Rachel jumped at the sound of the night light breaking, and then she started to shake. But she wasn’t frightened; she thought she didn’t have any feelings at all. She stared into the darker rectangle of the black box in the dark basement and saw nothing. There was nothing to see, she told herself; it was empty, and they were the biggest fools in the world. Then, smoothly, silently, something black detached itself from the black inside the box and stood in front of them.

Rachel wanted to grovel, to flatten herself against the floor. She was shaking so badly now, she thought she couldn’t stay on her feet, but she made herself stand where she was and look at what they’d made. Rabbi Levy’s golem.

It was huge, bigger than the box it came out of, which was impossible, she knew. But it was. There was light from the door, and some from the window—moonlight or streetlights—and in it, she saw a smooth, featureless, empty face; an oval of scraped clay. The arms and legs were tree trunks, rough and jointless, and the hands were lumps without fingers. It took a step, the walls shook, and Garfield moaned.

It turned toward the sound and took another step. Garfield fell to his knees, holding his chest, and cried out, “Rabbi, Rabbi Levy, I’m a rabbi like you are. My name is Chaim Garfield from Riverdale.” But the shape kept coming for him and he mashed himself against the wall. His lips were dark and he was gasping for breath. The mass lifted him up and tilted him, his hat fell off, his beard hung to the side.

“No!” Rachel screamed. “Jacob!”

Hawkins leaped on it. He looked small on its back, then their bodies blended and they were one huge shape without any form. It threw Garfield and he hit the wall and the house shook. Garfield fell and rolled and the thing twisted and Hawkins flew off its back and hit the post next to her. He lay still and she thought he was dead.