Last Rites

Naked beneath the silvery-blue hue of the full moon, I enter the shallow woodland clearing, just as the book instructed. Branches stripped of leaves lace the sky like frail wooden capillaries around me, whispering in the light breeze that greets my sensitive skin. I'm aware of my nipples firming under the dappled droplets of mist that cling to my breasts; hair follicles contracting to commence an all-over shiver. I should feel cold but inner heat swamps it. Excitement, perhaps. Or fear. I'm unsure which is greater.

The leaves beneath my feet rustle and swirl as a gust eddies. Could almost be voices, surrounding, gathering, preparing for the spectacle. Movement to my left snaps my attention and I pause to listen, eyes widening to take in the partial gloom beyond the tree line.

Nothing.

Or something. A broken twig. A breathy sigh. Moonlight catching a pair of shadowy eyes.

Or nothing.

I swallow and shudder. Everything suddenly seems foolish, tonight of all nights. Halloween. All Saint's Eve. Samhain. While the origin of the celebration might be shrouded in historical mysticism and religious half-truths, they mostly agree on one thing: right now, the boundary between this world and the otherworld is at its thinnest. Spirits – benign or hostile – can surface. Listen. Even cross between realms.

All I have to do is summon them. Make them hear. Harness their power.

I'm out of options. God didn't hear me, maybe the spirits will.

Deep down I know it's a bad idea. Risky. Not only leaving myself so vulnerable, clothes piled at the edge of the clearing, but because nobody ever comes out here any more. Not after last time. The headline in the Solfield Gazette had screamed: 'Two dead in woodland ritual suicide!' and that was it. The last in a long line of unexplained, gruesome incidents that condemned the area and its sacred power to history books and hearsay.

Nanna: Mark my words, those woods are haunted, child. You stay well away.

Father: You reading about Pellingham again? What's the fascination? No good will come of it.

Only Mother actively fed my curiosity over the years: That place is powerful, Luna. Used properly, it could provide immense healing.

It's because of that I have a strange affinity to the place. An attraction fuelled by stories of witches and warlocks and spells and shimmering light in the books that line my bedroom shelf alongside traditional texts. It's more than a romantic ideal. I can feel it. A tingle. Energies aligning, triggering another shiver.