The canoe bumps softly against a half-sunken dock. You step onto the warped boards and approach the wooden shack before you, smoke curling from its chimney, the porch strung with bones and hides and dried Spanish moss. An alligator skull is mounted above the open screen door. A rocking chair creaks slow as molasses, though no one sits in it.
She’s already waiting for you.
“I’ve been expecting you, baby. Come on in…”
Half-melted candles and jars full of obscure substances line makeshift shelves. A record playing on a phonograph crackles.
Look into the mirror.
Peek inside her spellbook.
Sometimes the trail doesn’t feel right… nothing wrong with turning around.