I peeked out just in time to see the red wineglass on the end table levitate for a moment and then explode, the dark liquid spraying out with the glass. Then the noise stopped, and I slowly lifted my head again. No one spoke. Jagged pieces of glass were all around us, some littering the top of the board. Deep-crimson wine ran down the walls and soaked the carpet.

I checked my body, patting it down for any cuts, as Jess and Melissa did the same. Everyone seemed unscathed, except for a large red wine stain on Jess’s white tank top.

It looks like blood.

Maybe that was the point.

“Look!” Melissa shouted as she pointed behind me to the kitchen.

I swiveled my head and saw that the red wine bottle on the counter had also exploded its contents onto the backsplash. Red rivers ran down the white subway tile and onto the countertop. I was scrambling to stand, carefully brushing off tiny pieces of broken glass, when I heard a scream from upstairs. It was Emily.

I bolted, not caring if I stepped on glass in my bare feet. I felt a sharp pain in my heel, but I ignored it as I raced upstairs and Jess and Melissa went to put out the candle.

I threw my body onto Emily’s door and fell into her room, the hollow-core door far too light to support my weight. Emily was thrashing in bed, grunting and screaming. She appeared to be asleep. I grabbed her shoulders and shook them, begging her to wake up. I heard my friends downstairs, arguing over whether they should get the broom or vacuum first.

Emily slowly opened her eyes, her hair tangled around her shoulders. I pulled her toward my chest.

“It’s okay. It was just a bad dream. Everything is okay. You’re safe,” I whispered in her ear.

She pulled away from me and crossed her legs under her. Her calm expression made me pause. “It was her.”

My blood turned to ice. “Who?” I whispered.

She crooked a finger at the corner of her room, and I slowly turned, afraid to look.

I exhaled when I saw. It was her American Girl doll Molly. Emily had received her as a present last Christmas from my parents. Molly was one of the original dolls and was now considered a collector’s item. At the time, I questioned whether a collector-level doll was appropriate for a young child, but Emily loved her so much that I didn’t dare snatch her away.

“Molly was in your dream?” I said as I pulled her close again and began to rock her.

She shook her head against my chest. “No, Mommy. Not my dream. In real life. She tried to grab me.”

“Shhhh. It was all a dream,” I said. I made a mental note to hide Molly once Emily went back to sleep.