I had to get out immediately.

I grunted and screamed and finally, I was halfway out, my torso and face on the grass, my legs still in the darkness. I felt a tugging on my ankle, and I felt a different kind of pain, a burning sensation, before I swung it around out of the hole.

I was out, face-first on the lawn. Panting and sweating, I stopped for a moment to catch my breath and try to figure out what had just happened. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw the mist begin to swell up from the hole, plumes inching toward me.

I placed my palms on the earth and hoisted myself up, feeling another tear in my shoulder. My phone was still in my hand as I started to run, stumbling over more tree roots. I ran from Liz’s backyard, down Maple Leaf Drive, straight for my house, covered in mud.

I threw myself at the front door, wrenching it open, leaving muddy handprints all over the front door. I shut the door behind me and closed my eyes briefly, trying to steady my pulse.

Mark heard the commotion and came running into the foyer. When he saw me—covered in mud, fingernails broken and bloody, trembling violently—his eyes widened.

“What in the world . . .”

I shook my head, still shaking, unable to articulate what had just happened. All I managed to say was: “Liz. She tried . . . I think she tried to kill me.”

His arms dropped to his sides. “What? Liz? Tell me what’s going on.”

My teeth chattered as I held my stomach. “There’s something wrong with her. There’s something in her backyard. She threw me into a hole and tried to kill me.”

He stared at me, no doubt assessing whether I had been drinking, and then stepped forward and pulled me to him. He didn’t understand—he couldn’t understand. He put a hand on the back of my head.

“I don’t know what happened, but you’re safe now,” he said. “Just calm down and tell me what happened.”

I shook my head. “No. None of us are safe.” I bent down and pulled up my pant leg, where the white-hot pain still throbbed. I saw what looked like a burn mark, the imprint of a hand, the edges already beginning to blister.

“How did you get that?” Mark asked.

“I told you: Liz’s backyard.” I swallowed hard as I released my pant leg with shaking hands. “It was something in the pit—I don’t know what it was.”

He peered down at my leg. “It looks almost like an electrical burn. Was there a downed wire or something?” Before I could answer, he turned toward the kitchen. “Let me get something for it. It looks pretty bad.”