We cut left, into the woods, onto one of our shortcuts. Branches slap at our faces, snag and tear our clothes, but we don’t slow down. I follow Germ’s eyes up to the sky, and gasp. A blanket of magical moths is headed in the same direction as we are. There are thousands now. Some drift down through the canopy of the woods like snowflakes at the beginning of a blizzard.

My legs feel like they’re on fire, my lungs about to burst. The woods have started to look familiar now. This tree, that boulder—we’re close to home. But then we burst out into the open clearing of my yard. I skid to a halt in the grass and tumble off my bike in shock.

I feel rough hands pulling me up, Germ yanking me to my feet as I gape.

My house is no longer my house. It is covered, every inch, in fluttering, squirming, shimmering moths. Moths blot out the sky and cover the lawn.

In the woods, panicked grasshoppers and fireflies, spiders and crickets and dragonflies, swarm out from the trees and circle the roof.

A flash of light zips back and forth across the lawn, and I see it’s Ebb.

From somewhere inside, there’s the sound of glass shattering—and a moment later a cloud of moths bursts out through one of the windows. Roof shingles fly across the yard. The front door, as we watch, comes flying off its hinges as a swarm of moths explodes out from behind. The ghosts of the house have scattered onto the lawn, confused and terrified. Crafty Agatha is swirling in circles, uncertain where to go. The washerwoman ambles past us into the woods. So much for my booby traps.

And then I hear a bloodcurdling scream from inside the house.

As I run toward the sound of my mom in terror, she appears in the doorway, hair in a million directions, clutching her heart.

“Mom!” I scream, and run toward her.

And then I see… out above the ocean, perhaps a mile away, a shape is coming toward us. It glows purple against the dark.

“Inside!” I yell, unable to think of anything else. But as we turn toward the house, a cyclone of moths, spinning wildly in circles, barrels into the side of the house, and—with a sound like ripping and then a deafening crash—the whole front wall of my house comes crashing down.

We turn to look at the sky. The shape is now close enough to make out, closing in on us fast. The clouds are gathering low behind it.

It’s a chariot, streaking across the sky toward us, but it’s made of moths, thousands of them all flying together in unison. And holding on to the reins is a figure all in black. She has one hand in the air, and moths gather around her hands like a flame.

The Memory Thief.