The scene cut away then and showed the team inside, asking dumb questions to the air while holding digital recorders like interview microphones. Lucas paused the video. He turned toward me, an action that nearly brought our foreheads together.

“Whenever Paranormal Spectator visited a place,” he whispered, “they tried to gather evidence like EVPs or anomalies on camera. Sometimes, they even tried to take action against a spirit, with the hopes of clearing a property. Shortly after the team entered the basement of your house, Rastin attempted to perform an exorcism . . .”

He fast-forwarded, stopping when the clairvoyant, Rastin, emerged in the doorway of our cellar. Limp and addled, Rastin leaned against Joe Boq, one arm looped around the other’s shoulder for support.

My unease ratcheted even tighter as, cast in the eerie, greenish-gray tint of night-vision, the segment played out like a scene from one of those low-budget, shaky-camera horror films.

Blood started to stream from Rastin’s wide eyes, which had rolled into the back of his skull so that only the whites showed between fluttering lids. The blood gleamed black in the night-vision and leaked from Rastin’s nose, too, smearing his upper lip.

“Tell us your name, demon,” commanded Boq.

The rivulets of blood ran into Rastin’s mouth, staining the teeth around which writhed lips that then formed words.

“I am Zedok,” Rastin growled at the camera, a hundred voices seeming to issue through his throat while his blood-smeared fingers reached for the lens. “I am he who enters through darkness and takes leave by the same route. To come for me is to find me. To strike against me is to fuel me. To invoke my name is to invoke my wrath.”

The camera tilted, the lens dropping from Rastin’s face.

“No!” shouted Boq. “Keep rolling.”

“He’s bleeding, man,” said the camera guy even as the screen righted itself on Rastin once again. White foam now began to issue from one corner of Rastin’s mouth, mixing with the blood.

Boq stumbled out of the basement doorway, tripping on the top step. Rastin went down then, to the floor. The camera followed him there, where he began to convulse, a seizure wracking his body. He arched with a silent scream.

“There’s something in his mouth,” the cameraman said, and I shuddered as I focused in on Rastin’s parted lips.

“Shut off the camera,” Boq said. “Call 911.”

“There. Look! There’s something in there, man. It’s coming out!”

The thing—obviously alive—emerged from the back of Rastin’s throat, a pair of probing antennae coming into view first within the dark cave of his mouth. Two twitchy front legs followed, popping out over Rastin’s bottom lip. A glossy black head and a pair of shining milk-white eyes glowed in the glare of the camera light.

“I said turn the damn thing off!” shouted Boq, his hand closing over the lens—blocking out the sight of the bloodied moth just as it freed itself from Rastin’s gurgling, foaming mouth.

By then, I’d had enough. Jerking the earbud from my ear, I scooted back from the table, bending forward at the waist, and tried to breathe.