October 17, Thursday

THE WIND howled outside my bedroom window, an eerie chorus that sent shivers down my spine despite the warmth of my oversized sweater. This wasn't the mild Alabama autumn I'd expected—instead, it felt like the biting chill of a New England October had blown in overnight.

Leaves skittered across the lawn, their russet and gold hues a stark contrast to the steely gray sky. The branches of the old oak trees swayed violently, their fingers seeming to grasp at the air like desperate, gnarled hands.

I pressed the binoculars to my eyes, focusing on the Whisper Graveyard. The supermoon wouldn't be visible until tonight, but the Wiccan group were celebrating early.

There's talk of a sacrifice.

My stomach churned as Tilda's warning echoed in my mind. Surely she didn't mean an actual human sacrifice?

Through the binoculars, I could make out a group of figures gathering near the center of the graveyard. They wore dark robes that whipped around their legs in the relentless wind. I recognized Tilda's tall form, her pale hair escaping from her hood in wild tendrils.

The Benson twins were there too, heads bent together as they arranged something on the ground—candles maybe? Or herbs? It was hard to tell from this distance. The wind picked up, carrying with it the faint sound of chanting and drums. The words were indistinct, but the tone sent a chill through me that had nothing to do with the temperature.

The group formed a circle around a figure wearing a long white garment—a shirt, maybe? Candles were lit and passed around, then more chanting ensued. Suddenly, everyone in the group knelt around the figure, then held their candles to the hem of the garment.

I gasped as the person was engulfed in flames.

My heart raced. Should I call someone? Take photos?

Or grab my laptop and leave?

Then I realized the "figure" was an effigy… based on the way it burned, it must've been made from straw. I relaxed and laughed at my imagination gone wild—as if the group would actually make a human sacrifice.

Then I realized the entire house had gone dark—and as silent as death. The steady hum of electricity that usually faded into the background was now conspicuously absent.

"You've got to be kidding me," I muttered, then swung the binoculars to see a transformer on a pole sparking fitfully before going dark.

But it wasn't the first time it had happened… in fact, nearly every time the group converged in the graveyard, the transformer blew.

Coincidence?

I thought not.

I sank onto the window seat, suddenly feeling very alone in the big, dark house. The lack of electricity felt like a metaphor for my whole situation here in Irving—I was fumbling around in the dark, barely able to make out the shapes of the mystery surrounding me. I pulled my knees to my chest. For the first time since arriving in Irving, I found myself wishing I was back in my cramped New York apartment, dealing with Curtis drama and looming deadlines.

At least there, the monsters were metaphorical.