November 16, Saturday

MY HANDS shook as I carried the egg basket toward the chicken coop, exhaustion from my sleepless night making every step feel heavy. After what I'd witnessed in the graveyard, the morning's chores felt like an act of defiance—a way of proving that life could be normal, even in Irving.

That illusion shattered the moment I reached Satan's pen.

"No, no, no..." The basket slipped from my fingers, eggs cracking against the frost-covered ground as I rushed to the fence. Satan bleated nervously, pressing against the far corner of his enclosure.

There, stark against his white coat, was a bloody red "W"—each stroke thick and dripping, the mark taking up most of his side.

"It's okay, boy," I whispered, though my voice cracked. "It's okay, I'm here." But when I tried to open the gate, Satan shied away, his eyes rolling white with fear.

My fingers fumbled with my phone as I hit Sawyer's number. He answered on the first ring.

"Someone's hurt Satan," I blurted before he could speak. "There's blood—they painted something on him—"

"I'll be right there," he said, his voice sharp with concern. "Don't touch anything."

Those few minutes of waiting felt endless. I paced outside the pen, trying to coax Satan closer, but he remained huddled in his corner, trembling. When Sawyer's truck roared up the drive, I nearly cried with relief.

He strode toward us, all military efficiency despite his casual clothes. "Show me."

I pointed to the mark, now starting to run in the morning dampness. "Is it... does it stand for Whisper?"

Instead of answering, Sawyer opened the gate and approached Satan with slow, careful movements. To my surprise, the goat didn't shy away from him this time. Sawyer ran his fingers through the red substance, then brought them to his nose.

"It's not blood," he said, his shoulders relaxing slightly. "Maple syrup, I think. Mixed with food coloring, I'd guess."

"But the W—"

"It's not a W." He stepped back, gesturing to the mark. "Look closer. It's two V's, overlapped. It's called a Marian mark—it's for protection."

I blinked, trying to see it through my fear. He was right—what I'd thought was a single letter was actually two symbols layered together.

"Protection?" I repeated. "From what?"

"From anything bad," he said cryptically. "Did something happen in the graveyard last night?"

"There was a ceremony."

"I figured as much when I saw the full moon. Don't be afraid, it's all nonsense."

I wrapped my arms around myself, the morning chill seeping through my sweater. "Sawyer, I need to tell you something. I... I asked Tilda to put a curse on Curtis."

To my surprise, he laughed.

"You're not upset?"

"Why would I be upset about something that isn't real?" He pulled me close, his warmth steadying me. "Listen, Josephine. All this witchcraft business—the ceremonies, the curses, the 'protective' symbols—it's just theater. Small-town entertainment for people who've watched too many horror movies."

"But last night—"

"Was probably just Tilda and her friends doing their monthly book club meeting with extra dramatics." He kissed my forehead. "Don't let them scare you. That's what they want."

"Then why mark Satan?"

"Because they knew it would get to you." His jaw tightened. "I'll have a talk with Tilda. This is going too far."

I thought about the ceremony I'd witnessed, about the way their chanting had seemed to pierce right through me. "You really don't believe in any of it?"

"I believe in what I can touch. What I can build with my own hands." His fingers traced my cheek. "Everything else is just stories people tell themselves to feel powerful."

He helped me clean the syrup from Satan's coat while I tried to process his words. The goat seemed calmer now, even leaning into Sawyer's touch as he worked.

"There," Sawyer said finally, stepping back. "Good as new."

I watched Satan return to his usual hay-munching self, all signs of distress gone. Maybe Sawyer was right. Maybe I was letting my writer's imagination run wild, seeing mysteries where there were only coincidences.

But as Sawyer pulled me in for a goodbye kiss, I couldn't quite shake the memory of those pointing figures, of that mist rising from Rose's empty grave.