May 9, 2017
Mel sits idly drumming her fingers on the table when Abigail Ryder returns. Abby gives a tight smile, a poor attempt at seeming personable, before taking her seat opposite once more.
MEL: You keep leaving like that, I’m going to think you don’t like me. Which, by the way, sorry about punching you.
ABBY: It’s really not the worst reaction I’ve seen to that kind of thing.
MEL: I still can’t believe we just forgot about Nick.
ABBY: You remember now, though?
MEL: Pieces. He was my best friend, but I only know that because you told me. And people have been asking me where he went, but I didn’t even remember that until just now.
ABBY: You might never fully remember.
MEL: Great.
She rubs her eyes; they’re puffy, as if she’s been crying. She clears her throat, seeming uncomfortable with this display of emotion, and gives Abby a forced smile.
MEL: So. What’s the weirdest thing you’ve seen, doing this?
Abby considers. Her answer, when it comes, has the cadence of a lie.
ABBY: I have to be honest, I think you’ve seen much stranger things than I have. Ask Ashford, maybe, but he tends to share exactly zero things of substance from his past. Won’t even let me look at most of his files. Most of what I’ve done is standard spook stuff—ghosts. Hauntings.
MEL: But you do believe in all of this.
ABBY: Yeah, you don’t have to worry about either of us pulling the skeptic card on you. I mean, skeptical about details, maybe. But we both know what’s out there.
MEL: Then you’re not just here because . . .
ABBY: Because what?
Mel hesitates.
MEL: It’s just. I heard you talking to Dr. Ashford, before. You said you wanted to ask us about Miranda, and he told you to wait. And I thought you must have—it seemed like you knew her.
ABBY: I did.
MEL: I’m sorry.
ABBY: You don’t need to be.
MEL: We lost her.
ABBY: You really didn’t.
MEL: If we’d been paying more attention, one of us could have grabbed her hand, and—
ABBY: Melanie, Miranda died months ago.
MEL: What?
Abby slides a file across the table to Mel, who opens it hesitantly. The angle of the camera offers no glimpse of its contents.
ABBY: Autopsy report. Look at the date. And the location.
MEL: It says Jane Doe.
ABBY: There’s a photo, but I don’t recommend—
Mel turns the page and lets out a small cry, pressing a hand to her mouth.
MEL: Oh my God. What—what happened to her?
ABBY: It’s not . . . that isn’t relevant right now. But it’s not your fault. It happened long before you met her.
MEL: But she was there. She was with us.
ABBY: I know. And I don’t think she left you when the dark came. There’s a voice in the video, right before the phones shut off. I’ve listened to it a few times. It’s her, Mel.
MEL: I . . . I wasn’t sure. I thought so, but then I decided it wasn’t possible.
ABBY: What happened?
MEL: She said quiet. And we all went quiet. And we heard this sound. It was like—a sort of singing. Humming. And a scuttling. And then someone whispered this way, and the door next to me opened. I went through. I don’t know if I trusted the voice or if I was just more afraid of whatever was making that sound, but the others followed.
Abby nods.
MEL: You really think it was Miranda?
ABBY: Sara never told you?
MEL: Wait. Sara knew? Why wouldn’t she—
Her brow furrows.
ABBY: That is a big part of what we’re trying to piece together.