A Witches Ramblings

The clock struck thirteen. Again. It was an impossible time, yet the old grandfather clock in the hallway chimed precisely that number, its resonant bongs echoing through the quiet house. Elara paused, book in hand, a shiver tracing its way down her spine. The book, a forgotten tome on ancient mythologies, had fallen open to a page discussing a deity named Hecate, a goddess of crossroads and magic.

Outside, a dog howled, a long, mournful sound that seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere at once. It wasn't the neighbor's dog; this sound was wilder, more primal. Elara walked to the window, peering out into the deepening twilight. The streetlights flickered, casting long, dancing shadows. She felt an inexplicable pull, a magnetic urge to walk towards the old, overgrown cemetery at the edge of town, a place she usually avoided.

The air grew colder, carrying the scent of damp earth and something else, something ancient and sweet, like night-blooming jasmine. Elara clutched the book tighter, her gaze fixed on the twisting path that led into the darkness, a path that felt suddenly, overwhelmingly familiar.