It was an odd hour at the Murder House, a quiet night unlike any other. There was a certain stillness to the air that reminded the witch of storms to come, something big, something worthy of her attention. Victoria sat in a circle of candlelight in her bedroom, cross legged in a standard meditation pose. Stripped down to the bare skin, nothing touching her but a few ceremonial necklaces that covered her breasts just barely. She was levitating, eyes shut, reeling in any energy she could get a grasp on. The silence lingered, though when the witch lifted her chin toward the ceiling and parted her black painted lips, a crack of lightning echoed across the sky of Los Angeles. She smiled. There was a powerful tug in the very core of her, and she was left desperate for more. Another surge. Yes, something ancient was calling, and she was listening.



















