She looked up. The ceiling had become the attic floorboards, knotholes staring down like eyes. The pull-cord tightened around her ankle with a snap. She was yanked upward so fast her teeth clicked. Suddenly she was lying on the attic floor, surrounded by the four children. They were arranging Polaroids in a perfect pentagram around her body. Each photo showed a different family that had lived here, always five people, always taken the day they disappeared. The center spot, where Sarah lay, was empty until now. One little girl with a melted face leaned close and whispered, “We don’t want to hurt you. We just get so lonely between parties.” Then she kissed Sarah’s forehead. The spot burned like dry ice.
