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Now I’m back in the same position, and part of me is screaming that I’m making the same mistake, and part is screaming back that I’m still not sure Ididmake a mistake.

No, I did. I made the mistake of not telling my parents what happened. I’d been afraid. Not of what they’d do—my mom and dad were great. But when you have parents you actually respect, you’re afraid of disappointing them.

And whathadI done, really? Supervised my friends with a relatively mild bit of drug experimentation? My parents wouldn’t be concerned about the séance part. Kids will be kids, and my parents were rational people who recognized things like “dark entities” as irrational. Their entire focus would be on the drugs.

I should have confessedbecauseof the drugs. Because something is wrong with Patrice, and I’m withholding vital information from her doctor.

I’ll fix that. I swear I will. I’ll tell my parents, who will tell Patrice’s family. I can even swipe a sample of the mushrooms tonight.

There. That’s a reason for coming, right? To get that sample?

“What do you think is going on?” Heather whispers as we walk.

I want to glare at her. After we promised Patrice we’d do this, I’d tried to talk to Heather. We had time then, without Patrice around to hear. Heather didn’t want to talk about it, just like she’s refused to discuss any of it for the past fucking week.

We’re trudging through a dark forest, five feet behind Patrice, andnowHeather wants to talk?

“Nic?” Heather whispers.

I can’t answer. Patrice is too close. I slow my steps, thinking Patrice will notice, but she’s marching on like she did that night, as if we aren’t even there.

Finally I deem her far enough away.

“I don’t know,” I whisper to Heather. “I think it’s a bad trip.”

“Lasting this long?”

I say nothing.

Heather whispers, “What about the voices? The footsteps? Roddy’s ghost was there.”

Was it? At the time, it seemed obvious that we’d conjured the ghost of Roddy, come searching for his Sam. But since then, doubt has crept in.

Did we really hear anything? And if we did, are we sure it was a ghost? The longer I thought about it, the more it felt like a prank.

The adult me rouses from the memory then. Had I really thought this at the time? Or was that my current knowledge rewriting history?

No, Ihadthought it. At that moment, in that forest, my gut had told me the truth. That “Roddy” had been fake.

I hesitate, torn between mulling over that and returning to the memory, so vivid it’s like I’m watching a reenactment.

Go back. There are answers there. Go back.

If you dare.

That last part does it, as if my inner voice is my child self, knowing exactly which button to press.

I sink back into the memory.

Heather has just mentioned the voices and footsteps from the first séance, and I shrug and mutter, “I don’t know.”

“Something happened to Patrice,” she hisses. “You know it did.”

“Then I’m hoping this will help. The drugs made her hallucinate that something got into her—Roddy’s ghost or whatever—and she believes this ceremony will send it back. That’s the power of suggestion. She thinks it happened, so this time, we convince her it un-happens.”

Heather doesn’t answer, but I’m on a roll, so certain I have all the answers.

“If it fails,” I say, “then it’s the drugs, and we tell her parents. We need to do that. For her own sake.”