The wailing started and would not stop. It was a horrible, broken sound, full of frustration and despair. It pierced me like a knife.

We all came together over the hunched form of Batsheva Moromond. I felt Quaid join us, his face expressionless but eyes soft as he watched his mother, wretched, shattered, shriek her sanity away into the night.

As she did, they started to arrive, slowly at first, in ones and twos, then large groups of them all at once, the coven, our ...