Inside the dimly lit room, Grace’s eyes widened as she took in the scene. Ethan sat on the edge of the bed, his hand gently holding his mother’s, both enveloped in an almost serene aura. But it wasn’t the tender scene she had expected—one of comfort from a son to his grieving mother. Instead, what she witnessed left her trembling, caught in a whirlwind of emotions.
Ethan and Mrs. Turner were surrounded not by darkness, but by an intense focus on an old, worn-out book, its pages filled with intricate symbols and cryptic text. They whispered in a hushed, urgent tone, their words melding into an incantation that made Grace’s skin crawl. The air in the room thrummed with an energy she couldn’t quite comprehend. It was as if the walls themselves held their breath, caught in the gravity of whatever was unfolding before them.
For a moment, Grace doubted her own senses. Was she truly seeing this? A mother and son involved in what seemed to be some arcane ritual? Her heart pounded in her chest, a drumbeat of confusion and fear. She pressed her hand to her lips to stifle a gasp, her mind a whirlpool of questions with no immediate answers.
