The black cat lurking in the corner of the psychic’s small Manhattan isn’t so much of an ironic phenomenon as it is a malevolent augury. She doesn’t know how this omen made it to her dusty and secluded corner of the building, but she doesn’t want to find out.

The cat meows. A guise of innocence, a facade of falsehood.

A bad sign.

Right on cue, a single knock echoes on her door. It has a strange and sort of cut-off quality to it as if the knocker pounded with desperation, and their hand was immediately ripped away from the door by some other interloper. She gives the door a wary glance; suspicious of the knock’s natural cadence being interrupted. Was it really even there?

In the corner, the cat meows by her crystal ball. The orb swirls in unison with her turning stomach.

The psychic prays.

Suddenly the whispers outside her door begin. One voice is undeniably male, marked with candor. The other voice is female, speaking in effusions of ardor.

They didn’t die because of a “curse,” Adaline. You’re delusional.

She hasn’t had clients in years. Her services are no longer for sale, after what happened last time.

First the baby on the stairs, then your grandfather, Jack. What if you’re next?

Adaline’s reaching her acme in pleading. The psychic can tell.

The psychic is ready for these sorts of tangles with the metaphysical. She retreats to her broom closet, now eavesdropping on Adaline delivering a panegyric to Jack.

Please, Jack. If you love me, you’ll do this for me.

You’re crazy, Adaline. I’ve had enough of this nonsense. It’s not a game anymore, this paranoia!

She rustles in the closet, digging through the items stashed there. She knows what she is looking for. When he still loved her, he bought her all sorts of useful wards. Indulged in her every caprice. Adored her mutability.

You don’t know! The kinds of unhallowed things I have seen! I’ll show you! I-I swear, Jack- I’ll-

“You’ll-you’ll--” You’ll WHAT? What, Adaline? Curse me? More than I am already by being here?

Blessed opal knife and cleansing crystals in hand, the psychic exits her closet that’s more of a rendezvous for her spiritual knick-knacks. She creeps towards her door, armed and prepared. She is ready. This time.

More than I am by being with you?

Her orb continues to prognosticate in the corner.  

We’re going now, Adaline.

But-

The cat meows.

You do as I do. And we ARE leaving.

The ghosts, the spirits, Jack, I can Sense them, she can help, I promi-

NO!

Adaline screams.

Then, silence.

The psychic throws open her door, trying to catch the ghosts. There is no one there. It is hard to say if there ever was.

In a chimerical state, she closes her door. Drifts towards her curtained window and looks outside her apartment, down towards the street. She sees what she thinks could be the couple. Sees the woman yell. Sees the man grab her arm too forcefully. Notices the wince she gives at his aggression towards her. Notes that the look of dread is resigned and inuring, as if she is used to it. As if this punishment was expected somehow.

Hears the cat hiss. As if the-man-who-could-be-her-Jack had grabbed its paw, too. Remembers what it was like when he grabbed her arm like that. Like her truths were invalid and her existence a disgrace.

She prays to the arbiters, the Fates. They are her gods. For wise, tortured Adaline. For the foolish, lovable Jack.

This continues for an ephemeral period. When she is done, the two on the street have vanished.

It’s for the best, the psychic knows. But their presences still dance at the edges of her Sight. Adaline and Jack--her past, taunting her. Haunting her. Nipping at her heels.

She Senses something. Someone is at her door.

The orb churns. The cat meows.

Suddenly, a knock.