"You're a wizard, Harry," the old man standing just outside my front door said. He looked like he'd been tied to the back of a cab and dragged all the way across town to get here. His ratty duster had more holes than not, his face was pink and blotchy and covered in salt and pepper stubble. And his eyes, bloodshot, wild, and locked on me like I was the last crack pipe he'd ever burn his lips on. He had to be a junkie. The question was, why didn't I slam the door in his face?

I said, "I'm sorry? Did you just quote Harry Potter to me?"

It was still raining, had been all week, and my cheap front door warps in the humidity. It took me a good five minutes to get it open when the old junkie started banging on it like the cops. In the distance, banshees crooned their ghostly songs, ballads meant to lure me out of my house every night. It wasn't like they were sirens, those were way more dangerous—hence why me and the beach don't mix well. But I've found that banshees, while loud, can't sing for shit. Like a horny cat in a blender, so I do my best to ignore them.

The old junkie slumped against the doorframe, and I almost reached out to grab him, but pulled back once my nose caught his scent again. Piss and booze and mildew. Was he dying?

The old junkie said, "S'ppose jokes ain't the best way going bout these things. Let me in outta this rain, and I'll get to s'plainin."

I said, "Hey, look man. If you need help or something, I can call the paramedics. But If you're just looking for somewhere dry for the night, there's a shelter not far from here. This ain't a hotel, okay?"

He looked up, his grin revealing teeth rotted like piano keys, and said, "No. Ain't no hotel, I s'ppose. More like a motel. You know, them fuck lots out on the highway, where lot lizards get their parts all mixed up. Yeah. That's what we're dealin with here. A whole vortex of desire, all coming straight outta you, wizard boy."

When I was still trying to date, my go-to spot for first dates were comedy clubs. Tell me what you think is funny, I may believe you. Laugh at what you think is funny, then I feel like I know you. The best nights aren't the pro-shows, like on Friday or Saturday nights. The best are midweek, open mic nights, where anyone can get up on stage. Even the dead.

Once, I was on a date with this girl. Nice enough. She was in public relations, real type-A lady. We went to an open mic night, sat in the front row and everything. The first comic on stage (before the show started) was this old, disheveled ghost by the name Doctor Pepper. The thing about Doctor Pepper, was that he was a total junkie, nodding off on stage. He did a ten minute set, slipping in and out of consciousness as he told this long, rambling, nearly incoherent story. But if you paid attention, if you could perceive him, there was a coherent story somewhere in there.

My stomach hurt from laughing. My date didn't get it, of course, since she couldn't see him.

Here, now, with this living, breathing old man slumped against my doorframe, I wanted to understand what he was saying—what the story was somewhere in there.

It wasn't like I had anything else going on.

"You know what?" I said, stepping aside. "Just come in."

The old junkie flashed me his piano key smile, and shuffled in past me.

In the shadow of the alley across the street, a pair of golden eyes hovered in the darkness. One of them winked. I groaned and closed the door.

My studio apartment wasn't much to look at. It was on the first floor, between a used-book store and a plant shop. The neighborhood was really up-and-coming, like, the rent was up and young gentrifiers were coming. But I'd been grandfathered into my place, rent controlled, and had every intention of dying here.

The old junkie had plopped down on my stitched-up couch, his wet trench coat still on, and he kicked up his grubby sneakers on my coffee table, inches from my bong and tray of weed.

"Come one man," I said, "at least—you know what, forget it. Can I get you water or something?"

He patted his duster, dripping even more water on my couch. "No thanks. Plenty wet already. Speaking of wet, let's get down to brass tax, my boy—"

Banshees wailed outside. Could he hear them?

He raised a finger, as if gesturing to them. "You've got a problem."

My body moved on its own. I dropped into the folding chair across from him, leaned forward, and asked, "Can you hear them?"

He said, "Well I'm not deaf! What kinda man can't hear a choir o' banshees wailin' right outside their front door? Maybe my liver's calling it quits, but my ears work just fine—thank you very much." He nodded to himself. "Shall we get to it?"

I didn't know what to say. All my life, spectral shit has been happening to me. Specifically, entities have tried taking me. Childhood? A pair of werewolves kidnapped me. When I was a teenager, there was a month where I kept finding the skins of women on my walk home, just laid out there on the sidewalk or sticking out of the bushes. Now, it's the banshees serenading me every night, singing my name and what sweet, tender things they'd do to me, if only I'd let them.

And no one believed me. My folks took me to specialist after specialist, until everyone shrugged and called me "highly-sensitive" and "overly-imaginative." My folks slipped deep into denial and decided I'd be a great writer, make up stories for kids books. I've worked at the same life insurance agency for the past five years...

I shook my head, fighting down the curiosity and fear mixing in my guts like mentos and diet coke. Was he even here?

"Go on then," the old junkie said, holding out his arm as I reached for him. "Have a squeeze."

I did. He was real.

"What's happening to me? Who are you?"

"My names Silas," he said, wiggling his fingers then producing a ratty business card. "And I'm an...exterminator, of sorts." He handed me the card. It read:

SILAS MCCOURT

EXTERMINATOR

OF SORTS

He continued, "And what's happening to you is what's happened to plenty of folks since there's been folks. You've got the kavorka. The lure of the beast."

"I don't understand. I—"

The banshees wailed again.

"You hear them?"

I nodded.

"How do they sound like to you? Listen. Close your eyes."

I did.

Each voice sang something different, but they all sang in husky, throaty voices. I couldn't understand what they were saying, but it sounded like chopped up moans and groans, spliced together into some sort of melody, like a sexy funeral dirge. If anything, it sounded like the vocals from Aphex Twin's Windowlicker, but more Irish?

"I think they're horny," I said.

"Aye. They be."

"They're horny? Banshees get horny?"

"Aye. For you, boy-o. They lust for you."

"What the fuck."

"Aye. You, are what they seek to fuck."

The banshees crooned, and I crossed my legs.

What the hell?