But red brick dust posed a different kind of problem. There weren’t voodoo shops in Willow where I could buy a mason jar full of the stuff. A quick Google search and a tutorial on YouTube told me I could make my own, but first I had to get my hands on a brick. I scoured the website of the Willow Gazette in search of any mentions of construction around town where I might be able to find a stray red brick because I didn’t know if it was possible to buy one—just one single, solitary brick—at the hardware store. When my search results came up dry, I had an epiphany. There had to be bricks scattered all over Mischa’s subdivision from the tornado’s path of destruction.

The Portnoys’ gated community was a long walk from my house, but not impossible to get to on foot. But everything I’d heard about the state of the Portnoys’ neighborhood suggested that the tornado hadn’t done much damage anywhere but to their house, so I had every reason to believe there would be a guard stationed at the gate, and I might be turned away if none of the residents at Timber Creek were expecting me as a visitor. That being the case, I might have to climb over a fence or push my way through thick hedges to trespass.

I tied the shoestring on which I’d hung the gris-gris three times at the back of my neck, hoping that might make it harder for any spirits with evil intentions to unknot it. Then I shook a little salt into each of my shoes and set out. I told Mom I was going to walk to the grocery store to buy something for dinner, figuring I could perhaps pick up both the cornmeal and the brick in one trip.

The journey would have been more pleasant if I’d brought Maude along with me, but I thought better of taking that risk. Even though I’d already decided what I would have to do the next day, the long walk across town felt like a just punishment—or at least part of one. Unable to shake my fear of a car veering off the road and striking me, I walked all the way to Timber Creek on the grass after the sidewalk ended. I was less than twenty-four hours away from attempting to break this curse, and surely the spirits were aware. Every experience I’d had with them since September suggested that they would find a way to try and stop me from making it to the Portnoys’ memorial. There was no precaution too silly or extreme for me to take that day.

“Air” could mean anything.

Sure enough, when I reached Timber Creek, I spied a bored guard sitting inside his little station, watching a video on his phone and laughing. So I continued on past the main gate and rounded the corner, walking the perimeter of the subdivision until I reached the unmanned side gate, which was flanked by pine trees. Perhaps six months earlier I would have felt like a creep lurking beneath pine trees until a driver came along and tapped the security code into the security panel to raise the gate, but sneaking into Timber Creek was a breeze compared to sneaking out of the Sheridan School for Girls. Within five minutes, a maroon SUV rolled up. Its driver-side window lowered, and a middle-aged woman tapped in the code. The gate rose, and as soon as she’d driven through, I trotted behind her onto the property as the gate began its descent.