November 15, Friday

THE FULL moon hung low and swollen in the night sky, casting long shadows across the Whisper Graveyard. I sat perched at my bedroom window, binoculars trained on the gathering. With most of the leaves finally fallen, the bare branches provided an unobstructed view of the ceremony unfolding among the headstones.

They appeared just before midnight—dark figures gliding between the graves like smoke. I counted twelve of them, each wearing a hooded robe that seemed to absorb the moonlight. Their chanting carried on the night air, a low drone that made the hair on my arms stand up.

"What are you up to?" I whispered, adjusting the focus. The group formed a circle around Rose's empty grave, their hands linked. Someone—Tilda, I thought, though it was hard to be sure—stood in the center, arms raised to the moon.

The chanting grew louder, more urgent. Words I couldn't quite make out, though they seemed to vibrate the glass in the windows. Through the binoculars, I watched a thin mist rise from the ground, coiling around the robed figures like a living thing. The temperature in my room seemed to drop, though I hadn't opened the window.

Then, as if responding to some silent signal, all twelve figures turned in perfect unison. Toward the house.

Toward me.

The chanting changed, becoming sharp and focused. Each hooded face tilted up, and though I couldn't see their eyes, I felt their gaze piercing through the darkness, through my walls, through my skin.

They were pointing at me now, twelve black-robed figures with upraised arms, their voices rising in a crescendo that made my windows vibrate. The mist swirled faster, thicker, beginning to take shape—

I dropped the binoculars, my heart thundering against my ribs. They clattered to the floor as I scrambled backward, away from the window, away from those pointing fingers and that terrible chanting.

All my curiosity about Irving's witches, all my questions and investigations—had I drawn their attention? Made myself a target?

I dove under my covers like a frightened child, pulling them over my head as if cotton and polyester could protect me from whatever magic they were working. The chanting continued, seeming to come from inside my own head now.

"I'm sorry," I whispered, though I wasn't sure who I was apologizing to. "I'll stop asking questions. I'll stop looking. Just please..."

The words died in my throat as something scratched against my window—branches in the wind, I told myself, just branches. Not ghostly fingers, not magical mist trying to seep through the glass.

I stayed hidden under the covers until the chanting faded, until the night grew still again. But even then, I couldn't shake the feeling that something was coming my way. That in my eagerness to uncover Irving's mysteries, I'd crossed a line.

And overstayed my welcome.