October 18, Friday

THE PERSISTENT buzz of my phone pulled me from a fitful sleep. I fumbled for it on the nightstand, squinting at the screen. Kelly's name flashed, along with the ungodly hour: 6:17 AM.

"Hello?" I mumbled, still half-asleep.

A choked sob came through the line. "Josephine? It's... it's Kelly."

I sat up, instantly alert. "What's wrong?"

"It's Wayne," she said, her voice thick with tears. "He... he died last night."

The words hit me like a physical blow. "But I thought he was getting better. They were going to release him..."

"I know," Kelly sniffled. "It was so sudden. They're saying it was some kind of complication, but..." She trailed off, overcome with emotion.

I sat there, stunned. Wayne Blakemore, the earnest bookstore owner with dreams of becoming a novelist, was gone. Just like that. The manuscript he'd entrusted to me suddenly felt impossibly heavy, a legacy I wasn't sure I was equipped to handle.

"I'm so sorry, Kelly," I said softly, wishing I could reach through the phone and give her a hug. "Is there anything I can do?"

She took a shaky breath. "No, I... I just needed to tell someone. It's just so awful, you know? It feels like a dark cloud is hanging over Irving."

Tilda's words slid into my brain.

There's talk of a sacrifice.

Then I gave myself a mental shale. That was ridiculous. Wayne had died in the hospital, from natural causes. It couldn't possibly be related to the Wiccan ceremony I'd witnessed yesterday... could it?

"I know what you mean," I said, trying to keep my voice steady. "It does seem like a lot of bad things have been happening lately."

Kelly's voice dropped to a whisper. "Do you think... do you think Irving might be cursed or something?"

If a curse could be placed on a person, it seemed reasonable that a curse could be placed on a town.

Scratch that—neither seemed "reasonable."

"I'm sure it's just a run of bad luck," I murmured. "These things happen sometimes, you know?"

"I guess," Kelly said, not sounding convinced. "It's just... scary, you know? Makes you realize how fragile life is."

"I know what you mean," I murmured, thinking life could change on a dime.

Mine certainly had.

We talked for a few more minutes, with me doing my best to comfort Kelly. But even after we hung up, I couldn't shake the uneasy feeling that had settled over me.

I got out of bed and padded over to the window, looking out at the Whisper Graveyard. The wind had died down overnight, leaving behind a stillness that felt almost oppressive. The headstones cast long shadows in the early morning light.

Wayne's death was tragic, but surely it was just a coincidence. People died all the time. It didn't mean something sinister was afoot.

And yet...

I thought of the robed figures in the graveyard, of Tilda's cryptic warnings.

As I stood there, lost in thought, a movement caught my eye. For just a moment, I could have sworn I saw a figure in white moving between the headstones. But when I blinked, it was gone.

I shook my head, trying to clear it. Lack of sleep and an overactive imagination were a dangerous combination. I needed to focus on the real, tangible problems at hand—like finishing my novel and figuring out what to do with Wayne's manuscript.

But as I turned away from the window, I couldn't shake the feeling that in Irving, the line between imagination and reality was blurred. And I was walking that line with every step I took.