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“Oh. Okay.” I took the manuscript and glanced over the title page. “War of the Witches. Interesting title.”
“Thank you. It’s actually based on a true story. Well—as true as these things can be, if you believe in the supernatural.”
“I don’t,” I said easily, “but I’ll read it and let you know what I think.”
“Great,” he said, beaming. “And hey, if you want to pass your manuscript to me to get my feedback, you know, writer to writer, I’d be glad to help.”
I swallowed a bite without chewing. “Thanks.” I wasn’t insulted… actually, I was envious.
Wayne Blakemore had a finished manuscript, and I didn’t.
July 21, Sunday
I WAS awake before dawn, worrying about the writing I wasn’t getting done. I finally turned on a lamp and reached for the notebook where I’d been scratching out notes about my characters. The heroine was fresh off a romantic betrayal and had written off men. The hero was a brooding stonemason who seemed to have secrets of his own. Their physical attraction had caught them both off guard. But they knew if they acted on it, it could release a torrent of emotion neither one of them was ready for—
I heard the sound of a car engine going past the house toward the cemetery. I set aside my notebook and went to the window, curious as to what could bring someone to a graveyard at five in the morning.
Then another car passed. And another.
Something was going on.
I quickly changed into clothes I could walk in. If they wanted to visit family graves, I would have to unlock the gate.
Because it was a full moon, I didn’t need my giant flashlight. The moon was so bright in the cloudless pre-dawn, it was practically like daylight. I pedaled to the cemetery, wondering if it was another tour group. When I arrived a clump of six people were standing at the gate. At first I thought they were waiting, then I realized they were all walking in some kind of a pattern in front of the gate and chanting something I couldn’t make out.
But I could easily make out the wood symbol that each person was holding aloft.
A Wiccan pentagram.
I stopped and hung back. Another car pulled up and two figures alighted, both of them young women with long blond hair. They looked like teenagers and appeared to be twins. They rushed up to the group and joined in, although it seemed as if they were unfamiliar with the ritual. The other members of the group instructed them, pointing to something on the ground that I couldn’t see from this distance.
It occurred to me it was no coincidence that they were performing a ritual on the same day as the full moon.
I was witnessing a bona fide gathering of witches.
I turned to go before anyone noticed me. As I hurried past the last car that had arrived, I noticed it had a vanity license plate: BNSNTWNS
Benson twins.
July 22, Monday
WHEN I jarred awake Monday morning, the house was quiet.
Too quiet.
No humming of lights, no buzzing of appliances.
I dragged myself up to investigate and found my laptop was dead. After a blip of panic, I realized that everything was dead. The electricity was off.
I found Kelly’s number and connected the call.
“This is Kelly.”
“Hi, Kelly. This is Josephine at Whisper House. The electricity is off.”
“Yeah, figured that was coming.”
I frowned. “This happens regularly?”
