The power went out. The room was black.

“Please.” Lily looked up into the darkness. “Please. Leave me alone. I—”

The mist evaporated.

A cough bubbled up in her throat, then died on her lips.

She lay down, the blood smearing onto her cheek, soaking into her hair. She closed her eyes.

So much blood.

That was when the laughter started. It was soft at first. Faint. Then, slowly, it grew louder. More erratic. “Hysterical” wasn’t the right word for it. “Malevolent” was closer.

Please let it stop, Lily pleaded to no one. Please, just leave me alone. Please, just let it be quiet.

But it didn’t stop. Instead it got louder, and louder. She couldn’t clap her hands over her ears this time, though. She couldn’t move at all.

Where was the laughter even coming from? The shower? The door? The old dining hall on the other side of her bedroom wall?

Or was Lily the one laughing?

She opened her eyes and climbed unsteadily to her feet. The room was still black, but she could see the faint outline of her face in the bathroom mirror.

Sure enough, she was smiling.

ACT 5

when the battle’s lost and won

19

HERE’S THE SMELL OF THE BLOOD STILL

Brandon was standing by the lake.

No. Not by it. On it. Hovering inches above the water.

The sun had been up for a few hours but it was shrouded in fog. Mateo had been doing speed drills in the dim light on the soccer field. He was a hundred yards from the lake, but if he ran he could be there in no time.

So he ran. The closer he got, the better he could see Brandon. He didn’t look like himself.

His eyes were too dark. He wasn’t smiling. And there was a strange glow around him.

It was the glow that made Mateo slow down.

The lake wasn’t still like it usually was. The surface was trembling. Little waves lapped at the shore.

Mateo’s sneaker was only a few inches from the water’s edge when Brandon changed.

He grew taller. The glow around him brightened. For a moment it was so bright Mateo couldn’t see him at all.

Then it wasn’t Brandon anymore.

It was La Llorona.

She was soaking wet. Her long white dress was heavy and dripping. Her veil fell thick over her face. Her sleeves were spread wide, her long white fingers curled into hooks.

She floated toward Mateo across the water.

This was either a dream or a hallucination. Either way, there was no point running. There was nothing on that lake.

Brandon was dead. La Llorona was a dumb story somebody made up a thousand years ago. There was no way this was real.

But whatever she was, she was getting closer.