“Eadie.” His name gurgled from her mouth; in their native accent, it came out as Eedee. But it wasn’t her voice. It was something else. Deep, resonant, it seemed to echo off the mud floor and walls.

His gaze strayed to the machete on the table, ready and freshly sharpened for her disposal. He turned slightly, started toward it, and she rose to her fleshless feet as if pulled up by unseen strings: a wretched marionette, the puppet-master an invisible fiend. She stopped. Then took a shaky step closer. The flies came with her. Now she reminded him of a voodoo doll brought to life. Her head began flopping from side to side.

“Eadie,” she said again.

“You dead,” he shouted in English. Speaking the language of mzungu made him feel brave. Not brave like facing a lion, but brave like he’d seen the white man confront evil spirits. “I kill you! You dead!”

The thing shuffled closer, movements like impulsive spasms. Dark laughter spewed from its bloody mouth, a sick, mocking laughter.

He moved toward the machete again. But the thing that used to be Zarha darted at him with uncanny speed. They collided, its wet, cold body crashing into his, sending up a cloud of flies and driving him to the floor.