The cat was sprawled across her chest, fat and swollen as a goddamned basketball. How that thing didn’t just burst at the seams and shower those pink walls with cat guts I’ll never know.

Anyway, by now everyone was shouting and screaming. Hank punched Mr. Singer in the face, so my dad grabbed him, pushed him back against a wall.

And then, someone—I’m still not sure who—snatched Marmalade off Emily’s chest. Ripped that cat away like it was a giant band-aid. They sort of peeled it off of her.

Man, that fucking cat went crazy. It started clawing and biting and hissing like a wild, mad thing. Whoever had grabbed it screamed out in pain and dropped it to the carpet, where it landed with a squishy thud. Then I could hear it hissing. Some folks were trying to catch it, others trying to stomp on it. There was a flash of orange fur and I saw it barrel head-first into a wall, hard enough to put a little crack there if you can believe it. It was sort of dazed for a second, then it flew between a pair of legs and slithered beneath the bed.

Before anyone could think of retrieving it, Emily woke up.

It was the most awful, terrifying thing I’ve ever seen.

Her face, like I said, was all swelled up and purple, her hair tangled and wild. But it was her eyes … my God, her eyes! Black as midnight. Bulging onyx stones set deep into that horrible face, and they were looking around at the people there, her head jerking from one to the next, her mouth hung open in a toothy snarl.

And then she started to scream.

Wailing, piercing shrieks like you’ve never heard! Eardrum-shattering howls that made your head feel like it was splitting apart, that filled your mind with chaos, with confusion. It was like the whole room was vibrating. My teeth felt electrified, my muscles turned to jelly. Man, everyone felt it. And when that little girl—or whatever it was—turned to look around the room, when she screamed at each one of us, those black eyes fixed on yours? Drool spilling from cracked blue lips?

I’ll tell ya, some folks just dropped. Fainted right then and there.

But others, like my daddy?

They went for her.

Someone yanked the case from a pillow on her bed and dropped it over her head, pulled it tight. I’ll never forget seeing the hollow where her mouth was sucking for air.

Then one of the other men began looping rope around her body.

When Hank Peterson tried to intervene, someone shot him in the stomach. The sound was so loud my ears were ringing for a week. Then Wilma Peterson was clubbed in the head, knocked to the floor.

Next thing I know, we’re all moving down the stairs, all but running toward the first floor. The men dragged Hank and Wilma through the house, Wilma screaming the whole way, out the kitchen door and into the backyard.

To that big oak.

By the time I got out there, they had already thrown three strands of rope over one of the thick, lower branches of the tree. Pairs of men held one end while the others tied the rope around the necks of Hank (who was still alive at this point but didn’t have much fight left in him) and Wilma, who was limp and weeping. Praying, I guess. And finally little Emily, of course. She was fighting hardest of all. Like a fish pulled from a lake then dropped into the bottom of the boat.

She was still wearing that pillowcase when they tugged the noose around her neck.

Up they went, the three of them. Kicking and gagging and wiggling at the ends of the ropes ….

Until they weren’t.

After that, things got real quiet. And the neighborhood, for obvious reasons, was never the same.

In total, nine men were arrested, two of the women. Six of the men were convicted. Last I heard, they were all still in prison. My dad, I can tell you, won’t be released for a long time to come. I don’t know the case for each of them, but none of them got off easy.

That said, I suppose they got off easier than the Petersons, didn’t they?

…

Marmalade? That’s a good question.

But look, if you don’t mind, or hell, even if you do, I’m done here.

BOBBY CLARKE

I’m not sure what you’ve heard from anyone else, but they probably know a lot more about what happened than I do. Like I said, I was pretty young. Not much older than Emily Peterson, actually.

They tore down that tree when they sold the house. For a while, kids were daring each other to climb it, or to run and touch it for Ten Mississippi. But when the branches got creaky in the wind, at night … no thanks. Way too easy to imagine six dangling feet above your head, swinging in the breeze.

But honestly? It’s not the ghosts of the Petersons that scares me, or scares most of the kids around here.

It’s Marmalade.

See, they never did find her after that night. It’s like she vanished. I mean, people looked, believe me. They searched Ms. Grimmel’s house up and down. She was kind of an outcast after all that, anyway. Kept to herself. No more visitors. No more porch visits.

I mean, they searched the whole neighborhood. For weeks! It was crazy. But, you know, after a while, after some people moved away and others went to jail and stuff, people stopped looking. They figured she was dead or had run away, gone to bother some other poor neighborhood with her miracle cures.

Still, there is one strange thing. Something that still goes on, even now.

…

Yeah … yeah, okay.

So, the stories I’ve heard, from lots of people, say that if you’re ever really sick … like, bedridden with the flu or chicken pox or whatever? They say that sometimes, usually at night if you’re sick like that, you’ll hear Marmalade.

You’ll hear her trying to get into your room.

Trying to get to you.

I’ve heard a few different stories. Some people hear meowing, but they can never tell where it’s coming from. Sometimes it’s outside, sometimes from behind a closed closet door. One kid I know, Sally Hopper? She was laid up with a bad fever once, and she heard the meowing one night. She said it was coming from under the bed.

Other people say they’ve heard scratching at their windows. Like, nails scraping against the glass, or picking away at the screen. One guy said he heard her pawing at his bedroom door, scratching at the wood, wanting to get inside. He said when he sat up, he could see her shadow beneath the door, like he was supposed to get up and let her in.

Hey, maybe whoever reads your book will hear her, too.

Stranger things have happened, right?

Personally, if I’m ever really sick—like, dying—and I hear Marmalade coming for me? I’m gonna let her in. I’d risk losing my soul if it meant staying alive.

Wouldn’t you?

…

I don’t know, you just got to believe, I guess. Believe she can heal you.

Believe in miracles.