Chapter 3

"It' s okay, my sweet girl," my mother cooed, stroking Brittany' s hair. "We know you did your best. We know how much you loved her."

She shot a venomous glare at the digital frame in Madame Zelda' s hand.

"This is just more of her poison. Trying to make Brittany feel guilty from beyond the grave. That child was born with a wicked heart."

My father nodded in agreement, his arm wrapped protectively around Brittany. He looked at the image of my smiling younger self with a pained expression, as if looking at a stranger.

"She was never grateful for anything we gave her. For anything Brittany did for her. This proves it. She' s twisting the good memories to hurt us."

They were so quick to believe her, so eager to paint me as the villain. Their love for Brittany was a fortress, and any truth that threatened it was immediately destroyed.

Madame Zelda held up the frame, her face unreadable.

"The story isn' t over. We must see it all to understand."

"I don' t want to see any more!" my mother snapped. "Just do your ritual and be done with it!"

"The truth is the ritual," Madame Zelda replied calmly. "To ignore it is to let the spirit fester."

She pressed a button, and the screen lit up again.

The scene changed. It was the day our grandmother died. The video was shaky, recorded from a hidden spot. It showed Grandma at the top of the main staircase in the old house. Brittany was there, arguing with her, her voice a low hiss. Then, there was a shove. Grandma tumbled down the stairs, a sickening series of thuds ending in a terrible silence.

Brittany looked down, her face a mask of shock that quickly morphed into something else. Calculation. She glanced around wildly, then ran to the wall, slamming her own arm against the doorframe with a sickening crack. She screamed, a piercing, hysterical sound.

The video cut to moments later. I was running into the hall, drawn by the noise. I saw Grandma at the bottom of the stairs and froze in horror. Brittany was on the floor, clutching her arm, which was already starting to swell and bruise.

"Chloe!" she shrieked, pointing at me. "What did you do? You pushed her! You pushed me!"

The video showed my face, pale with confusion and terror, as my parents ran in. They saw Grandma, then they saw their perfect daughter, injured and sobbing, pointing an accusing finger at me, the problem child. They didn' t even ask what happened. They just looked at me with pure, undiluted hatred.

The next clip was from later that night. I was outside, in the freezing cold. They had thrown me out of the house with nothing but the thin clothes I was wearing. The video, seemingly taken from an upstairs window, showed me shivering, huddled against the wall of the doghouse.

My dog, Rex, a golden retriever I' d had since he was a puppy, whimpered from inside. He nudged the door open and came out, pushing his warm body against mine. He licked my face, my only comfort in a world that had turned on me.

The screen changed again. Hours had passed. I was starving. The video showed me sneaking to Rex' s food bowl, my hands shaking as I scooped up a few pieces of dry kibble. I was about to put it in my mouth when Rex came over. He didn't growl. He nudged the bowl towards me with his nose, then sat down and watched me eat, as if to say it was okay. He was more human to me in that moment than my own family.

The relatives watching gasped. My mother' s face was white, but her jaw was set.

"She was a thief. Stealing from a poor animal."

The video wasn't done. A new scene appeared. I was back in the house, a few weeks later. My father was there, his face stern. He was talking to a much older, wealthy business associate.

"She' s a troubled girl, but she' s learned her lesson," my father was saying in the video. "She' ll be very accommodating. She understands she needs to make up for the trouble she caused."

The older man looked me up and down with a greasy smile. The video didn't show what happened next, but it didn't need to. The implication was heavy and disgusting. They were selling me to save a business deal.

The final clip of this sequence showed me later that night, huddled in my room, crying. My mother burst in.

"What' s the matter with you?" she screamed. "You should be grateful! Mr. Henderson is a very important man! After what you did to your grandmother, you' re lucky we didn' t send you to jail! Stop your crying! You have no shame!"

She slapped me hard across the face, the sound sharp and ugly.

In the present, the real Sarah Miller flinched. She stared at the screen, her mouth slightly open. For the first time, a flicker of something other than anger appeared in her eyes. Doubt.

But David, my father, stepped forward, his face red with fury.

"This is fake! It' s all fake! Brittany would never lie! Chloe was a monster! She manipulated all of us!"

He pointed a shaking finger at the frame.

"My Brittany would never hurt a fly! This is black magic! This device is evil!"

He was still defending her. Even with the truth playing right in front of his eyes, he refused to see it. His denial was a wall, thick and impenetrable. He chose the comfortable lie over the horrifying truth.