October 2, Wednesday

THE MIDDAY sun hung high in the cloudless sky, offering little warmth against the crisp autumn air. I huddled deeper into my sweater as I made my way to the Whisper Graveyard, drawn by the sight of a small gathering near the center of the cemetery.

As I approached, I recognized the Benson twins, their matching blond heads bent together in whispered conversation. Tilda stood nearby, her usual severe expression softened by something that looked suspiciously like excitement. A few other locals I vaguely recognized milled about, all wearing various shades of black and silver.

Tilda saw me and beckoned me closer. "We're going to perform a new moon ritual." She gestured to Rose's open grave that had been staked off with yellow warning tape. "The group is energized to learn our Grand Witch Rose has been released from the grasp of death."

I wet my lips. "So… none of you had anything to do with removing the casket?"

Tilda's eyes bugged. "Absolutely not. This was all Rose's doing."

I wanted to point out that if Rose had risen from the dead, why hadn't she left the casket, but before I could form the crazy-sounding words, Tilda had turned away.

The group formed a circle, joining hands. I hung back, watching as Tilda began to chant in a language I didn't recognize. The words seemed to hang in the air, vibrating with an energy I could almost see.

As the chanting grew louder, a gust of wind whipped through the graveyard, stirring up fallen leaves into miniature cyclones. The hairs on the back of my neck stood up.

"O dark goddess of the new moon," Tilda intoned, her voice carrying easily over the wind, "we call upon you to bless our endeavors and grant our petitions."

The Benson twins stepped forward, each holding a small object. One carried a black candle, the other a silver knife that glinted in the sunlight.

"We offer you our devotion," the twins said in eerie unison, "and ask for your favor in return."

Tilda took the knife and, in one swift motion, pricked her finger. A drop of blood welled up, which she used to anoint the candle. The flame that sprang to life was an unnatural shade of blue.

I took an involuntary step back, my heart racing. This was getting a little too real for comfort.

As if sensing my unease, Tilda's eyes locked onto mine. "Josephine," she called out, "won't you join us? The more energy we channel, the stronger the spell."

I shook my head, trying to keep my voice steady. "No, thanks. Just here to observe."

Tilda's smile didn't quite reach her eyes. "Suit yourself. But remember, magic has a way of affecting everyone in its path—whether they believe in it or not."

The group resumed their chanting, the strange words washing over me in waves. Despite my skepticism, I couldn't shake the feeling that something was happening. The air felt charged, alive with possibility—or was it menace?

As the ritual reached its crescendo, a flock of crows erupted from a nearby tree, their raucous cries drowning out the chants. The candle's flame guttered and went out, plunging us into sudden, eerie silence.

Tilda looked positively gleeful. "It is done."

The others began to disperse, chatting excitedly, but I remained rooted to the spot. What had I gotten myself into? And more importantly, what had I just helped unleash?

I retreated backward through the graveyard gate, nearly falling in my haste. As I hurried back to the house, I couldn't shake the feeling that I was being watched.

By the person who'd taken Rose's body?

Or, if Tilda was to be believed, by Rose herself?