October 31, Thursday

THE AIR practically crackled with excitement as Edra's tour group gathered at the entrance of Whisper Graveyard. Jack-o'-lanterns flickered along the iron fence, casting eerie shadows across the weathered headstones. Edra herself was decked out in full witchy regalia, complete with a pointed hat and a crystal-topped staff.

"Ladies and gentlemen," she intoned, her voice low and theatrical, "welcome to the most haunted graveyard in all of Alabama. On this All Hallows' Eve, the veil between worlds is at its thinnest. Who knows what spirits might join us on our tour?"

I watched from my usual bench, both amused and unnerved by Edra's flair for the dramatic. The tour group, a mix of wide-eyed tourists and skeptical locals, hung on her every word.

Edra led them through the graveyard, spinning tales of star-crossed lovers and centuries-old curses. But it wasn't until they reached Rose's empty grave that her performance reached new heights.

"And here," she said, her voice dropping to a whisper, "is the final resting place of Rose Whisper... or is it?"

The group leaned in, enthralled.

"They say Rose was no ordinary woman," Edra continued. "Some claim she was a witch of immense power. And on the night of her burial, something extraordinary happened."

I found myself leaning forward, caught up in the story despite myself.

"The very earth rejected her body," Edra said, gesturing dramatically. "Or perhaps... she commanded it to release her. Witnesses say they saw the great oak tree uproot itself, pushing Rose's casket to the surface. And when they opened it..." She paused for effect. "It was empty."

Gasps rippled through the group. Even I felt a chill run down my spine, remembering the night of the storm and the mysteriously empty vault.

"Some say Rose still walks among us," Edra whispered. "That she haunts this very graveyard, waiting to reclaim what's hers. So if you feel a cold breeze on this warm night, or hear whispers when no one's around... well, you might just be in the presence of Rose Whisper herself."

As the tour concluded and the group dispersed, I approached Edra, both impressed and unsettled by her storytelling.

"Quite a performance," I said.

Edra grinned, dropping the spooky act. "Halloween's always good for business. Oh, by the way, I was sorry to hear about Wayne Blakemore. Such a shame."

I nodded, a pang of sadness hitting me. "It's awful. Did you know him well?"

"Not really," Edra said, her eyes gleaming with curiosity. "But I was intrigued by something in that book of his. The mention of an illegitimate Whisper offspring? Well, that got me digging."

My heart skipped a beat. "Oh? Did you find anything?"

Edra leaned in conspiratorially. "I think I know who Wayne was writing about."

"Was it... was it Wayne himself?" I asked, remembering how passionate he'd been about the local legends.

Edra threw her head back and laughed. "Oh, honey. Wayne might've fancied it was him, but no. It's someone else entirely. A local man named King. Sawyer King."

The world seemed to tilt beneath my feet.

Sawyer was… a warlock ?

*****