One of the things about living in a small town is you can’t get away with ditching class in the middle of a historical reenactment that your English teacher spent weeks organizing. Not without consequences. In most places, that would mean suspension, or at least detention. In Gatlin, it meant Amma forcing you to show up at your teacher’s house with a plateful of peanut butter cookies.

Which is exactly where I was standing.

I knocked on the door, hoping Mrs. English wasn’t home. I stared at the red door, shifting my weight uncomfortably. Lena liked red doors. She said red was a happy color, and Casters didn’t have red doors. To Casters, doors were dangerous—all thresholds were. Only Mortals had red doors.

My mom had hated red doors. She didn’t like people who had red doors either. She said having a red door in Gatlin meant you were the kind of person who wasn’t afraid to be different. But if you thought having a red door would do that for you, then you really were just like the rest of them.

I didn’t have time to come up with my own theory on red doors, because right then this one swung open. Mrs. English was standing there in a flowered dress and fuzzy slippers. “Ethan? What are you doing here?”

“I came to apologize, ma’am.” I held out the plate. “I brought you some cookies.”

“Then I suppose you should come in.” She stepped back, opening the door wider.

This wasn’t the response I was expecting. I figured I’d apologize and give her Amma’s famous peanut butter cookies, she would accept, and I would be out of there. Not following her into her tiny house. Red door or not, I definitely wasn’t happy.

“Why don’t we have a seat in the parlor?”

I followed her into a tiny room that didn’t look like any parlor I’d ever seen. It was the smallest house I’d ever been in. The walls were covered with black and white family portraits. They were so old and the faces so small that I would’ve had to stop and stare to look at any of them, which made them all strangely private. At least, strange for Gatlin, where our families were on display at all times, the dead and the living.

Mrs. English was strange, all right.

“Please, have a seat. I’ll bring you a glass of water.” It wasn’t a question—it seemed to be mandatory. She stepped into the kitchen, which was about the size of two closets. I could hear the running water.

“Thank you, ma’am.”

There was a collection of ceramic figurines on the mantel over the fireplace—a globe, a book, a cat, a dog, a moon, a star. The Lilian English version of the standard junk the Sisters had collected and never let anyone touch, until it was smashed to rubble in their front yard. In the middle of the fireplace was a small television, with rabbit ear antennas that couldn’t have worked for about twenty years. Some kind of spidery-looking houseplant sat on top of it, making the whole thing look like a big planter. Except the plant looked like it was dying, which made the planter that wasn’t a planter, on top of the TV that wasn’t a TV, on top of the fireplace that wasn’t a fireplace, all seem pointless.

A tiny bookcase sat next to the fireplace. It actually appeared to be what it was, seeing as it actually had books on it. I bent down to read the titles: To Kill a Mockingbird. The Invisible Man. Frankenstein. Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde. Great Expectations.

The front door slammed, and I heard a voice I never would have expected to hear in my English teacher’s house.

“Great Expectations. One of my personal favorites. It’s so… tragic.” Sarafine was standing inside the doorway, her yellow eyes watching me. Abraham had ripped into a worn flowered chair in the corner of the room. He looked comfortable, as if he was just another guest. The Book of Moons was resting in his lap.

“Ethan? Did you open the front—” It only took a minute for Mrs. English to come back from the kitchen. I don’t know if it was the strangers in her parlor, or Sarafine’s yellow eyes, but Mrs. English dropped the water, broken glass raining down onto her flowered rug. “Who are you people?”

I looked at Abraham. “They’re here for me.”

He laughed. “Not this time, boy. We came for something else.”

Mrs. English was shaking. “I don’t have anything of value. I’m just a teacher.”

Sarafine smiled, which made her look even more deranged. “Actually, you have something that is very valuable to us, Lilian.”

Mrs. English took a step back. “I don’t know who you people are, but you should leave. My neighbors have probably already called the police. This is a very quiet street.” Her voice was rising. I was pretty sure Mrs. English was only a minute away from a meltdown.

“Leave her alone!” I started to walk toward Sarafine, and she flung open her fingers.

I felt the force, ten times stronger than any hand, slam against my chest. I fell back against the bookcase, sending dusty books falling around me.

“Have a seat, Ethan. I think it’s fitting for you to watch the end of the world as you know it.”

I couldn’t get up. I could still feel the weight of Sarafine’s power on my chest.

“You people are crazy,” Mrs. English whispered, her eyes wide.

Sarafine fixed her terrifying eyes on Mrs. English. “You don’t know the half of it.”

Abraham stubbed his cigar out on Mrs. English’s side table and rose from the chair. He opened The Book of Moons as if he had marked a specific page.

“What are you doing? Calling more Vexes?” I shouted.