssscaaaaa…"

"You know, as a prank caller, you really suck,” she muttered. The message ended with a squawk of feedback. Her hair dripped. I think I'm still alive. God. Really dealing with this well. Chalk one up for me. I'm not in a straitjacket or clawing my own eyes out. This is fantastic.

Next message. “Hey, girl! It's Bobby."

Chess groaned into her knees. Oh, please. No.