Mo came first, holding a kitchen knife, and Mom barreled in behind her, her Taser crackling in the midmorning sun.

“What is it?” Mo asked frantically.

“Look!” I pointed toward the door. Its seams were perfectly aligned with the wood paneling. Nobody looking at it would have even known it was there. “The rag caught on some kind of latch when I was dusting. It just popped open.” Mom pulled me back a step.

“Wait a minute,” Mo said. She hurried out of the room and came back a moment later with a flashlight. She clicked it on and shone it into the room behind the door. The column of light cut through the darkness to reveal a space the size of a large bedroom. There were no windows or other doors. Mo stepped in and Mom and I followed her. The walls were painted black, making the space feel smaller than it actually was. The sweet smell was more pungent inside the room. It reminded me of honey and burned paper.

There was a small table at the back of the room. As we approached it, the light from Mo’s flashlight danced in her trembling hand.

“What is this?” Mom asked, her voice barely a whisper.

The surface of the table was covered in a black cloth. In the center was a large statue of a woman with three faces—Hecate, the goddess Medea was in service to. Objects were arranged on the table: three rusted skeleton keys, bundles of what I was sure was mugwort, garlic skins, black candles with trails of wax that had run down and dried in layered mounds, and onions that had sprouted and snaked across the black cloth before rotting away to almost nothing. There were small bowls, black stones, and a wreath of decayed flowers around the statue’s neck—even a glass jar stuffed with black bird’s feet.

“It’s an altar,” Mom said.

“Auntie Leti has one,” I said.

“But it’s not like this,” she replied. “Hers is for working, for . . .” She trailed off. Her eyes narrowed and I followed her gaze. Sitting at the base of the statue was a photograph, ripped on one edge and stained brown at the bottom like something had spilled across it, soaking it all the way through. I immediately recognized the bubbly little girl, no more than a year old.

It was me.

Mo reached for it, and Mom caught her by the wrist. “Don’t touch it. Don’t touch anything.” Her voice was higher, her face drawn tight. Mom pulled out her phone and dialed a number. “Leti, I—I need your help.”

I didn’t like the way she sounded. There was real fear in her tone, and I suddenly became uneasy. Mo came and stood next to me, putting her arm around my shoulder, and I hugged her tight.