For an instant—he barely saw it—his mother snarled, charcoal eyes flashing with fury in the animal’s direction. And Max reacted like a starter pistol fired in his brain.

Three things happened in quick succession: his mother flicked her leg, sending the little dog soaring; Max barreled into her hips, shoulders low, head down; Mom’s fingers lost their grip on Chloe’s neck. His sister collapsed onto the wet earth with the lifeless limbs of a doll. Her legs bore no weight as she tumbled onto her side, her head smacking the grass and bouncing once.

Momentum carried Max a few paces beyond the collision, and he stumbled to keep his balance. He spun around, ready to assault again, and caught his mother gliding to the house, leaving the scene behind her, wind swishing her hair.

Max scrambled to Chloe, his bloody ankle brushing a tuft of fur. He peered down and spied the white pooch, not more than a couple pounds soaking wet. There were streaks of crimson on its white mustache, his mother’s blood. A door slammed in the distance.

“Snowball! Snowball!” yelled the voice of the elderly neighbor charging out of his house on rickety, arthritic legs.

Hope you’re okay, little guy.

Max dove toward his sister. She wasn’t moving. Her hands weren’t on her throat. There was no coughing. Her eyes were closed.

No.

No!

“Chloe!” he yelped, tears forming a solid mass in his throat. He gently lifted his sister’s head, placing it on his lap and smoothing her black spirals from her face. “Can you hear me? Breathe. Breathe, okay?”

She was so still.

Please, God. Please!…I’ll do anything. Please…

“Move aside.” A hand clamped his shoulder.

Max looked up into the face of Father Chuck.

The priest dropped on all fours in his faded blue jeans. “Priests are teachers, and teachers know first aid.”

The man carefully lifted Chloe’s head from Max’s lap, bracing it between his palms to keep it as straight and still as possible. He set her skull on the ground and placed his ear to her chest. Then he began pressing on her heart with his hands laced together. CPR.

“Is she okay? Should I breathe into her mouth? What should I do?” Max didn’t know any lifesaving procedures, but he’d seen enough movies to think it counted.

The priest slammed on her frail chest, mumbling words (prayers?), his hands thumping, counting, pulsing.

Finally, Chloe coughed.

Holy shit, she coughed.

She rolled onto her side, hacking, eyes fluttering.

“Chloe, can you hear me? I’m here!” Max hugged her face, her curls sticking to his leaking eyes.

“Where’s Mom? She tried…Why…” Then Chloe sobbed, thick bursts erupting from her chest, and Max hugged her tight, cradled her close, buried himself in his sister’s hair as a wave of anguish pulled her under.

That was when he heard the voices.

Max looked up, slowly realizing they were no longer alone.

A crowd had gathered.

And they were chanting.

Vera

When Vera emerged out of the basement, the beast was waiting for her. Inside her house. She had what it wanted. She’d pried open the door and broken the prayers of protection.