Sandy's POV
Aunt Monica guided us through the shadows toward the back of her house, her footsteps eerily silent against the wooden floors. The room she led us into felt like stepping into another world entirely. Darkness clung to every corner, broken only by the faint light filtering through heavy curtains.
At the room's heart sat a small wooden table, its surface covered in symbols that seemed to pulse with their own life. The carvings were ancient, intricate patterns that made my eyes water if I stared too long.
Aunt Monica placed the bottle we'd retrieved from Charles's mother directly in the center of those mysterious markings. The moment the glass touched wood, everything changed. Light erupted from the table's surface, casting dancing shadows on the walls. The bottle lifted into the air, suspended by some invisible force that made my skin crawl.
This room had been prepared. Every detail, every positioning felt deliberate. Aunt Monica had been expecting us.
