Her blue-lined eyes widened, and she shook her head. “We weren’t sure what it was. It was just a feeling. A darkness, possibly. My husband thought it was all in my mind.” She gave a hollow laugh. “But I was terrified. I had nightmares every night, of a woman whose skin was falling off. I had visions of her attacking my children, and even my dog, Murphy. I consulted everyone. A counselor. A priest. Even a spiritualist.” She gave me an appraising look.

“What did the spiritualist say?” I leaned forward.

She smirked, her pink lips pressed together. “She said she felt something dark in my backyard. She did one of her potions or spells out there and then told me to plant more grass in the corner of the yard.” She shook her head. “It was a waste of money. My husband said she was a scammer. So I assumed it was baby blues and didn’t tell anyone. I kept it to myself, and did the best I could.”

It was a familiar story. Postpartum depression was often discounted, society expecting moms to be in baby-bliss mode after having a baby, despite the lack of sleep, hormones, pain from delivery, and feelings of isolation. We weren’t supposed to show anything but joy, and we were certainly never supposed to complain. I knew this because I’d felt that way after having Jack, like my life had changed, and not for the better.

I swallowed hard. “Liz dug up the grass in what I’m assuming is the same corner. And that’s when it all started. I think there is something there—a true darkness.”

The corners of her mouth drew down. She looked at her hands and said, “Then tell your friend to move.”

“I can’t. It’s too late for that.” My voice was a shaky whisper.

She put a hand over mine and gripped it. “Then move, yourself. And tell anyone you care about to do the same.”

I shook my head and pulled my hands away. “We want to fight it. We want to save Liz, and the neighborhood.”

She frowned before she put her palms on the table and stood. “You better make sure it’s worth fighting for, then.” She turned and left.

As I walked back to my car, my phone dinged with a text. It was from Liz, sent to the group of us. It read: See you tomorrow at the dinner.

The progressive dinner. But Mark hadn’t told me Liz and Tim were invited. I quickly typed out a separate message to Melissa and Jess, but before I could hit Send, their messages popped up.

After several confused and panicked exchanges, we discovered that they hadn’t, in fact, been invited. We had no idea how she’d found out.