The eyes lit up first, and then other lights from within. It didn’t take long for the painted face to search the room and find her, greeting her with a sweet smile and soft voice.

“Then there was screaming.” The illusion was broken, and Charlie pushed herself away. “Then there was screaming,” the imposter repeated. “It was coming from me, but …” She paused and pointed to her own head with a look of curiosity. “But I remember seeing her scream.” She looked thoughtful for a second, and suddenly the illusion dissipated, and she appeared again as the painted clown. “It’s strange to remember the same moment from two pairs of eyes, but then we were one.”

“I don’t believe that story,” Charlie growled. “I don’t believe that story at all. You aren’t possessed! If you think I will believe for one second that I’m talking to the spirit of a sweet and innocent little girl, then you’re crazy.”

“I want you to call me Elizabeth,” the girl said softly.

“Elizabeth?” Charlie answered. “If you were this little girl, Elizabeth, I can’t bring myself to believe that that little girl would be capable of all of this.”

“The anger isn’t from her,” Elizabeth said, her painted face shifting: she looked like a wounded animal, vulnerable but still poised to attack.

“Then what?” Charlie cried.

“My anger is from a different father.” Elizabeth strode to Charlie again, grabbing her neck again and jostling her into a white light and pain, where suddenly all was calm.

A hand was stroking her hair. The sun was going down over a field of grain. A cluster of birds were fluttering overhead, their calls echoing out over the landscape. “I’m so happy to be here with you,” a kind voice said. She looked up and nestled against him.

“No, this is mine,” Charlie protested.

“No,” Elizabeth intruded. “That doesn’t belong to you. Let me show you what does belong to you.”

Agony erupted, flooding the room with its sound. The walls went black and streams of water poured down from behind the window curtains. A man lay curled on the floor, something cradled tightly in his arms, and when his mouth opened, the room shook with the sound of his anguish.

“Who is that?” Charlie said anxiously. “What is he holding?”

“You don’t recognize her?” Elizabeth said. “That’s Ella, of course. It’s all your father had left after you were taken.”

“What, no, that’s not Ella.” Charlie shook her head.

“He cried over that cheap store-bought rag doll for two months,” Elizabeth snarled with disbelief. “He cried into it, he bled into it, he poured his grief over it. Very unhealthy. He began to treat it as though he still had a daughter.”