Ethan Chandler

In one year: 63 unsent emails, 178 recalled, 34 calls where he hung up as soon as someone or something answered, and 15 where he politely claimed he had the wrong number. Three letters he’d taken back out of the guy’s mailbox. After another full moon, though, he finally left a voicemail for the man who supposedly knew a thing or two about the supernatural.

“Hi, this is Ethan. I was told you handle matters of a… supernatural nature. Jesus, that sounds so wrong.. well.. I’d like to make an appointment. Thursday, eight thirty, the Fox and Finch on Dean Street? I’d rather meet somewhere public. There’s a booth by the window where I can make an ass of myself without involving the whole bar. What I mean is… I’d appreciate some discretion. You can call me back at this number. Actually, text me… I’m the guy who keeps calling and saying he meant to call his dentist. I think we’ve done enough of that.”

He’d taken the day off and gotten to the bar two hours early. Otherwise, he probably wouldn’t have shown up at all. And even as eight thirty got closer, he was still thinking about bolting, being a good boy for once and renting a room in a loony bin.