ELEVEN

Dusk falls on the three wooden crosses in Mother Maud’s yard full of dead grass and fabric scraps.

It’s finally a Sunday and a free day for Aaron. After a little over two weeks, this feels like my first serious foray into Jamaica since the rum bar. And I couldn’t just go to Dunn’s River Falls or something.

I follow Aaron through Mother Maud’s front door, and I’m immediately smooshed into his back. He has nowhere to walk. Wall-to-wall people, packed into the main room, shuffling nervously.

Aaron grabs my hand and threads us through the crowd, ignores the curses strangers lob at him. By a closed door stands a young girl in a white apron with pink stripes.

“Sister, could we speak to Mother Maud?” Aaron asks. “Is very important. Urgent.”

The girl points back to the horde we just escaped. “Everyone think that. Gotta wait, no different than them. Mother Maud soon come.”

“And then what?” I ask.

“Maybe she choose you.” She scans the room. “But we busy tonight.”

Meaning, don’t get your hopes up.

Aaron leads us back outside to avoid the stuffiness of the little house. We loiter at the bottom of the front steps and watch the sun begin to lower itself back to Earth. A white flag attached to the shack stirs in the evening winds.

“I didn’t think there’d be anyone here,” I admit. Maybe that’s my fault for not knowing better. I figured we’d walk in and Mother Maud would tell us the duppy is the wet nurse from the legend. Then she’d explain how to put that soul to rest, and I could get on with my life.

“Way I understand it,” Aaron starts, “Mother Maud offer her service to whoever need it. Churchgoing or not, businessman or gang, she try help. Hard job.” Aaron taps his feet. Anxious energy, maybe. “Guess lot of people goin’ through it right now.”

A massive billboard across the road stares down at us. It eats up the skyline.

SERVICE AND HONOR

IAN HALL IS HERE FOR YOU, JAMAICA!

His face is larger than life, grinning at a world that can’t help but notice him. A world he’s trying to make better for everyone going through it right now.

Still, I can’t imagine Mr. Hall driving past this place, let alone stopping for a chat and a blessing. But I could be wrong. I don’t have much in common with a struggling businessman or an at-risk gang member, yet somehow, we’re all here. The main difference seems to be what’s in our bank accounts.

“You know so much about… everything… Jamaican.” Which sounds really ridiculous, but I’m embarrassed by all the stuff I know nothing about. Spiritual beliefs, societal issues, the culture itself. Now that I’m on the island, I feel the divide. People here know so much about America because they have no choice but to hear and learn about it. What do I understand about this country beyond some food and music? How do I not feel like an impostor?

“Know a lot, yeah,” Aaron says. “Because this is my home. It’s all I’ve ever known.” A guy shoves himself through the space between Aaron and me, tries to fight his way inside the house. Hopeless. “Must be nice, going places. Why did you leave New York?”

Careful.

“Just felt like it was time. I needed to.” True.

“Brave girl. Explorer.” His feet keep tapping. So nervous. What for? “After you finish with the Halls, where will you go next?”

Don’t have to lie about that either. “No idea.”

“Well. Wherever you end up… how ’bout I visit you?”

His tone is so light, I’m not sure if he’s being serious. His first time leaving the country, and he wants to see me? “You sure you can handle that?”

“I—”

Shouts rise from the shack.

“You want test me?” a man yells. No response. “Said you want test me, boy?”

“Me nuh ’fraid a you,” someone finally replies, a quiver in his voice. “Never will be.”

Something scrapes across the floor, crashes. Inside, people gasp and clamor.

“Pull ’im off!” a lady calls out.

“What’s happening?” I ask.

Aaron steps back, grimacing. “Sound like a brawl.”

The noise climbs. A woman wails. Glass breaks.

“If you don’t calm yourselves right now—”

Then the front door swings open, bangs into the broken-down bench on the front porch. A flood of people try to scramble through the doorway, arms reaching and pushing, tall builds and short frames crushing each other. Like demons struggling to crawl out of hell.

“Shit.” Aaron’s voice cuts through the uproar. “We gotta go.”

My gut clenches. Go where?

Aaron points to his motorcycle—our ride to Mother Maud’s. He grabs my hand, and I stumble after him. Don’t know where we’re headed, but I’m not staying here. I hop on the rear seat.

As we peel away, visitors topple into the yard, shove each other on the porch. I hold tight to Aaron as he maneuvers us through long, empty streets.

“What even was that?” I shout over the engine’s thrum.

“People get desperate,” Aaron says. “Then they get stressed. Then fights happen.”

The mood in that place was tense to start with, that’s true. I’m used to some chaos, but not like that. “My mother would not let me behave that way in someone else’s house.”

“Can’t expect people in pain to always act how you want them to.”

Minutes later, we stop in front of a stone fence with an ivy-green double gate. We hop off the bike and Aaron parks it by the rock wall.

“So, respectfully, are we not seeing Mother Maud tonight?” I ask. That’s the only reason I’m out here instead of at home, scheduling more texts for my parents. Duppy or not, I have shit to do, or else the whole operation falls apart.

Aaron shrugs. “Won’t lie to you. It sounded bad. We’ll head back in a while, see if everyone calm down. Or if Mother toss us all out for the night.”

Why can’t anything be quick and easy?

“Come on,” he says, gesturing toward the fence. “We chill.”

I follow him through the unmarked gate, even though every instinct in my body is telling me, I don’t know, not to walk onto random properties. But I trust Aaron and the confidence he has when he strolls right in.

I hope trusting him isn’t a mistake.

Inside is almost nothing but plants. It’s like nature reclaiming the world, a jungle taking back what belongs to it. Purple flowers drape overhead, creating two shady tunnels that split east and west. Wide trees stretch tall, leaves filtering twilight over the floor of soil and stone. Red bird feeders filled with sugar water dangle from stakes all across the area.

“What is this?”

“Hummingbird garden,” Aaron says. His eyes soften, follow the dense tapestry of trees and vines and blooms. “Almost everything planted here? Meant to attract the birds.”

Except there isn’t a single bird. Still a gorgeous spot. But it’s more of a flower garden than a hummingbird one.

“Government runs this?”

“Nah. If it did, would have named the place after King Charles or the dead queen.” He probably isn’t wrong. Commonwealth things: almost everything’s named after deceased white colonizers. “Never seen anyone when I come. But feeders always full and clean. Little mystery.”

I sit on the hard edge of a small water fountain built in the center of the garden. It’s peaceful here, a little oasis. A far cry from the chaos back at Mother Maud’s.

“How’d you find this place?”

Aaron sits on my right side. His knee brushes mine. I forget what I asked.

“Come here once as a child, with my parents. Made me curious about plants and things.” He peers around the garden, on the lookout for any flying guests. It’s still just us. “One night, few months back, had a dream ’bout it. So tried to find the place again. Got lost for hours.”

I dip my fingers into the fountain. Cool water flows across my hand. “Thought Rush was supposed to be the one with no sense.”

He laughs. “For true, for true. But we all act foolish sometimes.” Aaron’s gaze catches on something behind me. “Can’t regret this, though.” He points over my shoulder. “Look there. Quietly.”

I spin around slowly. Two birds float at a nearby feeder.

Never mind what I said. This is absolutely a hummingbird garden.

I can’t even see their wings, they’re beating so quickly. Long tail feathers trail behind them. Their heads shimmer in the sunset glow, reflect it in shades of mint and plum. Aaron presses close behind me, dips his face near mine and observes the birds hovering. His breath tickles the hairs on my neck. I don’t want to startle him by moving. So I don’t. I sit, breathe with him. I enjoy him enjoying the now.

Minutes pass that feel like hours. And still, I could sit here forever.

“This is gorgeous,” I murmur.

“Of course,” Aaron says matter-of-factly. “This my paradise.”

And he shared it with me.

When he should be sharing it with Ora.

Fuck me.

I keep falling into moments not meant for me. Moments that feel so good, so real. But a hollowness dwells, plants itself in my heart like a microscopic black hole.

Joy wouldn’t be here with Aaron. That would be the right choice.

But it’s hard to say no.

And I never could say no.

Finally, Aaron stands, stretches his long arms. His shirt lifts a little. “Okay. Been long enough. Let’s see what goes on.”

I’m stressed on the drive back to Mother Maud, and it has nothing to do with the fist fight earlier, either.

We pull up to the little house. Nobody’s rolling around on that lifeless grass out front anymore. But I can see through the windows. There’s still a commotion inside, a wave of bodies crashing against each other.

“Damn, they’re still throwing hands?” I wonder.

“Maybe…” Aaron squints. Then his eyes widen. “Mother. See her. Come on!”

We rush in, muscle our way through a crowd that keeps pressing forward, trying to lay itself before Mother Maud’s feet.

I can barely tell my arm from the arm of the guy next to me. I can’t be out all night, waiting to see if Mother will grace me with her presence, to see if she’s even capable of what they say she is. But I fight my way to the front of the crowd anyway and reach out my hand, try to get her attention.

Mother Maud stands, a gaunt woman in a red plaid dress with navy-and-white stripes. Her hair’s wrapped in a matching turban, white-gray wisps peeking out. Eyes like homing missiles, with darkness underneath, as if she’s not slept in years.

She finds me. Points. “You. Come.” Just like that. Do I actually have some good luck for once?

I stumble out of the groaning crowd. Moments later, Aaron pushes through too.

“No,” Mother warns. “Just the girl.” Guess luck ran out.

I grab Aaron’s hand, like he did when he led me in earlier. “We go together.”

Mother Maud huffs. “Suit yourself.” She steps aside so we can enter the back of the house.

There’s a single overhead light throwing a yellow glow across a small corridor. The floor lies narrow; the walls press in, cramped even with only us three here. Mother Maud leads us to another door at the end of the hallway. Her hand rests on the knob, but she doesn’t move.

“Dress down first.”

“I’m sorry?” The words sputter out, fueled by the fear that I’m misunderstanding her, that I’m an annoyance for misunderstanding.

“The clothes, girl. Remove them before you enter.” She inspects Aaron standing behind me. “My work, my rules.”

She isn’t serious. Right?

Mother Maud seems to notice our hesitation. “You ask to come together. Suffer consequence now.” But I didn’t realize she’d be asking us to get naked. Maybe I should have known. Maybe this is more proof that I’m an outsider, that I don’t understand this culture I’ve barged into and hoped to claim. “You come here for my help,” she asks, “yet what you fear is your own body?”

Yes. And if she knew me, she’d see why. My body hungers. She devours. She can’t be trusted.

Mother huffs. “Can go to your underthings, then, if you shy. But hurry on.” She points toward the front room, full of people. “I have work to do.” She finally twists the doorknob and slips into her inner chamber. And waits for Aaron and me to undress. I guess.

This is nuts.

“Swear, Bambi, didn’t know about this,” Aaron asserts. He rubs a hand across his chin. “We don’t have to.”

I want to sprint out of this ramshackle house, so fast that even the memory of its wooden crosses and white flags can’t catch me. Run all the way back to the hummingbirds and the flowers and the trees. I’m not ready to be seen like this. I’m not ready for Aaron to see me like this, and he shouldn’t—ever. If Ora finds out, it’ll break everything I’ve made so far. And it’s all so fragile as is. I will have to keep more secrets, lie more.

But these are Mother Maud’s rules. And I need the duppy identified and handled. I need that ghost to quit sabotaging what I’m trying to create.

“How else can we get rid of the duppy?” I ask Aaron.

He stays silent. Because he doesn’t know. And neither do I.

“Just… face the wall, maybe. So I can…”

“Yeah, of course.” I feel him shift. “Go ahead,” he says. His voice sounds farther away, proof he really turned.

It’s pointless to hide. We’ll be staring at each other, half naked, soon enough. But I stall. I try not to think as I remove my tank top, my shorts, my necklace, my shoes. My bra and panties don’t match. If Aaron dares to look, he’ll see the tattoo following the curve under my left breast, soul on fire in a swirling script. I ball up my clothes and set them on a chair in the tight hallway. It’s humid but I have goose bumps all over.

Mom will end me if she ever hears of this.

“You ready?” Aaron asks.

No.

“Yeah, let’s go. Before she changes her mind.” I head toward the back room, try not to worry about what Aaron can see, what he’s thinking, if he’s as nervous as I am.

I open Mother Maud’s door.

It’s quiet in here. Partial light, warm and diffused. The room is full of potted plants I don’t recognize, half-melted candles, herbs in containers and bags. Mother Maud stands behind a long wood table covered in the apparent tools of her trade. Mortar and pestle. Several sheets of blank paper with a stubby dull pencil. Vessels filled to the rim with a maroon liquid that I pray isn’t animal blood because I’ll scream if it is.

The young girl from the front of the house stands in the corner, hands clasped. Oh good, an audience. I fold my arms across my chest. Aaron shuts the door behind us, stands as far from me as possible. But I still feel him, know exactly where he is in the space.

Mother Maud doesn’t even acknowledge that we’re in our underwear. “Tellin’ you now,” says Mother as she organizes her items, “if you want me kill someone, no room in the schedule tonight.”

Oh, I’m gonna die here.

“We’re not here for that,” I whisper. It feels like a mistake, speaking.

Mother places two large-jarred candles on her already jam-packed table. She strikes a match, lights one. The wick burns bright. “Tell me about you.”

“Thank you, Mother,” Aaron says. He’s shaking a bit; I can hear it. He steps forward, right beside me. Even in my periphery, I notice the bare chest, the black boxers. “We here for her, Carina. She work with me in Blackbead House.”

Mother Maud grumbles as she holds the glowing matchstick. Hangs her head. “Ian and Ruth.”

“Yes. Thinking there’s a duppy in Blackbead, and it seem to be bothering Carina from time to time. Wonder if it’s an old spirit.”

Mother hums to herself. Sets the second candle aflame. She leers over the flickering fire. Its light brings out the paleness of her right eye—nothing like the rich earthy brown of her left. Her pupil flashes—or I imagine it does. “And what would you like, Carina?”

Everything.

“I just want to know who it is, and then send it away.” I swallow. “Please.”

Mother Maud sighs, blows out the match, glances around like she’s figuring out what she’ll need to get this ghost off my back. She returns to the candles. What does she see in them? Maybe it’s good I don’t know. “All right,” she says, finally taking a seat. “Me try speak to it.”

She closes her eyes. Leans back, presses her palms onto the tabletop. Her fingertips whiten from the pressure. Mother’s lips part, move, but whatever she’s saying is inaudible.

Aaron sucks in a gulp of air, as if he’s been holding his breath all this time. I want to hold his hand. I don’t.

The moment of truth.

“Ah, there it is,” Mother says. A smile flutters on her lips. “Hear a flute made of bone when this one talk.”

No way. No way she’s communicating with the duppy.

“Who is it?” I ask. “Are they old?”

Mother Maud’s grin drops. Her forehead creases. “It’s clear, you know.”

“What is?”

“That this a young woman. Get struck down not long ago. Now they with you.”

A young woman could still be the wet nurse.

But if the ghost is someone who died recently, then that doesn’t work. This isn’t the spirit from the legend.

“You and this duppy been connected before Blackbead,” Mother Maud murmurs. “Bond deeper than that house. Tie of love and pain.”

My body sways. Love. Pain.

I’m going to be sick.

“What does it want?” Aaron asks. “How we lay it to rest?”

“Duppy nah rest while Blackbead stands,” Mother replies. Her eyes snap open and watch me. “So you will do what it wants, but what it cannot.”

“Why me?”

“Because you’re here,” she says simply. “Because you stay.”

It has to be Joy. Of course she would punish me for living this new life, birthed from her old one.

“Besides,” Mother Maud continues, “you did bring a seed of destruction with you… yes?”

My mouth goes dry. I think of my bedroom, the lockbox stashed under my bed, the hateful screenshots packed into my phone…

Could Mother Maud be telling the truth? I want to be here, so I’m now forced to be a pawn to do the ghost’s bidding.

Joy’s bidding?

No. I won’t accept that.

Mother Maud is wrong. Maybe the duppy isn’t the wet nurse exacting revenge on Solomon. But it can’t be Joy. Something else can explain this, I know it.

Mother stands from her chair, clears her throat. Her shoulders drop, as if the “spirit” has finally released her. We just made it into her presence, but it feels like the session’s done. All that waiting just for her to make stuff up? Because she has to be bullshitting.

“What do we owe you?” I ask. I’m pissed and skeptical, but a service was still rendered, and I’m not a stingy bitch.

“You paying more than enough, promise you. Oh, and one more thing.” She peers at Aaron. He immediately straightens his back. “No matter how pretty and perfect she seem, you know not to trust a lying woman. Don’t you now?”

Aaron says nothing, merely bows his head in acknowledgment. He avoids me, deep in his own thoughts.

“Can’t send the duppy away,” Mother says, “but I can still give you a wash. No trouble for you after.” Mother Maud and her helper stand before us. “Kneel.” Aaron gets down first. I let my knees hit the floor and dig into the wood grain. Fold my hands together like I’m going to pray. Maybe I should. I’ve never done it before.

Mother pours oil into her open palms then glides them over my bare skin. She’s tender but firm. As if she’s working her will into my muscles. Her assistant handles Aaron, quiet, focused. Our skin shines in the candlelight. Mother whispers words that I can’t understand, perhaps Bible verses meant to protect us. It makes my stomach clench.

The helper picks two big leafy branches from one of the potted plants. She passes one to Mother Maud, and together, they gently brush and pat our bodies. The humidity weighs on me, just as the branches do, just as my fears do.

“Will this really protect me?” I ask in a whisper.

Mother does not answer.

Do rituals work even when you don’t understand them? Will the God that Mother Maud prays to give me the time of day? Shield me?

I don’t know what to believe anymore.

From the corner of my eye, I peek at Aaron.

He is by my side and still so far away.

---

I take back everything I said about Mother Maud. She might be the real deal.

Ora and I refold the shirts and shorts Luis thinks he folded correctly, replace them in their appropriate drawers. Only days ago, this would have felt like one of the hardest tasks possible. That’s why I used to need Ora’s help to get the chore done at all. Everything’s ten times more impossible to do when sleep-deprived.

But this afternoon, I’m refreshed. Awake. I’m not even annoyed by all the noise coming up from the never-ending basement work.

It’s been three days since Mother blessed me. Three nights of peace. No duppy fuckery. No anxiety. I’m hoping we’ve come to an understanding, whoever the ghost was. But the “who” doesn’t matter now. Thank god.

“You seem different today, Bambi,” Ora muses.

“Different how?”

“Like… lighter. Like your real name finally fit you.” If I could laugh without Ora looking at me crazy, I would, because that’s hilarious.

“Just glad supervision is over. Not being stalked by Thomas anymore. Could fully enjoy my day off.”

“Seem like it. Texted you Sunday evening and didn’t hear back.” Ora bumps a drawer closed with her hip. “So, what fun you have without me?”

Careful.

“Fun? Without you, Rush? Not possible.”

“That’s what I want to hear,” Ora says with a grin. “Texted Aaron on Sunday too. Nothing from him either.” She fusses with one of her earrings. “I thought, I don’t know, you two might be spending time.” Ora mentions this lightly, but “acting casual” doesn’t suit her.

She wants to know if I was with Aaron. And I can’t answer that honestly.

If I had any other path forward with the duppy besides poaching Aaron for a night, I would have taken it. I bet Ora would understand that, too, even though she thinks ghosts are bullshit. And if I could have kept my clothes on? Even better.

But still, I keep Sunday to myself. And if I won’t tell her, then my conscience knows what I did crossed a line.

I won’t cross it again.

Deflect. Now. “Don’t worry,” I tell her. “I didn’t tell him about… what you shared.”

Ora lets out a huge breath. “Good. Real good. Thank you.” She grabs one of my hands and squeezes it. “Like a safe.”

Ora moves on to meet Simone in Jada’s bedroom, and I head down to the sunroom. Jada and Luis are, surprisingly, right where I left them: drawing on the floor under the big, bright windows, crinkling construction paper and abusing crayons.

“Miss Rina, see what I drew,” Luis shouts.

“Show me, show me.” He holds up his masterpiece: a rudimentary portrait of Mrs. Hall standing on top of Mr. Hall’s head. I can tell because Cartoon Mrs. Hall is in a pencil skirt, and Cartoon Mr. Hall wears an oversized wristwatch. But are they acrobats or something?

“Wow, that’s so cool. And so creative.” Luis beams at the compliment. “How about you add me in the corner there?”

He tilts his head and studies the picture, assessing. “Don’t know if I like that, but I’ll try.”

“And Jada, what are you drawing?”

She doesn’t respond. Jada sits cross-legged, one hand methodically rubbing a crayon back and forth on her paper. There’s something weird about her face. She’s got that thousand-yard stare Joy had after she took a hit of something new—and potent. Like she wasn’t in her body, at least for a little while.

“Jada? You feeling okay, honey?”

Jada doesn’t look up.

My pulse quickens. I grab Jada by her shoulders and gently jostle her. “Hey, that’s enough. Come on.” Her hand never stops drawing. She never meets my eye.

Something’s wrong with Jada.

I let her go and reach for her paper instead. Slowly slide it out from under her crayon. Her arm continues to arc erratically over the tiled floor.

What is going on? What did this kid draw?

It’s a girl surrounded by darkness, an exaggerated tear falling from her huge eye. She is alone. The shadows close in. There’s no way out, nowhere to run. The girl seems to know this.

There’s a wobbly arrow scrawled into the bottom right corner of the paper. I flip it over.

A bull.

There’s its misshapen body, large and dominating. It’s frowning. Angry eyebrows drawn with firm strokes of a black crayon.

The tips of its horns colored red. Like they’ve been dipped in blood.

My eye twitches.

The bull.

Painted in red lipstick on the canvas of my bathroom mirror.

Dripping from my sliced palm like a blood sacrifice, barreling down the drain.

“What… is this?” A tremble leaks into my voice. “What made you draw these?”

“Hm?” Jada blinks a few times, peers up at me. Soft and friendly. Normal. She focuses on the backside of the paper, and her brows furrow. “Miss Rina, what’s that?”

“It’s what you dr—”

Stop.

“It’s nothing, Jada. Don’t mind me.” I fold the sheet and hold it behind my back. “I need to run to my room. When I’m back, we’ll talk to Josh and figure out our snack, okay?”

They don’t question me. The kids busy themselves with poking at their little cacti while they wait.

I speed walk to my quarters, don’t breathe until I’ve shut the bedroom door and laid out the paper on my half-made bed.

Maybe the bull’s a coincidence. Luis knows about that stupid Rolling Calf myth. He probably told Jada. But Jada’s never drawn anything better than a stick figure with curly “girl” hair and a triangle skirt. And the crying girl…

Is the crying girl supposed to be me?

I fixate on the pictures until the lines blend together.

Mother Maud took care of me. If she was for real, then the duppy isn’t supposed to bother me anymore. Case closed.

But these images are so unsettling… Jada didn’t even know what these were, that she’d etched them, where they came from.

I do, though.

I throw the paper away, bury it as deep into the trash can as possible.

The duppy remains. And even Mother Maud can’t stop it.

Who are you?

It will torment me. It will addle my brain until I can’t tell truth from lie. It’ll turn the kids into playthings, dolls in a dollhouse of its own making. They don’t deserve that. They’re innocent.

What do you want?

Can I live with more of this ghost haunting me?

Don’t take all of this from me.

I look at my bed. Remember the lockbox.

Maybe I should leave.

I want to stay, but this isn’t working. I didn’t steal a whole identity so I could suffer. And what about everyone around me? Are they in danger now too? I can’t put them at risk because of me.

I reach beneath the bed frame, pull out the box. Pop it open. I hold each item inside, one at a time.

Passport, driver’s license, some documents. Regular stuff.

Then, the extra ID. Joy’s smiling, laminated photo. The light areas of her face overexposed, the highlights blown out. The other smartphone. Copies of paperwork that’d seem suspicious if one looked too closely.

Together, it seems like so little. But it’s everything. It’s right here.

Maybe this is what the seed of destruction is. A bunch of random papers, phones, and IDs. A nervous bitch clutching it all in sweaty, trembling hands.

The past really doesn’t go away.

Okay, I struck out in Jamaica. My savings are still light from having to buy my plane ticket here, and my au pair wages are modest. Using Joy’s identity begins and ends at Blackbead; wherever I run next, I’ll have to be me. So where could I go until summer’s over and my “road trip” is done? Because I’m not ready to go home. Even if I reinvent myself here, everyone there still hates me. Half of my senior class is probably going to the same local college as me. How could I show my face there? How could I walk back through the fire?

A one-way ticket to Toronto might work for now, but I can’t afford to stay there long-term. Maybe I lie low in the Bahamas? But I need cash… Panama City might make more sense. My Spanish sucks, but I bet I could do housekeeping at the resorts and get paid under the table.

My hands steady. I can figure everything out when I reach the airport. First? I need to pack.

I need to leave.

A gust of wind forces its way through the room. Everything in the lockbox blows around like it’s trapped in a tornado. And just like that, any sense of safety disappears. Mother Maud’s hushed prayers over me dissolve as my bed drags across the floor from the strength of the vortex. My body buckles under a blast of air coming from every direction, toppling me to the ground in a heap. A nightstand lamp soars through the air at breakneck speed, crashes into a window and cracks the glass until it spiderwebs out. There’s nowhere to run.

Until the duppy releases me.

The wind stops. All my stuff clatters to the ground. I scramble, gathering everything and tossing it back in the lockbox. Back where it’s all safe. It was so easy for everything to escape me. It would be so easy for me to get exposed.

Run. Leave.

I need to leave.

My passport lies in a far-flung corner of the bedroom, face down. I reach for it.

Honeysuckle.

No. “Just let me go. That’s what you wanted, right?”

I pick up the passport, hiss, drop it. I suck on my fingertips.

The booklet is scalding.

It’s open to my photo now. Tiny flames scorch across the page, engulfing words, erasing my face.

When the fire dies, everything appears the same.

Except I’m no longer CARINA MARSHALL.

My name’s singed. Impossible to read.

I no longer belong to THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA. My nationality gets the same treatment: charred.

The photo survived, reflecting my deadpan face. But my eyes… the duppy’s burned out my eyes. Two dark vacuums gape at me, soulless.

I can’t travel with this.

I can’t catch my breath. Dark spots take over my vision. What do I do? I can’t take a half day to rush to an embassy without explaining myself. But how do I explain to the Halls without sounding crazy? And I can’t—won’t—tell my parents that I’m here. But what if I need their help to get back to the States? My muscles twitch, but there’s nowhere good to run.

Leaving is no longer an option.

Do I deserve this?

Mother Maud said the duppy wants me. Chose me. And until it’s satisfied, it will mock me, strip me, kill me, before it’ll simply let me go.

I’m trapped.