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W e left the church in a convoy of silence, the moon glaring down on us in judgment. My father joined us, though I’d never seen him look so distraught. What we were doing—it violated everything I’d ever heard him preach, everything he’d taught me.

The cemetery waited, silent as a closed book, the ground already riven with frost. The men fanned out, their lanterns winking on one by one as they approached the new grave.

I trailed at the rear, Moll at my side. She reeked of tallow and wild herbs and something else.

“She was your friend?” Moll asked, not unkindly.

“Not really,” I said, voice brittle. “I barely knew her.”

“No matter,” said Moll. “You’ll be her friend tonight. Though I must warn you, it will feel the opposite.”

We watched as the men got to work. No one spoke, clearly disgusted to do a witch’s bidding. The mound gave way quicker than I’d thought; the ground was softer, maybe. If Mercy truly had been rising from her grave, it made sense.

The coffin came up with a groan. The lid was forced, and the lantern light pooled on Mercy Brown’s face, smooth and alive as if she’d only fallen asleep.

A gasp rippled through the crowd. Even in death, she was beautiful.

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.

Moll broke the silence. “There’s always a price,” she said. “Tonight, you paid less than most.”

She turned and left, her shadow trailing behind her like a second self.

I stood there until the others had gone, the vial of ashes burning in my palm. The Bible in my other hand felt heavier than any weapon, heavier than the heart in the bottle.

At the far edge of the cemetery, Mr. Brown waited. He didn’t speak, just took my arm and guided me toward his house, where Edwin was waiting.

I did not look back. There was nothing left to see.

I followed Mr. Brown back to his house, the bottle of ashes cradled in my hands. The moon had gone behind clouds. I wanted to pray, but for the first time, I didn’t know how. Would God even hear our prayers, given what we’d done?

Mr. Brown did not speak, not until the front door was shut and bolted behind us. The house was unlit, the only warmth the embers in the parlor stove. He slumped into a chair, his face slack. I hovered by the door, not sure if I was meant to stay.

After a long time, he said, “She was so small when she was born.” His voice was thick with something old—regret, maybe, or shame. “I held her in one hand, like a bird.” He stared at the floor. “Now she’s—“ He could not finish.

I wanted to say it would be all right, but even I didn’t believe it. So I said nothing, just listened to the slow breakdown of a man who’d lost everything worth keeping.

He looked up at me, eyes rimmed with red. “Do you believe it’ll work?” he asked. “What the witch said.”

I didn’t know how to answer. “I don’t know what I believe.”

He nodded, then stood, steadying himself against the table. “Edwin’s upstairs. Please, hurry.”

When I entered Edwin’s room he looked worse than I expected. His eyes were ringed with purple, his hair matted to his head.

George steered him into a chair, then turned to me. “How do we do this?”

I set the bottle on the table, hands trembling. “She said to mix it with something. Water, or milk.”

He fetched a chipped mug and filled it from the pitcher. I poured in the ashes, watched them settle at the bottom. The water turned cloudy, then grey, then red at the edges. I pushed it across the table.

Edwin looked at his father from across the room. George nodded.

He drank it down in two gulps, the liquid streaking the sides of the cup like dirty snowmelt. He coughed, wiped his mouth, and looked at me.

“Will it hurt?” he whispered.

I shook my head, though I knew it was a lie.

He folded into himself, shivering. George kept his distance, afraid to contract the illness.

The change, when it came, was nothing like the stories. No lightning, no screams. Edwin’s breathing slowed, then steadied. The bruises faded a little, the color coming back to his lips. He looked up, eyes unfocused, and smiled a thin, tired smile.

“Thank you,” he said. I almost believed he meant it.

Mr. Brown looked at me as if I’d performed a miracle. But I knew better. I’d seen the way Moll’s eyes lingered on the ashes, the twitch of her mouth when the heart caught fire. This wasn’t a cure. It was a trade.

As I stood to leave, Mr. Brown caught my arm. “Will you stay?” he asked. “Just for tonight. In case he needs help. I still cannot get too close, and it breaks my heart to see him in pain.”

I nodded. I sat on the edge of the parlor sofa. I watched the window, waiting for the thing I’d seen at the sanatorium. But the night passed in silence.

In the early hours, I slipped out. I walked past Mercy’s grave, the dirt already frozen over. I whispered a prayer—for her and for all of us.