A power lifted Vera’s chest, rolling her onto her toes. It was their power. Her power.
A ragged roar of agony shook the room. Gales blasted Vera’s face, whipping her hair, pushing against her. She didn’t let go of the objects. Instead, she squinted tighter, her blood boiling hotter. Sweat saturated her shirt, her hair.
Her lips never stopped moving.
The fourth stage, the final stage: “I attack this evil. Bind its powers, end its darkness, confine its wrath…. I command this demon to leave, transfer to these objects forever. I command it to leave this body. I command it never to come back.”
The shrill wail that ricocheted off the surfaces of their house was inhuman, not of animal, not of man. It was a sound not of this world.
Vera finished the last line of the final blessing and opened her eyes.
The rotting, tortured being crashed back to earth, muscles convulsing, tendons popping. Blood poured from its nose in a congealed burgundy gush. Its head heaved back, brittle curls lifting, then abruptly its chest flung forward and it gagged, blood vessels bursting in its eyes as it retched, still fighting their prayers.
Then black greasy liquid spewed from split lips with a bubbling gurgle, and Vera thrust the objects beneath it. The hard hat, black with the ash of the dead and full of shattered, poisonous glass, caught the inky secretion that spilled from the monster. On impact, the liquid absorbed into the shards of the crystal chalice, dissolving, disappearing, erasing. The beast hurled, chest cast forward and seizing, until the body was wrung clean.
Then it stopped.
Everything.
The room was silent.
The winds stilled.
The cries ceased.
The chanting halted.
Not a finger twitched.
Not a hair blew.
Then the body before them rested a hand on its knees and pushed itself upright.
“Maxwell?” she said.
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
Max
“Mom?”
Max rushed toward her, throwing his arms around his mother for the first time in…what? Weeks? Months?
She curled into his chest. “What happened? Oh, Maxwell. I’m so sorry.”
She sobbed with a force he hadn’t heard since that day, since they stood outside the community center.
“Mom, you’re okay. I got you.” He stroked her hair. It felt soft, almost silky.
He pulled back and looked at her face. Her tan skin was red and blotchy as tears stained her cheeks, but her lips were no longer cracked. Her nose was no longer bleeding. No oozing sores covered her skin. Her eyes were a dark, rich maple, not burning hunks of coal. How could this be?
He turned to Vera.
Her lips were parted, eyes blinking like she couldn’t believe the scene was real. Or maybe she couldn’t believe that she had done this.
Yes, she did this. She saved his mom.
“Thank you,” he mouthed, feeling language lacked words big enough to describe how he felt.
His mother flung herself at him again, gripping him like a life raft.
“I’m so sorry,” she pleaded.
“I know. I know.” He patted her hair.
“Where’s Chloe?” Aunt Tilda asked.
“Chloe!” his mom howled, collapsing.
“In my truck. I locked her in. I think she’s okay,” Max said.
Aunt Tilda nodded as if accepting her mission and started walking toward the door.
Then Vera reached out. “Aunt Tilda!” she called. Her aunt spun around. “Thank you.”
Seriously? Max thought, feeling as though the thanks in this situation should only be pointing in one direction.
The aunt smiled, smoothing her gray hair behind her shoulder, still wild from the wind. “No. Thank you. I’m so proud of you.”
The aunt’s eyes looked the same way Max felt, as if she knew her words weren’t enough to convey what she really felt.
Vera was a superhero.
Vera
Vera watched as Max hugged his mother, and for the first time in a long time, the tug she felt on her chest held no fear, no psychic pull, no demonic energy. Max smoothed his mother’s curls from her face and comfort food poured into Vera’s soul.
“She’s okay,” Vera croaked.
“I think so,” said Father Chuck, stepping beside her. “How did you know what to do? Your aunt, she thought the chalice, the basement, was giving it power. She thought it was feeding it with demonic energy. But you…”
“I don’t know.” Vera shrugged. “I really don’t. You know how sometimes you drive someplace and don’t remember how you got there? Your body just does it?”
The priest nodded.
“That’s the best I can explain it.”
“It takes no bravery to drive a car, but what you did—”
“It’s what my parents do.” In fact, they had done exactly this yesterday and were going to do exactly this tomorrow when they got home. It was nothing special.
Father Chuck placed a heavy palm on her shoulder. “You saved a woman’s life.” His voice was heartfelt. “I have a feelin’ you’ll spend a lot of time reflecting on what happened here. I imagine we all will.”
Vera’s face flushed as she shook her head no. He was making too much of it. Her actions, she didn’t consciously make them. She just did them. She wasn’t a hero. Anyone would have done the same.
“The folks outside, the yellow-hatters, I think I oughta take a look at how they’re faring.” Father Chuck turned toward the windows, strangers milling in her front yard, aimlessly pacing with blinking, vacant eyes.
He left the house and Vera shifted back to Max, still hugging his mother—not it, but Mrs. Lilith Oliver. Lilith gazed up at Vera through thick, healthy lashes and smiled, her teeth as white and straight as a toothpaste ad. Her eyes leaked uncontrollable tears.
“Mom,” Max said. “This is Vera. She saved your life.”
“No. I didn’t. I just—” Vera shook her head.
“She’s amazing,” Max added.
The way he looked at her in that moment, the way his honey-brown eyes gleamed, was a picture Vera hoped she’d hold in her mind and her heart forever. Whenever the world got too cold, and her life got too dark, she prayed to every force she’d just summoned that she would always be able to picture his face gazing at her in exactly this way.
EPILOGUE
“You didn’t order the scampi. You ordered the crab cakes,” Max insisted as he set a plate in front of Aunt Tilda. “But I can get you the scampi if you want it.”
“No. No. You’re right. I couldn’t decide. The crab cakes look lovely. I’ll have the shrimp next time,” said Aunt Tilda as she nestled beside Vera, sipping a glass of iced tea with a wedge of lemon.
Vera glanced around the crowded restaurant. It was a Saturday night in early August, and it seemed the tourists were finally venturing back. The darkness had lifted from Roaring Creek, not just from Max’s mother, but from everyone.
“Who ordered no tomatoes with balsamic?” asked Mrs. Oliver as she approached their picnic table with a tray of side salads.
His mother was stunning. Sometimes Vera found herself staring at her, wondering how this could be the same person. She looked so much like Chloe, with those bouncing black curls. Her skin glowed.
But her eyes sometimes fell with the weight of remorse.
Vera insisted Mrs. Oliver go to the hospital after everything settled. A full workup was imperative, but it was an uncomfortable consultation. You couldn’t exactly put “possessed by a demon” on a patient intake form, but after Vera called in a few favors, the doctors ran as many tests as her insurance allowed. She was given a clean bill of health, aside from some malnutrition and dehydration from not eating properly for several weeks. But it was he
r mind Vera worried about, the aftereffects.
She spent two weeks at an inpatient facility to recover from “exhaustion,” and she finally admitted it would take time, and regular therapy, to deal with her grief. She was willing to do the hard work. Max, however, blamed himself, insisting he missed the signs that her self-help fixes had shifted to something more sinister. It took some talking—a lot of talking—to convince him that it wasn’t his job to regulate her every move. He was her son; she was the adult. She needed to handle this herself.
Max’s grandparents moved into the house, taking care of him and Chloe while Lilith was away. Father Chuck arranged for a priest with a doctorate in psychology to treat the entire family. His mother’s memory was spotty—chunks of the experience were missing—but Chloe suffered from nightmares. It was hard to explain what happened to her, and to convince her that she couldn’t talk about it with anyone outside of their circle. Vera knew that horrific experience, Chloe’s brush with death at the hands of a monster that wore her mother’s face, would change the person Chloe would turn out to be. And that reality stabbed at Vera’s heart.
But in the end, the experience changed all of them.
“All right, Grandma, Pops—we got a fried Captain’s Combo and broiled crabmeat.” Max set two steaming plates in front of his grandparents—his father’s parents.
They didn’t know what happened to his mom. They just knew she was still grieving their son, and she was sober. She needed time. Aunt Tilda had convinced them to move to Roaring Creek, to be a part of this family instead of breaking it up. Max’s mother needed her children, but she needed help as well. They listened. Max’s grandma even taught Aunt Tilda how to make jerk chicken and stew peas. Pops played the harmonica on the porch every evening and told stories about Max’s dad. He also befriended Mr. Zanger. Turned out they had a lot in common—they were both veterans who grew up in Brooklyn. Sometimes he even walked Snowball.
“All right, scooch over,” Max said as he set a plate of shrimp stuffed with crabmeat in front of Vera. His hip pressed against hers. “Look how packed it is.”
His gaze flitted about the open-air restaurant, a grin on his face.
“It’s like the fog has lifted.” Vera squeezed his forearm, finding any excuse to touch him.
“Ain’t that the truth.” Max pumped his brow. “We got another call from a reporter.”
“Ugh.” Vera groaned.
After his mother came back from some unseen Hell dimension, they were smacked with real-world problems. Max and Vera had broken into the Durands’ home, and they confessed this to the police. They swore that Anatole and TSC were behind the Grim Reaper statues. The cops suspected this already—the figurines had been showing up at crime scenes and car accidents connected to Sunshine followers—but they couldn’t prove any criminal activity. Max and Vera insisted they go to the basement of the Durand home. Eventually they got a warrant and discovered the makeshift altar, boxes of statues, Sunshine merchandise, shattered chalices, and containers full of cyanide. The Durands had already skipped town by that point, but they were easy to find. A follower had posted a picture of them on Instagram.
It was ultimately the cult members who offered the most damning evidence. Once the trance was broken and they were no longer under the influence of the demon, they could finally think clearly. They realized how close they’d come to dying, and they submitted statements to the police, detailing stories of being coerced to worship a demon and distribute poison. The cult was deemed a criminal organization and the media devoured the story.
Max and his entire family refused interviews. So did Vera’s coworker Samantha, who said she remembered everything she did as if she were drunk, her brain not in control of her actions. It was probably better that way. Chelsea was helping her through the aftermath.
“Did you hear the mayor is talking about another memorial sculpture?” Max asked, biting into corn on the cob dripping with butter.
“It’s a nice gesture.” Vera smiled.
Max rolled his eyes.
The families who lost someone the day of the explosion had filed a class-action suit against the Durands. It would take years to wind itself through the legal system, but it gave them somewhere to place their blame. It gave them an answer to the darkest question: why did this happen? It gave the town a way to finally close its bleakest chapter. The Durand trial was scheduled to be broadcast live. And a documentary was already filming.
“Your parents get back tomorrow?” Max asked, his mouth full.
“Yeah, false alarm.” Vera’s parents were working another case.
Their plane touched down from Barcelona the day after the demon was vanquished. It might have been the first time in Vera’s life she knew, with utter certainty, that her parents were proud of her. It was like that day finally solidified her as a member of her family. And Vera wasn’t sure how she felt about that. She didn’t want to have to earn her parents’ love, and she didn’t want her parents’ lives. She hated the idea of spending weeks or months traveling, away from the people who loved her, and she wouldn’t mind going her whole life never again seeing a nightmare-inducing hell beast. Dipping her toe into the demonic was enough.
But Vera couldn’t unsee what she saw. She knew what existed, and now she was more committed than ever to becoming a psychiatrist. She wanted to know that someday, if a poor afflicted soul was ever admitted into a hospital, there would be someone there to consider all options.
That was her purpose in life. She knew that now more than ever.
“My mom wants to have dinner with you,” Vera said as she ripped a tail off a stuffed shrimp.
“They want to come here?” Max gestured around.
“You eat here all the time. She wants you to come over to our house. Don’t worry, Aunt Tilda will cook.” Vera nudged him.
“Well, how can I say no to that?” He pecked her lips, and as he did a loud pack of teenagers stumbled through the door.
Vera turned to see their classmates, Max’s friends, though he hadn’t seen them much lately. He said that wasn’t Vera’s fault, and she shouldn’t feel guilty, but she did. She didn’t want to take him away from who he was or those who were important to him.
“Max!” Leo yelled, his hand raised high to show an August sweat stain on his blue T-shirt. Jackson tumbled behind him, tripping in his flip-flops.
Delilah stood at their sides.
“When are you off work?” Jackson asked, his hand on Delilah’s shoulder. She clasped her palm with his, aiming a smile directly at Max. It was an intentional gesture. They were together, and she wanted Max to know it.
“Um, guys.” Max stood. “I’m hanging out with Vera tonight. Family dinner.” He nodded to the crowded picnic table that included Vera’s aunt, a priest, Max’s grandparents, his little sister, and his mom.
Delilah’s mouth set in a hard line. “Oh, that’s…great.”
“Yeah, maybe tomorrow.” Max placed a palm on Vera’s shoulder and squeezed.
They were together too. There was no point in pretending anymore.
The darkness was behind them now. The steely clouds had lifted from their small coastal town, and all it had taken was a lonely girl dressed in black beating a monster.
THE TRUTH
Santa Muerte
The shrine at the center of this novel, the Angel of Tears, is fictional. Its basis draws inspiration from the folk religion of Santa Muerte (literally translated as “Saint Death”), which is most commonly practiced in Mexico, along with the United States. Death figures have existed in Catholicism since at least medieval times, rising in popularity and number during the Black Plague. Some scholars tie Santa Muerte to Spanish colonizers who brought images of La Parca, the Grim Reaper, into the lands they invaded. Others say the religion is born from Mictlantecuhtli, the Aztec god of the dead. Worshippers pray to a female skeleton wrapped in a
colorful robe or wedding gown, often wearing jewelry, decorated with flowers, and holding a scythe or a crystal globe. Devotees create altars and leave offerings. These rituals are derived from indigenous practices, Spiritualism, Santería, Catholicism, and New Age philosophies. While some devotees remain active in the Catholic church, in 2013, the Vatican declared Santa Muerte a “degeneration of religion.”
Notably, the practice is popular in areas with high rates of poverty and violence, among those who are most marginalized by society and feel death is imminent. They seek healing, protection, and safe passage to the afterlife. The saint is sometimes invoked for vengeance and illegal activity, including murder. The religion, however, is not a cult. Unlike the Angel of Tears, which was created for this book, Santa Muerte is not a Satanic mass. Santa Muerte worshippers are not praying to the devil or demons. There are an estimated ten to twelve million followers of Santa Muerte worldwide. It should be noted that Santa Muerte is separate from the Day of the Dead.
Jonestown and NXIVM
The cult-speak used in this book is original, but it draws inspiration from the recordings of real-life cult leaders. In November 1978, in Jonestown, Guyana, Jim Jones convinced more than nine hundred of his Peoples Temple cult followers to drink poisoned Kool-Aid, including more than three hundred children. Prior to 9/11, it was the largest single incident of intentional death of American civilians. Jones didn’t drink the Kool-Aid, but he fatally shot himself immediately following the death of his followers.
Keith Raniere is the creator of NXIVM, an expensive faux self-help group based in Albany, New York, that spread worldwide for two decades. Promising success and spiritual enlightenment, the group included a cult that branded, exploited, and abused women and children. Raniere was convicted for his crimes in June 2019, and in October 2020 was sentenced to 120 years in prison.
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