Given Vera’s family business, she was familiar with fear. The winds of a hurricane, the chill of a creepy basement, the crash of a demonic artifact—those, she suddenly realized, were pulses on the outer veins of terror. Now Vera was staring at its heart.

“I am definitely not okay.” Maxwell’s words were clipped.

His mother locked eyes on Vera, burning bricks of coal searing deep within her until she felt the flames in her chest. Then, as Vera watched, the woman’s cheeks began to hollow, skin sinking and charring.

“I was hoping you’d show.” Her voice was venomous. No, its voice.

Vera clutched Maxwell’s biceps as they watched its hair morph from ringlets into oily black twists and its teeth brown with stains of unseen nicotine.

“I have Chloe. Come on.” Vera tugged his arm. This was beyond her ability. Vera was not special. She was not gifted. They needed her parents.

“Oh, don’t go so soon.” Its cracked lips formed a grisly grin.

Then it started barking—literally, like a tiny dog—yapping in short, high-pitched bursts that matched the ones Vera heard at least five times a day from her neighbor’s house.

“How’s the little dog?” it asked, smoke gusting with each bark.

Vera’s mouth grew dry, her tongue heavy. It knew about her neighbor’s dog? Maxwell couldn’t have told it. He’d never been to Vera’s house.

No, it knew her.

Mr. Gonzalez’s words rang inside her. It wants you. It wants you.

“Too bad Mommy and Daddy aren’t around. Tell them I said hi.” Its brow formed an unsettling V on its forehead, and it began to pace, staying inside a ring of small black votives, arranged as if for a séance.

“My parents don’t give a shit about you,” Vera spat.

Its eyes flexed. “I doubt that.” Then it cocked its head, neck tendons tight. “What about you? Are you ready for me? It would save us all a lot of time. My friends can’t wait to meet you—”

Vera’s mouth opened to speak, but then its body seized, arms flailing as its rotted face whipped from side to side. The smell of decomposing roadkill filled the room, and Vera gripped her nose, gagging reflexively.

“Maaaxweeelll, gggooooo!” That was his mother. His real mother. And dear God, Joan of Arc would have sounded less horrific in her final moments on the stake.

Vera squeezed Maxwell tighter, tugging with all her might. Only, he was a marble statue, anchored to the ground by rusted screws as he watched his mother’s arms rise, lifting the hem of her sundress. Wings. It almost looked like wings. A tornado of smoke spiraled faster as its eyes rolled deep into its sockets. “There is no peace to be found here. Only death will bring peace! Rest! Rest with me!”

It rasped the words, and a twister of smoke broke open the closet door with a violent crash. Vera stumbled back. A shrine, the Angel—a skeletal angel weeping black tears holding a skull-engraved torch, extinguished—facing his mother’s bed. It sat atop a swishing black tablecloth, and at its base were packs of crumpled cigarettes and a bottle of wine. Three burgundy glasses were filled to the brim, but they looked untouched. There were more candles, all onyx, some in jars and some not, some tall and some short, flames crackling too tall for their wicks, too hot for their size.