The chilling sense of foreboding clinging to my father’s incantations seeps into the shadows of the coven house's creaky living room. His voice is a jagged echo, reverberating around the claustrophobic space, bounding off aged, weather-beaten walls crammed with our ancestral history.
“Just how exactly are we supposed to bring him back?” I inject, my words wobbly from the unease, which is rapidly unraveling the composure I’m struggling to maintain as I watch my surroundings warp and twist, vibrating with energy so dark I am tempted to pull on it.
He answers without hesitation; his voice is a rhythm in itself, the cadence of his words maintaining its unerring beat. My father scratches his head, an action so mundanely human that it almost makes me laugh. "Well, it's complicated," he begins.
