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Mercy’s eyes shot open in terror. Everyone gasped.

“The devil!” Hobbes announced.

“The knife!” Moll demanded. Mr. Brown gave it to her, and before Mercy could move, she plunged it into her abdomen.

The screams were piercing, the agony alive. Everyone else looked away—except for me and Moll.

“Are you sure this will do it?” Mr. Brown’s voice trembled. “Are you sure this will kill the demon that has overtaken my Mercy?”

“Indeed, it will.” Moll spoke calmly, as if she’d done this before. “It is the only way. We must burn her heart and liver and feed the ashes to your boy if you hope for him to recover.”

“I don’t like this,” my father protested. “This is witchcraft. It’s of the devil!”

Moll glanced at my father even as she continued to cut at Mercy's flesh. “Tell me, preacher. Does your faith have prescriptions for how to vanquish a vampire, how to heal those afflicted by their bite?”

“No, ma’am. But this…”

“Proceed,” Mr. Brown directed. “We can repent of these sins in time. But we must eliminate the demon! We need this to heal Edwin.”

Mercy’s face was contorted with rage. She locked eyes with her own father, her stare both murderous and filled with pain, with betrayal.

Mercy squirmed.

“More garlic!” Moll shouted. “She’s strong. I must complete this before she rises.”

Mercy’s scream sent shockwaves through the crowd. Mr. Brown took two steps back as his undead daughter pleaded with him. “Daddy! Please stop!”

“It’s okay, Mercy.” Mr. Brown tried to stay calm, but his words were laced with anguish. “Your soul will be free from the demon soon.”

“Fuck you!” Mercy screamed.

“It’s the devil within her speaking,” my father added. “You mustn’t listen to it.”

“It’s not the fucking devil!” Mercy snapped, her eyes still fixed on Mr. Brown. “It’s me… It’s your daughter!”

I could see tears welling up in Mr. Brown’s face before he turned away. “Make it quick. I can’t bear to look.”

“Moll, you bitch!” Mercy shouted.

The witch looked at Mercy, empathy in her eyes.

Moll reached her hand into Mercy's chest. I saw the heart in her hands as she placed it in a bowl held by the preacher. Then she cut again and pulled out another organ. Mercy’s screams persisted.

“Burn them,” Moll ordered. “And do not let any of the ashes escape. The boy will need it all.”

As they set her heart on fire, Mercy screamed as though she could feel the burn. “You’ll be damned for this, all of you!”

Finally, silence. Mercy’s face remained frozen in mid-scream.

The smell was worse than death. It filled the air, seeped into my clothes, wormed into my nose. The heart turned black in the flame, then to ash. Moll scooped the ashes into a vial and corked it.

She handed it to me. The glass was warm.

“Give it to the boy,” she said. “Mix it with wine, or milk, or water from the old well. But don’t wait.”

I took the vial. My hands did not stop shaking.

The men put Mercy’s remains back in the coffin and buried it again, not with reverence but with grim efficiency. When the grave was filled and the ground tamped down, we all stood for a long moment, not knowing what to say.