Grandma grabbed the front tuft of Horace’s hair and yanked his head back, exposing Horace’s wide white throat.

“It’ll be so quick,” said Grandma, holding the knife out to me. “Just slide it right across his throat, one flick of your wrist. It will barely take a second.”

“But what’s the shotgun for?” I said.

“Sometimes it takes a body a long while to die,” she said. “You just have to slit his throat, that’s all, spill his blood, make the sacrifice count. Afterward I’ll shoot him if you want so he doesn’t have to suffer too long. I’ll put him down like a sick dog, and it won’t bother me any to do it.”

My ears full of the Spirit, my heart beating wild, the very blood in my veins throbbing, I realized I wanted to take that knife. I wanted to feel that power in my hands, the power to shed blood, the power to invoke the Spirit, the power of life and death in my palm.

The door to the toolshed burst open, flinging moonlight across the floor. There stood Murphy.

“Go back to your room, Murphy,” said Grandma. “Your brother and I have business here.”

“If it concerns my brother,” said Murphy, “then it’s my business too.”

Grandma let go of Horace’s hair and pointed the knife at my sister.

“You don’t know what’s good for you and what isn’t,” said Grandma. “You don’t care about our community.”

“You’re right about that,” said Murphy. “I think you’re all fucking crazy. Come on, Lee, we’re leaving, right now.”

“Shut your mouth, you little bitch!” snarled Grandma. “You’re just a meddler, same as your mother. I should have killed her a long time ago and raised you kids myself.”

Horace ripped his hands loose then. I don’t know how he did it after days of being starved, but the brittle arm of the old wooden chair he was taped to finally snapped, and he tore himself free and fell to the floor. He scrambled to the corner of the toolshed and grabbed for the shotgun. Grandma leapt on top of him, stabbing the knife into his back over and over until he lay still. Murphy scrambled for the shotgun, and Grandma tackled her to the floor, straddling her body, pinning Murphy down, her left hand clasped over Murphy’s mouth.

“Your stepfather here ruined our sacrifice,” snarled Grandma. “Made me kill him myself.” She held the knife tight against Murphy’s throat, and a trickle of blood slipped down her neck. “Can’t be spilling any more of that—it’s too precious. It’s got to be you who does it, Lee. We need a sacrifice tonight. You have to kill your sister.”

“But I . . . I can’t . . .”