Max hunched over, gripping his throbbing toe, leg bent in a figure four as the other leg half squatted to balance his weight. The sound of her voice was not only loud, it was three Darth Vaders mixed with a Maleficent.

Max released his toe and stood upright.

“Join us,” a voice said. That wasn’t his mother.

“We are ready.” This one was male.

Horror movies catch a lot of flak for characters stupidly investigating “strange noises,” but really, the reason is simple—in moments of terror, your mind and body stop speaking. Right now, Max’s head shouted RUN! in all CAPS, but his legs moved toward the voices. She was his mother. He had to see.

He robotically marched to the windowless hallway. All the bedroom doors were closed and the lights were off, making the beige walls seem black even in daytime. The clock ticked its swinging pendulum behind him. A car honked from the street, a peppy double beep. Hello, it said.

His pulse hammered beneath his skin, and the voices whispered, “The time is near. You are so blessed.” Yet Max heard, “Come here, little boy, come closer. We won’t hurt you….”

The taste hit him first. His tongue slapped the roof of his mouth—smoke. Not fireplace smoke, not kitchen smoke, not even the stench of burning leaves, but the rank clouds of cigarette smoke from the dark beer-soaked bar downtown.

He’d never seen his parents hold a cigarette. Patrons couldn’t even light up in the parking lot of the restaurant. Besides, there was no shop that sold a pack anywhere within walking distance. He had the car all day. But the smell was distinct.

Max’s shaky hand reached into the pocket of his shorts, and he slid out his phone. Vera was at the top of his text conversations.

He pounded with his thumbs:

Something’s happening. People are here. I need you.

He slipped the phone back into his pocket, trusting she’d come.

He halted in front of his parents’ door and could feel eyes sizzling from the other side. He groped the handle with a clammy hand and took one last breath of conviction.

Then he pushed.

The door swung open.

His mother stood near the closet, a vision in a long white sundress. Kneeling before her were two strangers dressed in black—black jeans, black T-shirts. One had a blond ponytail, and the other a graying black ring of fuzz around a balding brown skull. Their heads were bowed, small votives were lit on the ground around them, and smoke was everywhere.

Clouds plumed from his mother’s nose and puffed from her mouth, thick and white, but there was no cigarette in her hand, no ashtray nearby. The smell. Holy shit, the smell. It was overwhelming. Max coughed, searching for what had to be a burning carton, but he saw nothing.

“Welcome, Maxwell.” The blond ponytail turned his way. She wasn’t much older than he was, with thick dark liner around her eyes and lipstick that was too purple.