I never knew what to do in such situations, I thought, looking at the widow and her family's crocodile tears. Is it better to just lie to them? Put on the classic fake exorcism, take the money, and go? It's not like I cared much about the morality of the whole thing. Even if I refused, they would probably find some charlatan to “help” them. And those people always left a bad taste in my mouth. They parodied something with history and tradition they couldn’t begin to understand, just for a quick buck. Giving them any business was not on my to-do list, even if that meant scamming someone myself.

  Or do I tell the truth and hope that they will believe me and this will be the end of it? No more money will be spent on exorcists, energy experts, or some other crystal healing adjacent professions. That might sound funny coming from an exorcist like myself, but in my defense, I was a real one, one of very few remaining.

  With the widow's second loud sob, my train of thought came to a screeching halt. I took another look around me, hoping that maybe an actual ghost or demon would pop out from somewhere. An old family house, dark wooden floors creaking with every step, an old kitchen to my left connected with the living room we were in. I stood facing a big window showing me the backyard, with around ten family members and the widow herself standing to my right. The air was filled with dust and the typical smell of old people mixed with the remaining odour of food from the wake.

  And to my greatest disappointment, no otherworldly entity in sight. The only thing that was haunted here was the bright pink dress worn by one of the women.

  “So, to clarify, Miss Lena, you said that after your husband's funeral, his favorite rocking chair sometimes moves on its own, and you now have nightmares about him?” I asked, not letting my thoughts affect my professional demeanor.

  “Y-yes, I-I was peeling the vegetables as always.” She started once again on a story we all heard at least a couple of times already. But I did not stop her. I knew better. “And then I looked toward the chair, where he would sit and read the newspaper while I made him dinner. A-and t-the chair.”

  She stopped for another nose blow accompanied by reassuring words from family. After a deep breath, she continued.

  “It was rocking back and forth, as… as… as if…” Another deep breath “as if he was waiting for his dinner.” She finished with a new bout of treats flowing from her eyes.

  The supposedly haunted chair stood in front of me, and looking at it, I couldn't help but sigh. The object of ghost activities was made from light wood, with the seat made from some sort of material stretched between the frame. The whole thing seemed very light—so light that it could probably be moved by a gust of wind—as it was standing there next to a window—an opened window… Should I just tell her? But from my experience with situations like that, people rarely accept their own mistakes. Usually, it ended with something along the lines of ‘How do you explain the nightmares’ or ‘I felt his presence’ or some other unprovable symptom.

  But if she could arrive at the answer by herself, maybe I wouldn’t have to put on the stupid show.

  Let’s give them a small nudge in the right direction.

  “So, Miss Lena, does the chair always stand before that window?” I pointed.

  “Yes, ye... OH my god,” She started crying again.

  Maybe maybe? Did she get it?

  “He always sat next to the open window. D-d-do you think this is a sign?“ the woman asked, her voice shaking.

  Well, fuck me. Not that I entirely blamed her for seeing the things she wanted to see, that was natural, but it was tough to understand people sometimes. My particular condition did not help much with my empathy, making some emotions even harder to identify with than they already were. Finally, letting go of any thoughts of getting away from the scam, I made up my mind and started on the good exorcist routine.

  “Please, miss, do not despair. I can certainly help you”.

  Let's start the show.

  “I can sense the residual turmoil of emotions left by your husband,” I said with all the sincerity I could muster.

  “Oh, wow,” said one of the spectators from the family flatly, clearly skeptical about my mystical powers.

  I had to stop a chuckle from escaping due to the unintentional comedy here. The powers were real, but the situation was fake. I’m working with what I have here. I closed my eyes and raised my arms as if conducting some invisible orchestra into a slow waltz.

  “Yes, yes, there is a lot of unwillingness to leave without you, yes.” I suddenly turned my head towards the chair. “Some anger? No, no, not anger, more like pain. Yes, pain. Did he have a medical issue of some sort?”

  “Yes, yes,” she cried upon my revelation.

  Well, he was 87 years old, so of course, he had medical issues. Who doesn’t at that age?

  “Hmm, some of those negative emotions were left behind. I have to disperse them so he can leave in peace. Please give me some space,” I said, producing from my pocket a medallion with a strange symbol.

  The medallion was an inside joke among real exorcists. If you had to lead a fake exorcism, then you would use it. The mysterious symbol was an actual rune, part of a complicated alphabet used in spellcasting. But this particular rune used to chase out fake ghosts just said, ‘fuck off.’ I started chanting, using some words from actual spells mixed with Hebrew and ‘me after a couple of beers’ speech. And after just a few moments of that, lighting candles and “special incense” (the cheapest I could find on the internet) was time for the finale. The medallion, you see, was not only a joke but also a prop. It had a strong magnet on the side, and if I held my hand with a metal ring on my finger next to it, the medallion would jump to my hand.

  Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon.

  My chanting reached a high point, and I spoke in English, “Leave this house. I release you!” With that, I brought my left hand closer, and the medallion obediently jumped to my palm, the whole thing accompanied by gasps from the family. I rocked on my legs a bit. Now acting like I was suddenly tired.

  “*huff* The ghost has left. I think your house is clean now. However, the things that were associated with him may act like beacons for the remaining energy, making the atmosphere uncomfortable. Please, if you insist on keeping the chair, move it to the basement or maybe the attic so that it does not remind you of the one who passed.”

  I finished with a tired voice full of wisdom as the woman, now in tears, just nodded her head energetically.

  “Oh *sob*, thank you, *sob*. I don't know how to thank you. *Sob*” She said over the tears, patting herself for money.

  Finally, one of the family members tapped her on the shoulder and gave her an envelope.

  “This is all I could gather for you,” she said, stretching her hand with the envelope in my direction. “The agreed-upon 1800$ with 300$ extra for your service and giving me peace.”

  I stretched out my hand and touched the envelope. But before I took it, I stopped, just for a fraction of a second. At that time, I waited for a sting of guilt about scamming the old lady, an uncomfortable pressure in the pit of my stomach, or maybe disappointment in myself. But as always, nothing.

  The part of me that was supposed to produce any of those was hollow. A price paid long ago. But even now, I still wait for the emotion that will not come. My father told me that it was one of the things keeping our family sane, our minds relatively normal. We need to remind ourselves about some of the emotions when we are supposed to feel them. That kept us human—well, relatively human. Without the contact lenses in my eyes, I would probably not have been let into the house.

  I stopped my musings and bowed a little bit. “Thank you for your strength and for calling me. Reaching out a helping hand is a reward in itself.” After that, I said goodbye to the rest of the family and started on my way home.

  The drive from the nice suburbs took a while as I lived in a supposedly “bad” part of town. The apartment prices were relatively low, courtesy of several local gangs and drug dealers, and people kept to their own businesses. And this was just fine with me.

  Well, not all people, I thought to myself, looking at the old lady opening the doors I was about to pass on the staircase on the way to my apartment.

  “Oh, Steve, honey, have you seen my cat ?” Asked the lady.

  “No, Miss Helen, you should check under the bed,” I said calmly. After that, the lady thanked me and closed the doors, ending the short talk that was now an inseparable part of my routine.

  As for the cat, it was dead, and no, don’t judge me, I didn't kill it. It died of old age years ago. Also, to this day, I have no idea who Steve is. From what I know, the old lady was sent here to live where she wouldn’t bother her family. And now she was something like an almost friend of mine, an unlikely friendship, but there was a reason for my liking her company. You see, while her disease makes her lose contact with reality, it also allows her to do what most can’t—look directly into my eyes. The feeling of being close to another human in that moment is weirdly pleasing, like an itch that I didn't know I had until it was scratched. So, each time I walked to my apartment, I would slow down and walk a bit heavier, waiting for that small piece of daily entertainment.

  Having a conversation with another person while keeping eye contact was a pleasant change from the skittish glances followed by gluing their eyes to the floor even if the talk revolved around some guy named Steve and a dead cat.

  After twisting the key in the old lock, I entered my place. A small one-bedroom apartment was all I could afford, considering I had to pay upkeep on a tightly protected storage unit where most of my family's actual wealth lay. I could probably live in luxury if I sold any of the things there, but they were indispensable to me. They were instruments of one of the very few things that got my heart pumping—magic. Ahh, magic. A beautiful, fascinating subject.

  My thoughts were filled with spells and arcane knowledge as I went to the bathroom and delicately pulled out my contact lenses. I couldn't risk any damage to them. They were specially made and expensive like hell, but they did the job quite impressively, I had to say. I appreciated the eyewear as I looked into my own eyes, now reflected in the mirror.

  In the past, when tales about my family were told, most people thought that our eyes would be deformed. Red reptilian slits, or like basilisks and turn you into stone, or curse you, or cause anyone who makes eye contact to have a bad harvest, or, well, you get the picture. But that was not it. The reason none made eye contact with the members of my direct lineage was more metaphysical, the price for our power.

  As I was about to lie down for the day after finishing a couple of tasks before bed, the phone rang. And not my ignore-notifications-and-emails phone, but to my dismay, my work phone. I immediately recognized the caller. It was my broker. Sadly, not exactly someone it was a good idea to ignore, so with a groan of someone made to go back to the office after leaving work, I picked up.

  “Why are you calling me at that hour?” I sighed into the phone.

  “How was the exorcism? I heard you did an outstanding job. Scamming people so well, they thank you for it.” There was a chuckle from the other side as I groaned again.

  “If you know how the job went, then why ask? An honest day of dishonest work got me tired, so get to the point.”

  “Well, I have a new job for you,” Came a weirdly excited response, considering scamming people wasn't exactly exhilarating.

  “I paid my rent this month. I'm not in the mood for another scam.”

  “Yes, you’re in the mood for sitting in that magazine of yours, trying to figure out a way to cast third-circle spells or trying to summon some fucked up creature of myth.”

  “I’m not denying anything, but it's still better than scamming some old people out of their money.”

  “She's young this time,” the voice said, still excited, as if that was all good then.

  “Oh, that changes eeeeeverything. Should I heal her family with some crystals while I'm at it? Give me the address, and I will be there in an hour.”

  “Aaaaaand.”

  This was getting annoying.

  “It's not a scam this time.” I could practically hear him smiling from the other end. “A real haunting.”