If Anna was right, then Mary really had performed rituals up there, and something had gone wrong. Lydia shook her head, trying to clear it. She told herself she was tired and letting her nerves run away with her.
Around ten that night she went to bed, hoping for rest. Wrapped in her sleeping bag, she closed her eyes and tried to relax. Sleep came slowly, but eventually it came.
Then she woke all at once, her heart pounding. The room was pitch dark. The air smelled of damp wood and old mold. It had turned so cold she could see her breath.
And then she heard it: scratching on the wooden wall. Hard, deliberate scraping, as if someone were dragging long nails across the logs.
Lydia swung the flashlight toward the sound. Nothing. Her voice shook as she demanded that whoever was there show himself.
The scratching stopped instantly, but the cold and the smell remained. Then she heard a man’s voice—rough, strained—calling for his mother.
Lydia felt the blood drain from her face. From the corner of the room, the voice asked for help. It said it couldn’t leave.
Fighting panic, Lydia answered that his mother wasn’t there anymore. The voice—Alex, if that was who it was—said he kept searching for her in the dark and couldn’t find the way out.
Lydia swallowed hard and asked what she was supposed to do. The voice said his mother had performed the ritual wrong and bound him to the house.
He said the ritual had been done in the attic, where the old things were stored. Lydia said she would do what she could, but asked him not to frighten her again.
The cold eased. The smell faded. The room became ordinary again. For the rest of the night Lydia lay awake, trying to think through what to do next.
In the morning she went straight to John Simmons and told him about the conversation. He listened grimly and said the attic ladder was probably still out in the shed.
Together they found the heavy ladder and set it under the attic hatch. Lydia climbed up with her flashlight. Along the walls were trunks, bundles of dried herbs, and a table covered with ritual objects.
On the table lay an old open book describing the ceremony. Turning the brittle pages, Lydia found instructions for undoing it. When she climbed back down, she said she intended to finish what Mary had started.
John tried to talk her out of it, but in the end he agreed to stay. By evening Lydia had gathered the herbs and black candles the book required. She drew a circle on the floor, set the candles around it, and lit the dried plants.
John sat by the door, crossing himself and muttering prayers under his breath. Lydia opened the book and began reading the old words aloud. The air in the room turned sharply cold, and the smoke began to spiral…
