“How’s this supposed to go again?” Artie mumbles, squinting at the faded instructions in his hand. He lights the final candle, watching the flame flicker. The wind is cool against his skin, the trees whispering and crying. He glances at the salt circle, making sure it’s solid.

Artie’s stomach drops as he looks over the symbol drawn in the dirt. The whole thing feels surreal. It’s as if he’s in an old horror movie. He takes a deep breath and starts the chant, his voice low and uncertain at first, then steadier as the ancient words roll off his tongue. It feels strange to speak a language that’s been in his family for generations.

When it’s time, he presses the tip of the blade to his finger, wincing as blood appears. He lets it drip into the chalice, the crimson mixing with the darkness inside. His heartbeat is loud in his ears, but he keeps going, smearing a bit of blood onto his forehead to seal the ritual.

Then, nothing.

The forest stays quiet. No eerie presence creeping in. Just the wind, the trees, and the sound of crickets. Artie waits, but after a few moments, frustration takes over. With a groan, he tosses the paper aside, watching as it flutters into the night. Then, he wipes his forehead with his sleeve and stands, shaking his head.

“What a waste. A huge crock.” He scoffs, dragging his foot through the salt circle without a second thought. The temperature drops slightly. Not enough for him to notice yet, but he’s already sealed his fate.