Maybe it's just one of those nights - too still, too quiet. Heaviness hangs over everything, like a watchful fog. Outside, two owls (great horned ones, by the sound of them) call to each other from each end of the street. A bad omen, according to legend. Witch birds on the prowl.
Then again, roosters crowing at night are a bad omen, too, and if that were true, this whole neighborhood would be doomed. Regardless, I can't be too careful. Last night I dreamt about dark magic: a handmade doll, with burning candles choking the air with smoke. One of those dreams you can't shake, no matter how hard you try.
Time to circle the house with salt and say a few prayers, perhaps. Stuff my pockets with ash leaves and rosemary sprigs. Wave some sage around. Ring a brass bell. Write the name of my enemy and tear it into nine pieces on the edge of town. Why not?
It all seems perfectly reasonable, on witchy nights like these.
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