He gagged, reaching for the neckline of his T-shirt, but Vera grabbed his forearm.

“Lizards…Mankind is a cesspool of lizards. Humanity is an artifice.” The voice scraped at Max’s ears, his mother’s arms spread wide, her chest wrenching with the words. “I bring a revolution! Salvation! Shed your bodies!”

Max’s face twisted, and he shook his head. No. This isn’t her. No way…He pressed his hands to his ears, trying to block out the guttural sounds gnawing the woman who raised him.

Slowly, a slender black shadow crept from her bare toes, skinny as a sapling tree, its branches stretching all the way to Max’s feet. He stepped back in time with Vera, and the fear he saw in her face, from a girl who lived with those parents in that house, sent a rush of heat through him that dried the moisture in his mouth.

“Remove the bonds of suffering. Embrace the self beyond the mortal flesh,” his mother moaned in a hollow voice, her neck bent toward Max. Her hair puffed wildly, all shiny curls now burned to brittle black coils. Her stiff fingers clenched the air near her shoulders as tendons painfully protruded from her taut neck.

“Maaaxweeelll, heeelp meeee!” it screeched.

No, she screeched. That was his mother, with the voice of a woman tied to the stake as the flames licked her calves.

Max blinked rapidly, his chest collapsing, the room blistering, and his feet locked. She needed his help. Why couldn’t he move?

Her body contorted, spine arching violently as her murderous gaze shot at Vera.

“Show your claws! Bare your fangs! Unleash your true selves and finally awaken!” The baritone returned.

Bloody spots danced before him. What was happening?

A hand slinked down his arm. Fingers interlaced with his, the grip tight.

“Breathe,” Vera whispered.

The stench of rotting flowers grew more intense as his mother’s face began to morph. Her skin cracked like packed desert sand, lips peeling back from her gums to reveal green dumpster-tinted teeth. Wrinkles spread to her squinted eyes, and a snarling gaze aimed straight at Vera with such rage that Max stepped between them.

Then he heard the strike of a match. No, the strike of a matchbook, the multiple crackles of flint popping in quick succession.

Vera shifted first; she knew what it meant. Max didn’t. He followed her line of sight and saw that the wall sconces were lit. The two ivory cylindrical candles in the hall flickered with golden flames, the heat emanating off them so hot it scorched Max’s cheeks from twenty feet away. Or maybe the heat was coming from his mother, the woman who braided Chloe’s hair, who taught him how to drive a car, and who sang lullabies in Spanish.

But that wasn’t the person in front of him now.

Sweat dripped down his face. “Is she sleepwalking?” he asked Vera.

“She is definitely not asleep.” She squeezed his hand.

“Drunk?” he asked, even though he already knew the answer.