“Oh, yeah,” I replied as I reached up and rubbed my forehead. “Sorry about that.”

“Yeah, well, ya’ oughta be,” he countered.

“I’m a grownup, Ben. I can ride an airplane all by myself. I’ve done it several times, believe it or not.”

“Don’t be an ass, Row. That’s not what I’m talkin’ about. It’s not like this is a normal trip, an’ you know it.”

He was correct yet again. There’s very little one can consider normal about catching a last minute flight bound for a distant city to go in search of a serial killer. Especially one who has most likely been dead for better than 150 years but just happens to be up to her old tricks again because the wrong person decided to play with the wrong kind of magick for all the wrong reasons. It wasn’t as if I was with the FBI, or even a cop. But, I did have a vested interest because that “wrong kind of magick” had been deeply affecting my life and, more importantly, my wife’s for almost a month now. It was time for it to stop, and I was willing to do whatever it would take to make that happen.

“Yeah, Ben, I know…” I muttered in reply. “But when is the last time you recall anything being normal in my life?”

He answered without missing a beat, “Nineteen seventy-two.”

“I’m pretty sure you didn’t even know me in nineteen seventy-two.”

“You’re right. Anyway, I was just guessin’. Actually, I’m bettin’ you’ve prob’ly never had a normal day in your life, period.”

“It feels that way,” I sighed. “But, there was a time…”

“Yeah, Row, I know there was…” he agreed, his voice trailing off as it lost some of its edge.

My friend was agreeing because he had been around when things were sane. While 1972 was pushing the limit, we truly had been friends for more years than I could remember. So he was well aware it wasn’t until I started hearing the voices of the dead that things began to get weird. And, while it seemed like a lifetime, especially to me, that affliction had only come upon me somewhere around a half dozen years ago.