The door knocker hangs from one hinge, the other fallen loose as if someone had knocked too hard—and then no one had. I pinch the narrow bar and tap it against the metal plate, and wait.

The whole house seems to creak as movement comes alive inside. Filaments of spiders’ webs fall away as Kyle’s mom opens the door.

Her eyes are wide and brown, with golden sclera and heavy red lids. Her dark hair wraps her ears in wild wisps. She drops her gaze to mine and thin lips pinch shut over yellow teeth. She pulls a heavy sweater close against the late August heat.

“Yes?” Her eyes rise over my head and scan the street.

“Are you Kyle’s mom?”

Her eyes shoot back to me. The bottom lids tremble and fill.

“Yeah,” she says, “I’m Shannon. Were you a friend of Kyle’s?” Her eyes spill over and her voice hitches. “I don’t remember you. I’m sorry. Kyle’s gone.” Her hands rise to cover the collapse of her face.

My ankle throbs. I step up to the weeping woman and raise my arms to her. She pulls her wet hands from her face and wraps her arms around my shoulders.

And Genny pulls.

Kyle’s mother screams.

And Genny reels us in.

***

I smell the rot of tall grass in shallow water. The water parts against my back and washes the sting of daylight from my skin. The squint of my eyes relaxes as the sun disappears behind the wall of deepening green.

Kyle’s mother’s scream turns to foam against my neck.

We settle in a cloud of silt at the bottom of Genny’s bog. Genny anchors us with long reeds as soft as leather.

“Welcome home, Laura Leigh. And what meat have you brought for me and your sisters?” Feathers of algae wave in the current of her words.

I look to Kyle’s mother. The tangle of her hair rivals Genny’s, and through the blue of the water her teeth look almost green. Her eyes, though, look darker, deeper even than the water where we stand, and wetter.

Genny bends her long neck and leans in close to the mother. The woman flinches back from the soft touch of the weeds flowing from Genny’s mouth.

Genny’s long tongue, dark as bog wood and rough as stone, emerges from the soft green center and presses against the woman’s eyes. The stream of bubbles from her mouth wreathes Genny’s face.

Genny runs her tongue across the mother’s eyes, lingering at the corners, probing the lids. She pulls back and turns to me.