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T he kettle whistled loudly, cutting through the heavy silence of my cramped office and pulling me away from the depressing task of sorting through the month’s bills.

I let out a sigh, rubbing my temples as I glanced at the piles of paper scattered across the desk—overdue notices, rising utility costs, and the inevitable reminder of my dwindling cash reserves.

For the last two weeks, the rain had poured down almost nonstop, a relentless deluge that mirrored my growing anxiety.

Each drop felt like a weight pressing down on my already wobbly finances, pushing me closer to the edge of no return.

I had always known that weather could make or break a business like mine—a drive-in movie theater in a small town was a fickle beast, reliant on the whims of both customers and the sky.

Bottom line, rain was bad when you depended on a drive-in movie theater to pay your bills. Typically, I was closed for about four months out of the year, but I was hoping to make it to Thanksgiving without having to shut it down for the season.

That meant I needed every ticket sale I could muster, and the thought of closing early was a crushing blow I was desperate to avoid.

“Dammit,” I said, groaning and biting my lip.

I stood up and walked over to the kettle, the steam swirling into the air like my thoughts—chaotic and heavy.

As I poured the boiling water into my favorite chipped mug, the one that said “book boyfriends keep it going longer” in a pretty pink font, I glanced out the window.

The rain continued to fall in sheets, blurring the view of the parking lot and making the fact that the neon lights were currently off even more gloomy.

I sighed. It was hopeless. Pop’s bills were due, and the retirement home had increased their fees again this year.

My relationship with my only parent had always been tenuous. After my mother had passed away, and it was just me and him, well, things had been strained.

Especially when I talked about things I was seeing, impossible things that he would have preferred I left unsaid.

Oh, Pop, why?

Shame was one of the first emotions I learned to recognize in my father. That was closely followed by resentment and trepidation.

I closed my eyes against the shimmering shadows coming from outside, willing myself to ignore what I knew was there.

Shit.

Whenever I was upset, I allowed my shields to slip. Something a psychic medium should never ever do. It was a dangerous practice.

The world around me could become a cacophony of voices and emotions, a swirling storm of energies that threatened to overwhelm me.

In those moments of vulnerability, I risked exposing not just myself, but the secrets that had been carefully buried beneath layers of silence and shame.

Not that anyone knew I was a psychic. To them, I was just an ordinary person with a less than ordinary job. But I was still someone who blended in with the crowd.

Pop had ignored the signs. He told me to leave it alone. To stop pretending I saw things that didn’t exist.

Liar. Troublemaker. Just like my crazy mother.

God, I hated the memory of his voice when things had gotten too bad for me to deal with them alone. But after his swift rejection, I learned to compartmentalize my sensitivities until they felt like distant echoes rather than living things.

It wasn’t easy. And I failed more often than not.

Control is everything.

I reminded myself of that often during my lifetime.

“Stop acting crazy, Jez. You want attention, do something else,” he would say.

His voice was always so steady and calm. No heat or anger behind his words. But they hurt as readily as any slap would have.

I wondered sometimes if he thought I really was a liar.

God, how I wished I could ward off the spirits that danced around us just by sheer will alone. And sometimes, when the weight of the world pressed too hard on my shoulders, my reserve wavered, and I felt the floodgates begin to crack.

My family tree was rooted in the shame my paternal grandmother brought down on us with her unfortunate proclivity for telling people when they were being haunted by a loved one.

Her gift had been both a blessing and a curse. While some found solace in her words, others shunned her. But no one suffered as much as my father had.

Nana was known as the town freak.

The whispers and gossip had echoed through our family like a ghostly refrain, and I’d grown up with the weight of that legacy on my back.

Of course, I pitied him. Pop tried to be a good man. He took care of me after Mom passed. He just didn’t or couldn’t understand me.

Shame was something I was greatly familiar with. Taunts and ridicules were an everyday part of my life, growing up in Dry Creek. But I managed. Living on the outskirts of town helped.

Right then, I swallowed hard and forced myself to build the walls back up, reminding myself why I had to be strong.

Pop was suffering from dementia now, and he needed me to pay for his care. I owed him that much.

I took a deep breath, grounding myself in the here and now, focusing on the mundane—a flickering light overhead, the sound of the raindrops hitting the roof and windowpanes.

I needed to remain present, to reclaim control, before the whispers became too loud.

The world of the living demanded my attention, and while I couldn’t completely escape my lineage, I could navigate it on my own terms.

No one else knew about my struggles, and I kept it that way. Hell, I worked hard to keep it that way.

It’s why I still lived in my childhood home. Haunted— literally —and yet always alone.

I’d never hurt my father by claiming to be cursed by the same thing that had turned his own mother into a stranger.

The pain of her heartbreak was too much for her to bear, and Nana’s mind snapped long before I was born.

I’d only visited her twice while she was alive. Oh, I saw her sometimes when I went to put flowers on Mama’s grave.

She was always sitting under the shady oak tree by my late grandfather’s grave. I met her gaze just once, and in that fleeting moment, a connection sparked between us—one that transcended the boundaries of time and speech.

Nana nodded at me, her eyes deep pools of understanding, but she remained blessedly silent.

Like she knew I was beyond speech, trapped in a whirlwind of emotions that threatened to swallow me whole. In her silence, I felt heard. I felt understood.

And that was so goddamn rare for me. I thought my emotions would choke me that day. But they didn’t.

I was still here.

Tears flowed down my cheeks as I cradled my mug of rapidly cooling tea. I shivered, reminding myself to put on something thicker before I headed to bed.

My life was a solitary one, but I understood. This curse was my own cross to bear and bear it I did.

I dated a man about a year ago, and it got serious. He even moved in for a short while. I thought it would be nice having someone care for me. Only Patrick didn’t.

He was a user and a jerk. I made the mistake of telling him exactly what I was going through one dark night. Predictably, he left, after clearing out the old coffee jar I liked to hide cash in.

Told me I needed help and that no one wanted to spend time with a freaky ass fat girl . Funny, but I never even thought about my body being too heavy to be attractive until he said that.

Yeah, it hurt.

So not only was I cursed, but apparently, I was fat, too. It was a lot to come to grips with all at once.

But I did. Now, I knew then I would never find someone to share my life with, and I accepted it.

It was hard. I mean, I was only thirty-one years old. But it was better to face the facts than to go into another relationship as blindly as I had that one.

Sometimes I just felt so alone.

It had nothing to do with the fact I lived in a trailer on the outskirts of town. But it did have everything to do with seeing the ghoulish remnants of the dearly, or not so dearly, departed that hounded me day in and out.

Shades wandered around aimlessly, stuck on this plane until they resolved whatever they needed to in order to move on.

Sometimes I was able to pick up on what they needed.

And sometimes I made a call, sent a letter, hopped on a bus and did my best to see that they were heard, and their final wishes were fulfilled.

It wasn’t always possible. But I did my best with the meager budget I had and whatever time I could spare. It’s all I could do.

All the Fates would allow , as Pop would say.

The rain was coming down in sheets now, and the good news was the old double wide Pop had bought back when I was in grade school was still standing.

Barely.

Sure, there were a dozen things I could list off the top of my head that needed fixing, but that would all have to wait.

It was all I could do to pay his bills and keep the lights on. But that wasn’t so bad, right? I had my books and a ton of old movies to keep me company.

My phone buzzed with an incoming message, and I gasped as I read the text over. Twice.

Hey Jezebel, It’s me Penelope. You may have heard I’m engaged to Max Leeds, and he owns the Motley Crewd Ranch.

Anyway, we’re having some trouble with our fences, and I was wondering if we could rent that lot you own behind the theater for a week or two.

We will pay top dollar for you allowing our goats to stay there, and we will even throw in a full time caretaker to tend to their needs. Let me know asap. -Pen

I blinked hard, wiping the tears that had come back with a vengeance. Was this real? I mean, I knew Penelope, but we were hardly close friends.

Still, I could not afford to look a gift horse, or in this case, goat , in the mouth. I grabbed my phone and replied. I didn’t often get good news, but this sure felt like the start of something good.

Fingers crossed.