I paused and looked up. Liz didn’t have a proper fireplace, just a fake electric one in her family room. Which meant we would have to light the demon on fire while it hung in the air. We would need to do it outside, so we didn’t accidentally burn her house down.

I read through the passage again and took notes, preparing to send it to Melissa and Jess. After I had written twenty pages, and drawn diagrams and maps of our plan, I set the purple pen down, my hand aching. I then took pictures of the research and texted it to my friends. After a few moments, they responded.

This is . . . a lot. I’m getting nervous, Melissa replied.

We got this was Jess’s response.

Yes, we do, plus you have to banish your fear or Mavis’ll hop right into you, I typed back, and then put my phone down.

I gathered the papers together in a stack and put it safely back under my bed. The last thing I wanted was the kids using the papers for more watercolor art, although that would have been apropos with the way everything else had gone.

The silence of my house felt crushing, like the walls were holding their breath, watching with a terrified gaze. I felt the terror, too, but there was no choice but to ignore it. We had to confront Liz, and we had come too far down this awful road to question our commitment to the journey.

I opened my laptop and began to painstakingly research how to pronounce each of the words of the incantation, laser-focused. My life—all of our lives—depended on it.

—

After Mark came home that night from work, I left. It was time to do something that I had avoided for five years. I had only a few hours before it was time to go to Liz’s house, but I needed to do this first.

I parked my car in the asphalt lot of St. Mary of the Angels cemetery. It was almost dusk, giving the grass and concrete headstones a light glow. I swallowed hard as I opened the door and walked across the expansive lawn, taking note of the names around me. So many names, so much loss. Some of the dates told me there were young children buried there, parents somewhere out there who had faced unimaginable grief.

I walked past husbands and wives, families buried together. Some of the markers had pictures of loved ones, with expansive displays of flowers and small gifts. And some of them were overgrown and covered in dirt, not having had a visitor for years.

I swallowed hard as I made my way through the cemetery, until I reached my sister’s grave. I slowly sank to my knees and ran my finger over the grooves of her name.

June McCall.