The oven was open, flooding the room with warmth, but Vera didn’t fear that door. Instead, she nudged around the entrance to the basement, her whole body reacting to its heat. Behind those rustic barnwood planks rested a collection of artifacts from her parents’ work, which Vera had never examined for herself, but which routinely haunted her dreams. Never touch the door, never open the door—those rules were uttered so much, her family should have had them cross-stitched on a pillow.

It was as if the basement held not objects, but energy. Vera swore she could feel the artifacts humming, a buzz crawling against her skin even from the other side of the house. But whenever she told her mom, the response was always the same.

There’s nothing to be afraid of. Would Daddy and I do anything to hurt you?

Vera was certain they wouldn’t, so she tried to ignore the internal pull she felt, and she convinced herself that it wasn’t the call of evil, and that the call wasn’t coming from inside her house.

“What did you make?” Vera asked as she sat down at their fifties-style dinette, the vinyl cushion sighing beneath her.

“Shepherd’s pie, with lamb.” Aunt Tilda kissed the top of Vera’s head. “I saw your report card. I’m so proud of you.”

Vera smiled as the gray-haired woman who practically raised her served up an overflowing plate of food. Then the table rattled, her cell phone vibrating. “It’s them.” Vera unlocked her screen, putting it on speaker. “Hola.”

“Honey, you there?” She could hear the smile in her mom’s voice.

“Yeah. Aunt Tilda’s here too.”

“Great! We just wanted to check in.”

“How’s Spain?” Vera asked.

“I made shepherd’s pie,” her aunt blurted, as if proving she kept their daughter well fed.

“Todo bien,” said Vera’s dad, also on speaker.

“We haven’t seen much of Barcelona outside of the home where we’re working. It’s…a sad case.” Her mom sounded tired. It was midnight there.

“Is the girl afflicted?” Aunt Tilda asked. Afflicted was their family’s polite way of saying “possessed by evil demons.” Her parents were demonologists. Exorcists. Or a few other words most people didn’t understand.

“Sí, unfortunately. We’ve spoken with the church, and we’re just waiting to hear back.” Dad sighed deeply. “How’s school?”

“Over.” Vera shrugged.

“Oh, that’s right!” Her mom’s voice rose—she’d clearly forgotten. “Are you celebrating?”

Yeah, I sprouted friends and joined the Glee Club in the two weeks you’ve been gone.

“Aunt Tilda and I are living it up,” Vera quipped.

“Great. Til, I have to tell you about dinner. We had this amazing paella. Did you know they leave the heads on shrimp here?”

Vera’s face crinkled. Seriously? Did her life matter so little that they’d rather talk about entrées and appetizers? Please, tell me more about the salad….

“And you should see the cathedral here. It’s stunning, and Gothic, and unfinished,” Mom droned.

“Espera. Don’t forget about Father Chuck,” Dad interrupted. “He’s stopping by tomorrow because he has a wedding on Sunday. Someone needs to be there to open the basement.”