Sabrina stepped up to the font and stuck her hand in, waggled her fingers, and then flicked the water off of them before making the sign of the cross. Her ghost made the same motions, her hand disturbing the water even though it didn’t stop the ribbons of flame that danced over her skin. Sabrina didn’t think she had been Christian in life, but being bound to her had taught Sabrina the benefit of ritual regardless.

The church was gorgeous. It felt lived in. In a few hours there’d be an AA meeting downstairs, and there was probably a bingo game some time in the week. The walls let in the waning light of day, shining red and gold and silver through the stained glass. A crucifix dominated the chancery wall, with Jesus looking resplendent as he hung there dying for mankind’s sins.

Or died because the Romans were mad at his sick abs. One or the other. This was a place she didn’t disagree with the church. Divine knowledge killed by mortal authority. She kissed her own necklace, the Nehushtan, a cross with a snake upon it. The thought of wearing the trappings of a heresy was appealing, even if the connections were apocryphal. The story matters more.

The nave was empty, so Sabrina strode down the aisle. She went to the communion rail, hooked her cane on it, and knelt down on a pillow there. She was really just going through the motions. She had been going through the motions yesterday morning, though, and that had let her keep a man alive, make a phone call on a dead cell, and ward a house. Sometimes rituals are important. They matter more than belief. With belief you could push through hardship, lead an army, or found a nation. But you couldn’t build a community. A hundred people with the same belief wouldn’t mean anything, but a dozen people sharing the same rituals, the same jokes, the same space on a regular basis? That was a community.

“Oh thank Hashem,” Sabrina said, opening one eye at the sound of footsteps and seeing Father Andrews coming around from his office. “My leg was starting to hurt.”

Andrews smiled at her, and altered his path to the chancery. “You know they’re the same God, right? It doesn’t bother me.”

“Still funny.”

“If you say so,” He said, taking the chair and setting it facing away from her. He sat down with a slight groan. Andrews was getting old, but he probably wouldn’t retire. “I didn’t expect you of all people to come to confession today, or ever, but it’s a pleasant surprise.”

“I’ve no time for confession, for I’m too busy committing sin,” Sabrina said, rapping her knuckles on the bannister.

“Movie quote?” Andrews was nonplussed. He leaned back, resting one leg over the other.

Sabrina smiled in satisfaction. “Song, actually. But sure, I’ll confess. How does it go again?”

“Well, first you say ‘bless me, for I have sinned.’”

“Bless me, for I have sinned,” she repeated. Andrews wouldn’t see her smile, but she had no doubt he could hear it.

“The Lord be in your heart and upon your lips that you may truly and humbly confess your sins: In the Name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit. Amen.” He paused for a moment and made a vague gesture with his hand, rolling it in front of him. “And then you tell me what your sins are.”

“Hm. Well, I do a lot of witchcraft,” she said, “but I’ve always felt he’s kind of okay with that from me. Never seemed to put off by it, at least.”

“Yes, I’d remembered that,” Andrews said, shifting uncomfortably. “Do you seek absolution for this?”

“Not really.” Sabrina shrugged. “You haven’t pelted me with stones for having a ghost or familiar yet, though.”

“And I won’t.” Andrews sighed, probably remembering how difficult Sabrina was. “That was the old covenant. Was there anything else?”

She let the question hang. “I’ve killed people.”

“That’s…” He thought for a moment. “The wall, then?”

“’Daryl killed me’. Though he killed himself, and blames me. But I’m not exactly innocent.” She knocked on the railing again. “Oh, guess suicide is a mortal sin as well, but I didn’t have a mortal soul at the time. Still don’t. Wouldn’t mind a get out of Hell free on that, though. Just in case.”

Andrews gave a laugh, though tried to cover it with a cough. “I’m not sure that’s how it works. But I grant you absolution. I granted you absolution for that long ago.” He thought for a moment. “This man you didn’t kill is seeking revenge against your family?”

“I think so.”

“And that’s why you’re actually here?”

Sabrina chuckled, “what, you don’t wanna hear about the threesome I had with the mother and her hot daughter?”

Father Andrews clearly tried to sigh, but it came out as a laugh. “You’re not a rabbi, Sabrina.”

“Technically I’m the ghost pope,” she said, eliciting confusion. “Anyway.” She dug around in her sister’s tiny pockets and passed the witch bottle over. “Do you know what this is?”

Andrews turned around to look, “Oh!” he said, and tapped a few times on the bannister. “Wait here.”

Then he went off to the back room where his office was. Sabrina looked to Grandmother, who was now sitting in the chair he’d vacated. The ghost’s back and bottom were notably flickering more than usual, but she was nothing but an image, so consecration wouldn’t actually be burning her. On some level, The Wicked Witch loved dramatics as much as Sabrina. She had no answer for where the priest went, and simply shrugged.

The pair didn’t have long to wait, and when he moved the chair around it dispersed the Witch like mist.

“Yes, I remember the witch bottle,” Andrews held out the one he had been given moments ago, as well as his own keys. Dangling from them was a little glass bottle—it had originally been an estradiol bottle, Sabrina knew—with a rough glass cap. Inside was a rusted nail, a few drops of communion wine, a clove seed, a bit of fingernail, and the head of a flower that had seen better days.

She tried to say something. Maybe a quip, or a bit of sarcasm. Instead she covered her mouth and looked away. “You kept it…”

“It was a gift from a scared child who told me it would keep me safe,” Andrews said quietly. “It’s one of my most precious possessions.”

“I…” she felt Grandmother’s hand on her shoulder. “Fuck,” she muttered, before crossing herself. “Sorry, it’s… I can’t believe you kept it.”

“You can add the swearing to your list of confessions,” Andrews joked.

“Yeah, I’ll get right on that,” Sabrina snorted. “Fuck. I forgot what I was even going to ask. I’ve been dealing with a lot of memories lately.”

“I know it wasn’t exactly a good time for you,” the priest admitted. “You’ve faced more hardship than anyone in the parish.”

“Most of them didn’t die before they came here.”

“Most?”

“Hedging my bets,” She said, knocking on the railing. “Can I get up, my leg is killing me.”

“Oh, yes, yes. The Lord has put away all your sins,” Andrews said, reaching down to offer Sabrina a hand. She took it, but didn’t want to put too much weight on him.

“The ones I confessed, at least.”

“You can keep your secrets.” Andrews came around the communion rail. Sabrina wiped her face on her hand as he did. “The Lord knows. He still forgives you.”

“Let’s hope so.”

Andrews helped her to the pew, which had some nice cushions, even if the bench itself was hard. She sat, and he stood.

“What was it you came to ask about?” Andrews said, handing her witch bottle back. “I don’t think you wanted to dredge up old memories.”

“I don’t. Whatever happened to the squint anyway?”

Andrews sighed. “Jacobson is buried somewhere else, and his widow served a few years in prison.”

“Damn,” Sabrina said, leaning back and tapping the pew a few times. “I told you to do something about him or I’d kill him myself, sounds like I might as well have.”

“It is far better that you didn’t stain your own soul, Miss Granger.”

“Eh,” she said, “what’s one more stain.”

“The bottle?” The priest said pointedly, not inclined to continue down the line. “Why was it you brought me this new one?”

“It might have something to do with the case.”

“The ghost after your brother?” Sabrina nodded. “Wouldn’t the witch bottle protect against such things? I did research them after all. There are probably a few under the church itself, they were common once upon a time.”

“It should, yeah. I think there’s communion wine in here,” she said, giving the bottle a shake. “I stole mine from you, so I was wondering if any more has gone missing.”

Andrews thoughtfully tapped his leg. “As a matter of fact, we did misplace an unfinished bottle after service. I figured that some of the parish teens had wanted to try a little more alcohol.”

Sabrina hummed thoughtfully. “Do you suspect Caleb?”

Andrews smiled beatifically, his head slightly tilted.

“Ah. Something to do with what you were talking with him about today?” She pressed. “You think that he painted the wall with blood?”

The priest shook his head, “no. I’m sure he got that impression, but I don’t. I think that the darkness that troubles him brought this about.”

Sabrina snorted. “Yeah, sin is bad, suffering is brought on ourselves, yada yada.”

“In so many words, I suppose.” Andrews shrugged. “I mean that I think the things plaguing him are supernatural. You’re familiar with poltergeists, yes?”

“You mean the theory that some hauntings are actually pubescent psychic activity?”

“Indeed,” Andrews nodded. He moved to sit down next to Sabrina on the pew. He let out a sigh as he did. “The theory goes that during puberty the children are unable to control their anxieties, and they lash out, which appears to be ghost activity. Knocking things off of walls or dressers, or even manifesting bloody signs.”

Sabrina went quiet. Once again she walked out onto the ice. “And what do you think is troubling him?”

“He’s a strange boy, lonely,” Andrews said, scratching his chin in thought. “I know he doesn’t have any friends, and is bullied. There’s a lot that troubles any fourteen year old, but he’s a sensitive artist, and as much as I’d like to think the best of them, other children sense weakness.”

“Kids are vicious,” Sabrina agreed, the tension releasing from her shoulders. “But I know there is a ghost there. I fought it about ninety minutes ago.”

Father Andrews coughed, “you fought the ghost?”

“I didn’t change just to come see you,” she pointed out, giving Grace’s flannel a tug. “A ghost scarecrow tore up my back.”

That was the kind of thing that flummoxes the straights. “I… well. You certainly lead an interesting life.” Sabrina smiled, and let him recover from that. “What significance is the witch bottle? Did the scarecrow put it there to protect against you?”

“No,” Sabrina said, looking it over. “That’s the dangling thread I’m trying to unravel.”

“Does knowing the communion wine came from here help?”

“I’m not sure yet.” She held it up to the light, so that a bloody shadow fell over her eye. She looked over to the priest. “There’s something you’re not telling me. You wouldn’t just think Caleb was causing a poltergeist. Charity’s wrong, you know ghosts exist. What more is there?”

He’d make a terrible poker player, the way he fidgeted. “There was another child. They died earlier in the year, and the death affected Caleb quite a bit.”

Sabrina closed her eyes and pinched the bridge of her nose. “Five nothing boymoder with a black pixie cut, wears a band hoodie that’s a size too big?”

“That’s remarkable,” Father Andrews said, sitting up straighter. “How did you know that?”

“I saw her out front.”

He put an arm on the back of the pew and looked towards the door, where the sun was setting. “You mean…?”

“Yeah, her ghost.”

“You keep saying her,” the Father said, tentative.

“I didn’t pick up on it until you used they.”

He smiled in recognition. She smiled in satisfaction. “You always were perceptive. The parents didn’t want to acknowledge she was trans. Caleb contested, but in the end he was the only proof to the contrary because she never came out to them, and we thought it best not to press things. Don’t look at me like that, young lady. I know. You have every right to be mad. As a consolation, we had a private ceremony where I administered last rites under her chosen name.”

“They didn’t stick,” Sabrina said, voice tense. She leaned her head back against the pew. “She still has things tying her here.”

“Will you take care of her?”

“One ghost at a time, please.” She sat back up, only to lean forward with her elbows on her knees. “So Caleb told you his trans girlfriend fell to her death.”

Andrews shook his head in amazement. “I only said some of those things.”

“Yeah, but I’m not as dumb as I let on,” Sabrina sighed, once again sitting up. “What makes you think the girl’s death is connected to the current haunting?”

“Oh, I didn’t,” the priest corrected. “I just think that the stress on Caleb might be a factor, but you ruled out poltergeist.”

“It’s possible it’s still related. Like I said, the witch bottle and the poppets are still throwing me.”

“Poppets?”

Sabrina dug them out of her other pocket, and pricked her finger on the spine. “Fuck,” she muttered then rolled her eyes and crossed herself. “I’m not going to do that every time.”

Father Andrews took the little bits of string and chuckled, “I never asked that you do. Though the sentiment is appreciated. These look like little people.”

“They’re akin to voodoo dolls,” Sabrina said, sucking on her finger. “Less culturally appropriative, I guess. From Europe. The cunning folk used them for… well, less than savory means, usually.”

“And someone was using these poppets to cause harm to Caleb?”

“Actually, I thought someone was using it against me, but…” she took one of them and stuck the thorn back through the head. “Nothing.”

Andrews quirked an eyebrow at Sabrina, and then looked at the little doll. “If this is a poppet of a specific person, wouldn’t that mean you just stabbed them in the head?”

She shrugged. “No intent to harm anyone but myself. Ain’t that always the case, though.”

“What do you think they were for?”

“I have one other dangling thread,” Sabrina rubbed her face. It had been a long day. A long two days. And she was running on empty. “My journal is missing.”

“An old diary of some sort?”

She gave a noncommittal noise. “More like a spell book.”

“More witchcraft.” Andrews sighed, “I’m not going to throw stones at you, but I can’t say I approve.”

“I wrote down how to make a poppet.” Sabrina pointed out, twisting the little string person between her finger and thumb. “Also witch bottles.”

“Anything else that might be important?”

Sabrina ran her fingers through her hair. “Uh… Might be a ritual to make someone’s own ghost harass them. Only if they’ve done a crime.”

Andrews sighed. “That seems quite severe.”

She couldn’t help but get a smirk. “I only used it on Mister Jacobson.”

The priest also smiled, just a bit. “Maybe say the Jesus Prayer just in case, but I think the Lord will look the other way, just this once.”

“Have mercy on me, a sinner.”

“Good enough,” Andrews chuckled, conceding. “That doesn't sound like the kind of sorcery that should be in the wrong hands. It could be used against you as well.”

Sabrina waved a hand in dismissal. “I’ve died three times now, if I could make a ghost I'd have known by now.”

Andrews wasn't surprised by that. He knew about two of them, after all. “Whether or not that's the case, it would probably be for the best to find that book, don’t you think.”

“Oh, yeah,” Sabrina agreed. “I definitely want it back. There’s some embarrassing shit in there. Also, yeah, yeah, black magic.”

Andrews tolerated Sabrina with a smile.

She hesitated and leaned down again, elbows to knees. The priest leaned to look at her face.

“Father, was there…” She sat up, and rubbed her hand over her mouth, trying to sort out a path along the ice. “Did Caleb tell you anything else?”

“Now, Miss Granger, you wouldn’t be trying to get me to break the seal of confession, would you?”

“I mean, yeah.”

Andrews couldn’t hold back a laugh. “My dear, I can’t do that. It’s a sin, and people need to know they can trust me.”

“Wait,” Sabrina says, narrowing her eyes. He had a faint smile. “You brought that up for a reason. That means Caleb did tell you something.”

He closed his eyes and shook his head.

“What did she tell you?”

The corner of the priest’s lip twitched. “I won’t break the seal of confession.”

Sabrina’s smile matched it. “Okay. So. Girlfriend dies. You don’t think it was intentional, do you?”

Andrews shook his head, “no. Youthful misadventure. She fell out of a tree.”

“Caleb was there?”

He sighed, and shifted in his seat. Not the most comfortable seats.

“Fuck.”

“Caleb found the body. He didn’t talk talk for a month.” The father got up from the bench, and walked over to the communion rail, where he could put his weight as he stood. “It’s only been a month or two since he… started opening up.”

To others. Not Sabrina, because she hadn’t been there. She didn’t even know. It was easy to say there were a lot of things on her plate—and there were—but separating Batman from Bruce Wayne was a poor excuse for not reaching out more often.

“I need to talk to Caleb,” Sabrina said, realizing how much of this had been about the sister she didn’t know she had.

She got up as well, and held out a hand. Andrews shook it. “It was good to see you again, Sabrina. Don’t be a stranger when this is over.”

That got a laugh. That was sort of the epiphany, wasn’t it. “I’m still probably not coming to church.”

“That’s alright, you walk your own path.” He smiled, and pulled her in for a hug. She accepted it with a laugh.

“I’m going to go see if the girl wants to talk.” Sabrina lightly pounded the cane against the marble floor. “What was the chosen name?”

“Lauren.”

“And what’s the name on the grave?”

“James Carpenter. ‘Beloved son’.”

Sabrina closed her eyes and drew in a long breath. She let it out slowly. She could see a vision from long ago, of what might have been. The thing that made her choose to live instead of go beyond with her parents. The thing that made her a revenant, and lead to her push back against the unfair world that would try to cut a life so short. The cruelest thing The Wicked Witch had ever shown her.

“Are you alright?”

A vision of a tombstone. The lichen was brushed away by a sickly green hand, flickering with firebrand embers. On it read the words:

Daryl Friedman

1989-1999

Beloved son.

“Yeah…” Sabrina said, giving herself a shake and forcing a smile. “Yeah. That just… hit a little harder than I expected.” She nodded, and headed towards the door.

The ghost of the boymoder wasn’t around on the steps, but Sabrina had expected that. So she started walking towards the cemetery. There were other ghosts around, but they didn’t approach her. Grandmother was trailing along and the two of them gave the impression that stopping them might result in a bite or some equally uncomfortable wound.

Sabrina found the grave soon enough. As she stood there, her knuckles popped. Her breath came out sharp and slow. She felt Grandmother behind her. The presence was comforting, and helped her to control her breathing. The tutelary phantom put her hand on Sabrina’s. Put her hand in Sabrina’s, the ghostly form sinking beneath the skin. Sabrina opened her fist, the energies of death sculpting ectoplasm into a violent form. Sabrina had killed things with these claws.

She fell to her knees and scratched the letters on the stone. Polished marble was obliterated into powder and pebbles. Then she carved. Rough, finger formed letters, not too different from the ones on the wall.

“Thank you,” came a quiet voice from behind Sabrina.

She was on her hands and knees, cold, wet ground staining into the knees of Grace’s jeans. “You knew Caleb, didn’t you Lauren?”

“Her name was Valerie,” the girl said. She didn’t sound angry, but she was as firm as her distant voice could be. “After the Hex Maniac.”

“I don’t know what that is,” Sabrina said wiping dust away from the slab.

“It’s from Pokemon. She said her sister was from Pokemon, too.”

Sabrina searched through the cobweb covered corners of her mind. She’d never owned a Gameboy, but caught a few episodes. She remembered the character from Electric Tale of Pikachu, but her name came from a different comic. She laughed. “Hah, not quite, but close enough.”

“That’s you, isn’t it?”

“On a good day,” she said, looking at the carving. Lauren. Daughter and Friend.

“That’s who the Harvestman said killed him,” the girl realized, putting the threads together. “Are you the same one?”

“He said Sabrina?” She looked over her shoulder.

Lauren nodded. She slowly tilted her head, not realizing the significance. “The Witch of Ashcroft. That’s Sabrina.”

“It is,” Sabrina admitted. Then added, “On a good day.”

“You killed him?”

“It’s complicated,” she admitted. “He died because of me, but I didn’t kill him. He called me Sabrina, though? Not Daryl?”

The girl shook her head. “Who’s that?”

The corner of Sabrina’s lip curled, and she glanced back to the stone slab. “No one of consequence. Did the Harvestman say anything else?”

“He has friends,” Lauren said after a moment of thought. “They don’t like you.”

“What else is ne—”

The thought was interrupted by the sound of a xylophone coming from her cell. She fished it out and looked at the screen while Murray Gold started singing about skeletons. Fatima. That couldn’t be good.

Fatima didn’t wait for her to answer. Her tone was serious and tense, the words coming out faster than her usual well educated deliberation. “Sabrina you need to get home now.”

“What? Fatima, what’s happening?” Sabrina looked to Lauren. She wasn't cognizant enough to be truly worried, but like an animal she could sense Sabrina's anxiety.

“The wall has changed,” Fatima said, and a picture came through.

CALEB MUST DIE.