I ran upstairs and rifled through the papers in my desk drawer, the notes I had taken from the demonology books and historical society. I skimmed through them, letting the spent pages flutter to the carpet until I found the one I was looking for.

Mavis Wanneberg. Killed her family because she was isolated.

The difference was: Liz wasn’t isolated. She had all of us. She had a community of women around her to support her and raise our children together.

And maybe that very thing was the motivation for Mavis’s revenge.

She was unearthed, and her rage still remained. Her feelings of hopelessness had survived a century of burial. She wanted to destroy us and our neighborhood because she was angry that she had been left alone, resentful that we didn’t have to suffer the same fate. If that was what motivated her, then we had to attack it from that angle.

Maybe the concept of friendship wasn’t that different from possession. It took a different form, of course, but we all borrowed the best parts from each other, sharing in the traits and strengths that we admired. We each brought something to the friendship, and we fed on that energy to make ourselves better. A shared possession, without diabolical intent.

If this was true, then the antidote was clear: Friendship. Camaraderie. There were no secret spells or potions that would defeat the evil force consuming my friend. No, it was something much simpler: us. We needed to confront what was happening together, in a show of solidarity, and show Mavis that our bond was stronger than anything she tried to throw at us. Literally, in the case of the weed whacker with Jess.

We were the key. We had always been the key.

Except, I had never felt further from Jess and Melissa. The distance between us may have only been emotional, but it felt as though they had both already moved away. Mavis had succeeded in that sense. She had taken Liz from us and torn the rest of us apart. For now, she had succeeded. We were becoming as miserable and isolated as she was.

But I couldn’t—wouldn’t—let her win.

CHAPTER
35

Growing up, I was something of a serial best friend. I had close friends, the kind who would finish my sentences and have long sleepovers, sharing our deepest secrets. The first was Sarah Brosnan, who lived across the street from me. We became best friends by default in fourth grade, spending the summers together inventing dance routines in our front yards, blasting music on my pink portable radio. Then, in seventh grade, the wedge of boys and kissing appeared, and Sarah became popular and I did not. By the time we went to high school, we barely waved to each other in the hallways.