“I got your message,” Rastin’s reply caused the anger within me to wind that much tighter.

“You sent Rastin a message?” Patrick asked.

“And again,” said Charlotte, “you didn’t think to tell us?”

“Now who do we need the spray bottle for?” asked Wes.

“Stephanie came to me,” I said. “She started explaining stuff that . . . that I’d never heard of happening before. So, I thought, what the heck? If he wasn’t a fake like everyone thinks he is, he’d reply. He never did, so I never told you guys.”

Though Rastin winced at the word “fake,” he didn’t say anything. So, while I had everyone’s attention, I decided to ask the million-dollar question. “Why didn’t you write me back? You knew what was in that house. You knew it could hurt people, and you didn’t respond.”

“You are amateurs,” he said. “Children. You don’t know what you’re doing.”

“We’re teenagers,” I snapped. “Besides, I didn’t tell you how old I was in the email.”

“Uh, Lucas,” said Patrick from his spot in the yellow beanbag. “He’s psychic.”

“There was nothing metaphysical about it,” Rastin interjected. “You linked your website.”

Oh. Yeah. I did.

“Besides,” Rastin went on, “even if you weren’t kids, I wouldn’t have involved you. Emailing you back would have involved you.”

“Except my email told you I was already involved,” I argued.

“You don’t understand.”

“I understand that you saw Stephanie,” I said, trying to push my anger aside enough to forge forward and get somewhere with this guy who, I was trying to remind myself, I’d always admired, even during the days when the others had doubted him.

“I heard her,” corrected Rastin. “I called for her, and she answered. But . . .”

“That’s when it attacked you,” Wes guessed.

“Him,” Rastin was quick to correct. “Erik.”

“Erik?” Charlotte blurted.

“Yes,” said Rastin. “Erik.”

“So, what are you saying?” Patrick asked. “That there are two entities in the house.”

“No,” he said. “And here is what you do not understand. Though it would seem there are many entities in the home, there is truly only one.”

Everyone in my basement went silent. All eyes rested on Rastin, who still had his head hung. Finally, he raised his stare to meet mine.

“Erik is there,” Rastin began. “His soul is indeed trapped in Moldavia. But . . . there is no ghost.”

“So, we are facing a monster,” interrupted Wes.

“No,” answered Rastin. “And don’t call him that.”

Wes blinked, struck speechless for perhaps the first time since I’d known him.

We all stared at Rastin then, waiting for him to give us a single clue as to what we were really up against. And why, if it was evil enough to abduct Stephanie, kill people, and attack him, he would be so adamant about what we chose to call it.

“Erik. He is . . . a boy,” Rastin explained. “Like you.” He gestured to me.

“So, the stories,” Patrick said, “about the curse. They are true.”