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“They had dogs and everything,” she says. “The dogs brought the searchers to the foot of this tree. My aunt was with them—she’d admitted to being at the bonfire and showed the search party where to go. She said as soon as they got close to the tree, theyspotted Roddy. He was sitting at the base, like he was asleep, with his head tilted to one side. Except his head wasreallyto one side, almost flat against his shoulder. The others didn’t notice, and his dad marched forward to shake Roddy’s shoulder… and his head almost fell clean off.”

“Oh!” Heather says, her hand flying to her mouth. “I never heard that part.”

“Because it wasn’t in the papers.”

Heather frowns. “So hedidn’tkill himself?”

“He did. He was still holding the knife. He cut his throat so deep, he nearly decapitated himself.”

“Is that… possible?” Heather asks.

Patrice’s eyes glint in the candlelight. “That’s the question, isn’t it? The coroner ruled it a suicide, but can someone really do that to themselves? My aunt said that no one who saw Roddy that night believed he killed himself. And then there was Sam.”

She pauses to be sure she has our full attention. “When they realized Roddy was dead, his father went apeshit. Starts ranting about ‘that little bitch’ killing him. This guy—another cop—is trying to calm him down and wipes his own forehead, like he’s sweating. Only it’s blood. Blood dripping from the tree. He looks up… and there’s something up there.”

“Sam,” Heather breathes. “I heard she was found in the trees. I thought that just meant she was in the forest.”

Patrice smirks. “That was how they worded it. She was in an actual tree. This one. When Aunt Lori looked up, she thought it was some kind of animal. All she could see was blood and guts. Literally guts, intestines hanging down. It was my aunt who saw Sam’s face first. Sam was lying over the branches with her stomach ripped open. My aunt looked up… and Sam’s eyes opened.”

Heather lets out a strangled yelp.

“She was still alive?” I say. “After spending the night in a tree with her stomach ripped apart?”

Patrice’s mouth sets in a firm line. “It can happen. Stomach injuries take a long time to kill you.”

“Yes, but—”

Her glare silences me. I glance at Heather, and I’m prepared to stop Patrice if she’s genuinely disturbing Heather, but I recognize the look in Heather’s eyes. It’s the look of anyone listening to spooky stories in the dark. Scared shitless… and loving it.

“Her eyes open,” Patrice says. “Her lips part. And she says one thing. One last thing before she dies.”

“What?” Heather whispers.

“‘It did this.’” She looks from Heather to me. “Nothedid this. NotRoddydid this.Itdid this. My aunt went to her grave believing the other kids had summoned something dark, something evil, and it killed her friend.” Patrice shifts. “After what Aunt Lori saw, she was never right again. I said that she told me this story. But I didn’t say where she told it from.”

Patrice looks between us again. “A mental hospital. Aunt Lori never recovered from what she saw right here, in this clearing.”

Patrice points at the old maple. “That tree never recovered either. Those marks were there when the search team found Roddy. And they’re still there.”

Patrice reaches for her wineglass and takes a bigger swig. “That’s not the first thing that happened in this forest either. People have disappeared. People have died. Every now and then, someone buys the land for a housing development. Then they hear the stories, and they realize no one would ever want to live here.”

Patrice sets down her glass. “My aunt said it all started when settlers first arrived in Alberta. They weren’t prepared for Canadian winters, and things got bad, and when spring came, there were a lot fewer people in their little village. They claimed they’d buried all the dead. Somehow buried them in frozen ground. Everyone knew what happened, but they all pretended to believe the story. But here’s the real question…”

She leans forward, eyes nearly red behind the flames. “Is this place cursed because of what those pioneers did? Or were they driven to do it because this place is cursed?”

I know this story is ninety percent bullshit. Yes, I’m sure Sam and Roddy died. He killed her, maybe stabbing her in the stomach, and then he slit his own throat. But the embellishments belong to Patrice—or her mentally disturbed aunt.

The story is intended to prepare us for the séance. We did that at the middle-school ones, too. Tell a spooky story to get everyone in the mood, ready to jump at a whisper or a breeze through the window. It’s just different hearing them in the security of someone’s bedroom… versus hearing them in a dark and empty forest where two teens actually did die.

I want to stop this. I want to get up and walk away, and if Patrice and Heather stay behind, then that’s their choice.

But if I back out now, they’ll never let me live it down. I’m the logical one, the reasonable one. If I get spooked and quit, then every time I try to play it cool, they’ll remind me of the time I ran away from a séance.

Other kids will hear about it, too. Patrice won’t keep her mouth shut. She’ll tell someone, who’ll tell someone, and if I complain, she’ll mock me for “whining.”

So remind me why I’m friends with Patrice? She can be mean and downright cruel. She has no sense of loyalty. In fact, most times, her friends are the target of her cruelty.

I’m being grumbly. I know that. I’m unsettled and taking it out on Patrice.