The staff wouldn’t have brought her to this dimension if it weren’t evil. Who’s to say that Mom in this reality wouldn’t also be evil? That the clothes in her other self’s closet wouldn’t be off-brand, ill-fitting, or—God forbid—unstylish? Better to follow the plan and destroy it all. Once there’s nothing left to distract the staff’s evil sensor, the gem will have to ship her home. All she has to do is carve out the path for herself, one extinguished Black Flame at a time.

It’s either fight or live in Hell on Earth. Fighting is what she was born to do.

A black cat runs past her on silent paws, setting off a parked car to flash its lights without an alarm. Behind a short chain-link fence, a Rottweiler opens and closes its jaws in the pantomime of a bark. Where there should be noise, there is only silence. A silence that presses hard into the Slayer’s ears, blocking out everything but the sound of her own pulse. It’s as though there’s a finger on the lips of the whole neighborhood, a breath held while listening for approaching footsteps.

Welcome to Silentdale, she thinks, and a chill runs up her spine.

She’s all too happy to follow the staff’s urging and leave the sidewalk for the center of the street. There are no cars driving here, although she’s unsure if she would be able to hear their engines even if there were. The thought makes her paranoid. She looks repeatedly behind herself. Checking for jump scares.

Nervously moving forward, the Slayer whistles to keep herself company. She’s relieved at her own noise. The whistle is startlingly loud, echoing tunelessly through the empty neighborhood. But it’s better than the oppressive hush, so she keeps going, swishing the wizard staff in time. The movement helps push her forward, keeping her going even as a prickle in the back of her mind tells her that there’s something very wrong here.

Duh. Of course something’s wrong. Otherwise the staff wouldn’t have dropped her here.

At the end of the street, she finally sees another person. A girl with long braids and brown skin runs at full speed, eyes wide and hands waving.

Run! the girl mouths. They’re coming!

The Slayer stops walking, reaching out to the girl. “Who’s coming?” she asks. She wishes she knew sign language. Speaking out loud feels so rude, like shouting at someone who can’t speak English.

The girl mouths something else, gesturing first at her mouth and then at her chest. The Slayer repeats the gesture, hoping to discern its meaning. But, after a glance over her shoulder, the other girl is off and running again. Leaving the Slayer alone in the middle of the street, shivering, as an icy wind picks up the dead leaves in the gutter.

When she turns back, the Slayer finds the answer to her question.

Three loping figures, shaped like humans but hunched over in the postures of men in gorilla suits, elbows and knees akimbo. Their faces are bandaged like half-dressed mummies. Buckle-covered white coats are tight against their chests, but are so long in the arms that they flop against the asphalt. Only as they caper closer does the Slayer recognize the coats for what they are. Straitjackets. The dragging arms are meant to be fastened in the back, to hold their wearers prone.