When she saw Mrs. Park sinking into another one of her cushion-clutching internal monologues, Quellie formulated an economical alternative to reel her back: sell the house at Christmas, when the trees on Santa Claus Lane would be all lit up. The spirit of goodwill might make buyers overlook its flaws. As she left, she implored Mrs. Park again to get the house fumigated. She knew it was the $4,600 fee that was holding her back.

“Sell the car, my dear,” Quellie said in English, and left for her next appointment.

At dawn, Mira popped out of bed and crept barefoot out of her bedroom holding a plastic yogurt cup filled with her own piss. She flicked on the light to the basement and, wearing her mother’s slippers because her own were too precious, ran down the steps into the musty underground, trying not to giggle.

The air was freezing down there. It was a real dump, all germs and cobwebs. The termite guy had been right—it was a firetrap, filled with Korean newspapers from the Neolithic Age. And cans of paint with their lids sealed with rust. And old flashlight batteries. And—could this actually be?—that decrepit Big Bird doll encrusted with her baby puke. Unbelievable!

Mira doused the crawl space just under the wooden floorboards of the kitchen with the piss, careful not to get any on her clothes or skin. When she was done, she pulled down her pants and squeezed out more pee on a stack of vintage newspapers. She looked at them for a second.

Shit! The one on top showed the Twin Towers under attack—she could have auctioned it off on eBay. Oh well, too late now! She doused the burning towers with more pee, and cackled.

The door to the basement slammed shut. She stifled her instinct to scream. Very carefully, she crept up the steps, turned the doorknob, and peered out.

“Rosie?” she whispered. “That you?”

The kitchen was empty. The big-faced clock ticked. It was six-fifteen.

She emerged from the steps to peer into the adjoining hallway where her sister could have been hiding. Nobody. Everything was still. All the windows were shut. There wasn’t a stray breeze in the entire house.

A wide smile broke across Mira’s face. She knew. She knew. It was one of those supernatural beings she’d been trying to call up. A poltergeist.

Finally! What took you so long? She went back down to the basement, and waved in her unseen accomplice. Don’t just stand there like an idiot. Come, help me.

The thermostat read ninety-five. Mrs. Park’s head lay on the dining table as the slow blades of the ceiling fan massaged the still air above. Her sweat-soaked hair spilled across the vinyl place mat, a sickly black mop covering her eyes. Her shoulders heaved with REM breathing and her arms hung down at her sides, two meaty plumb lines.