Employing the condescending tone of someone who believes something in which no one else believes, she explained the image on the photograph was evidence that the deceased was a New England folklore kind of vampire, like Mercy Brown, and she listed more names, some of which I recognized from the campy vampire book we’d found at the Providence Library.

She pointed at the photo and said, “Hovering blue lights just like this have been sighted over the graves of suspected vampires.”

“But it’s green.”

“Dude, it’s blue.” She hid the photo back inside her bag. I wasn’t worthy to view it anymore. “Because I got the blue orb”—not a green blob—“on film it means that the old woman is actively feeding, and likely on her grandson. I mean, look at him.”

You are so not getting the last word on the color.

The grieving man was a scarecrow at the foot of his grandmother’s grave. His arms hung loosely at his sides, hands neither clasped in prayer nor folded expectantly in front of his waist.

Mercy said, “He’s fading away in front of our eyes. Didn’t you hear that miserable cough of his?”

“Yeah,” I said, but I lied. I never heard him. Now a gagging, expectorating urge balled in my throat, but I swallowed, wrestled it down.

“Did Stephens tell you how this guy’s grandmother died? Two-berk-you-low-sis.” She pantomimed hand gestures along with the syllables. I only understood her held up fingers for “two” and her pointing at me for “you.” “Or how about we call it consumption for tradition’s sake? These poor people almost exclusively feed on loved ones or the ones closest to them. It’s what families and friends do, right? Maybe they can’t control it and they aren’t even aware they’re doing it. That’s the most horrible part, I think.”

I side-eyed Mercy, hard, and tried a smirky laugh to get her to crack. She was crackless. There was no way she believed this, was there? This had to be a joke, but unlike her practically infinite digs at my expense, all of which were uttered with a deadpan style and a dryness arid enough to drop the dewpoint, now she emoted. Vacillating between anger and passion, she was invested. She was credulous.

“I’ve been researching this shit forever. How’d you think I knew about Mercy Brown and where to find sources for your paper? This photo, this proof”—she paused and patted her bag—“is why I’ve been taking shots of almost everyone I meet and it’s why I joined the club.”