As Mercy and I drift back to Aunt Shannon's, a chorus of voices yell at us. Call our names. The shouts come from the trembling blades of grass, from the lopsided tombstones in Pachuck Cemetery, from the asphalt, the trees, the mud.

"Redress this."

"The time is now."

"Unleash. Me."

"They're getting restless." Mercy tightens her grip on my hand as we soar over the shuttered market and pharmacy.

"Who is?"

"The spirits."

We surf the wind to Old Salt where Aunt Shannon's and Mr. Thatcher's houses sit with an expanse of the field between them. Like twins separated by darkness.

The wipers on Sheriff Colby's car squeak across the windshield as he rounds into Aunt Shannon's long driveway.

"Moriah, it's time we part," Mercy says with finality, her face shimmering with glittered golds. "It will take sacrifice to bring an end to all of these sacrifices." Suspended in the air, I reach for her with fumbling hands, but she twists from my reach. Light shoots from her fingertips as she places her palms over my eyes. "All must be avenged."

"I'm ready," I say.

"You're not as ready as you think you are."

She leans forward, whispers one more directive, then does something curious. She laughs.

🐺

A wave of vertigo. A rush of breath fills my lungs. I gasp. A coppery taste in my mouth. I must've bitten my cheek.

I'm strewn out in an unfamiliar, musty tent filled with foreign shapes and shadows. Though everything feels disjointed, it all feels right.

Like the lamb has turned into a lion.

"Doggone it, you did it!" Mr. Thatcher kneels with his hat smashed at his side. His scraggly beard scratches my face as he looms over me. If I didn't know what death smelled like before, I do now. "Sit up, Moriah," he says. "We're almost done."

"Don't call me Moriah." I groan, pulling myself up. Fire travels through my spine.

Mr. Thatcher raises one bushy, white eyebrow. "You may not feel yourself for a moment. But that'll pass."

I want to tell him that I know exactly who I am. I'm not confused one bit. But I don't have the time because we hear Sheriff Colby make an incredulous sounding yelp from outside of the tent. "Shannon Dawson? What the hell? Is that you?"

Mr. Thatcher shoots out of the tent's opening, I follow behind, reveling at how deliciously cold the rain is. The branches in the oak tree above me wag, as if hailing my arrival.

And it does feel good to be back. If only for a moment.

"Y'all thought you could get away with this?" Mr. Thatcher screams, almost tripping over himself to get to Aunt Shannon's side. "With murdering Shannon? Oh yeah, I know all about how y'all got in through her trap door and pushed her down the stairs!"

Sheriff Colby is frozen like a paused YouTube video underneath the old tree. Mr. Thatcher continues his tirade: "Y'all thought you could entice her nieces here? Offer them up? You can't offer nothin' that don't belong to you!"

Sheriff Colby's eyes dart from the gun in his holster to Aunt Shannon, who has—with the help of Mr. Thatcher's arm—found her footing. "Now, Robert," he says with a nervous chuckle. "You know I ain't got a choice when it comes to these sort of things..."

"You're a pussy!" I yell at Sheriff Colby, my hands tightening into fists. "Preying on weak girls the way you do."

Mr. Thatcher turns to me, open-mouthed. "You're supposed to stay in The Veil, Moriah."

"I'm not staying in that stupid tent. And don't call me Moriah."

Though Mr. Thatcher's eyes widen to saucers, I don't explain anything to him. There's no time. Using the element of surprise, I sprint like a banshee, untamed and unfettered, towards the sheriff. He fumbles with his gun. Moriah's Pumas squish in mud with each step I take.

I raise my head to the sky and howl.

🐺

"Mercy? I knew you weren't dead," Mom says with a thick voice when I meet her in the storm cellar. The trap door in Aunt Shannon's split-landing descends into a long, dusty hallway that leads to a shelter equipped with two cots, blankets, flashlights, and enough canned food to last a few months.

I take Mom into my arms. She's lost weight since I've last held her. She'll never be skin and bones, but she's not as bloated with life as she once was. She smells like unwashed laundry. "You only have me for a little," I tell her. "Moriah will be back."

Alex, sitting on a cot, glares up at me, then Mr. Thatcher and Aunt Shannon. "This wasn't part of the plan. Where's Moriah?"

"There's a new plan," Aunt Shannon says, rubbing the back of her neck with her sausage-shaped fingers. Her voice is as scratchy as gravel. "The best thing you can do is take Robert's car and get out of here! Drive to the Reservation. Go anywhere, but here." She struggles with each word, leaning against a wall to support her weight. Mr. Thatcher circles his arms around her waist, but she gives him a snarl so fierce, he releases his hands immediately.

The shelter is much too small for the five of us, and Alex makes it seem smaller by standing to his full height. As if that's supposed to intimidate us. "I'm not leaving you, Ms. Shannon. Not with," he cuts his eyes at me, "this ghost in Moriah's body."

A hum buzzes through my new blood. What would it feel like to wrap Moriah's fingers around his neck? To watch the whites of his eyes go red as life left him?

Please. Leave my brother out of this. Give him a message for me.

His sister broods over me. She feels as desperate as a long drought. Smells like sweet death—geraniums and decayed flesh.

Tell him that Laury says he should fix up that bike of his.

The hum inside of me intensifies. A part of me really wants to kill him.

Aunt Shannon whips her head in my direction. "Don't you lay one finger on that boy. Fight that urge, Mercy. Fight it with everything you got, but save it for when it matters. This boy ain't part of the problem. The plan is clear, has always been clear. Get in, kill the beast, get out. We're not here to punish the whole town. Just the ones that hide their eyes from the ugliness, ignoring cruelty in the name of greed."

Mr. Thatcher smiles broadly. "That's my Shannon."

"I ain't your anything," Aunt Shannon says through gritted teeth.

"Your sister, Laury wants you to fix your bike." I say the words, but the hum hasn't gone anywhere, it makes me warm all over, hungry for blood.

Alex's nostrils flare. Bottom lip quivers. "You can talk to her? See her? She's the only one that knows about my motorcycle."

"She's here, and she loves you very much." The hum roars in my ears. "And though I'd like to continue playing medium, we really have to get going."

"Mercy, is it really you?" Mom's meek voice breaks through the stuffy shelter, her dry fingers reaching for the softness of Moriah's face. I was never this snarky when I was alive, but death changed me. The only thing that hasn't changed is my love for my sister and mother. Mom may be weak and unable to care for anyone but herself, but she's still the woman who birthed us. From the moment I died, I've dreamt of taking her into my arms, running my fingers through her hair, and telling her I love her over and over again.

And so I do.

🐺

Aunt Shannon, Mom, and I are waiting with folded arms on the porch when the assholes of Pachuck arrive. The dead twist and groan around us, but no one will be able to see their gnarled forms.

Mr. Thatcher is cowered in the storm shelter until all of this nastiness is over. Though Aunt Shannon has rebuffed every one of his displays of affection, he wouldn't leave with Alex. He still thinks he has some sort of role in all of this.

Mom peers at me with wet eyes. "Mercy? Are we sure this is gonna work?"

"Yes. Without a doubt."

"What if I forget the words?"

"We won't let you forget them."

"And then what? Afterwards you'll leave? You'll be dead again?"

I sigh. " I thought you knew by now, Momma. I'll always be with you."

Pachuck's inner circle parks along the darkened street on Old Salt, teeter out of their cars and stumble over the raised tree roots, still a little punch-drunk from the whispering Moriah and I did on them. They look like zombies with their blank stares.

But that dumbass, Colt, snaps to attention when he sees his dad. 

Sheriff Colby is huddled in front of us. We've bound his hands and feet. With the sock stuffed in his mouth and his ass perched in the air, he's not so imposing.

"Daddy!" Colt shrieks, breaking from the crowd staggering in wet grass. Racing across the yard, he skids to a stop at the porch steps. "What the hell did y'all do to my dad?"

"Hello, dear," Shannon says, offering a slight wave. Her blue dress billows around her ankles. "Some storm we got, huh? Be careful. Sounds like a tornado's comin' any minute."

"H-how is this possible?" Colt's face pales when he sees Aunt Shannon take a hold of my hand.

"You should've known about us Dawson women." Aunt Shannon wraps her meaty fist around Mom's delicate hand. "We're not easily disposed of."

That's when Mom, Aunt Shannon, and I whisper what we've practiced. Three generations of Whisperers, caught between life and death, ready to slay the dragon, once and for all.

"Mammon, hear us now! Your reign is over. A new age has come. Stand down."

Wisps of smoke rise from the porch planks underneath our feet. Moaning, the dead sing our poisonous song with us. They drift up and fly over the heads of the townsfolk.

I call to Ethan Morales, my pet.

His anger surrounds me like a shroud. His spirit reeks of sulfur and woodsmoke as he bucks against the chains I've placed on him. "It's time to play," I whisper to him. An amorphous shape forms before me. He gurgles and sputters on the porch. 

The afterlife hasn't been kind to Ethan. I haven't been kind to Ethan. Crimson eyes glare at me from the strips of meat hanging on his face. He cries, "Let me go!"

I mentally unlock his chains, and he shoots from the porch like a rocket. Sprints towards the small crowd.

As the dead swoop in on the heads of deputies and factory workers, they let out a war cry. Chaos erupts. Mrs. Lonan's shriek gets lost in the wind as Ethan aims for her stomach, burrowing himself deep inside of her. Blood leaks from her open mouth.

The dead flutter about like mosquitoes. The Sheriff that's shaped like a Blueberry pulls his gun from his holster. Yelping, he does figure eights on the front lawn, shooting at the wisps, but his bullets strike nothing but the sky.

"It's those bitches!" Mr. Kessler, the shitty world history teacher, points at us on the porch. "Get them!"

Mom stops chanting when Aunt Shannon and I erupt with laughter. Mr. Kessler is so silly. Thinking anyone can dare get close to us.