The first time Jenna heard the voice, she was seven years old and hiding beneath her bed, clutching a porcelain doll with one eye missing. Rain slammed against the windowpane like it was trying to break in. Her mother was screaming in the kitchen again—words that didn’t make sense, prayers twisted into threats. And then, soft and sweet like molasses, a whisper seeped into her ear: “They’ll never love you, Jenna. But I will.”   She told herself it was just her imagination. But the voice knew her secrets. It knew what lived beneath the floorboards. It knew about the pastor’s visits, the things he said were holy. It laughed when Jenna cried. It told her how to make the crying stop.