The expression on Clark Crowe's face turned foul as he watched Aunt Crowe and Aaron Crowe reach for Wendy Dawson on the altar.
His hands were clenched into tight fists, and his gaze was fierce, as if warning them.
Evan Crowe smiled faintly. "Don't be so anxious, cousin," he said in a calm, unhurried tone. "This is all part of the ritual."
"Don't worry, we know what we're doing. We won't go too far."
Beside them, Aaron Crowe had already eagerly turned on his camera and was searching for the best angle.
Aunt Crowe placed her hand on Wendy Dawson's sash. Just as she was about to untie it, a blood-curdling scream tore through the air from outside.
The shriek was piercing and shrill.
Aaron Crowe, who was still trying to find a good angle, froze stiff. He knew that voice all too well.
That was his mother's voice!
"Is that Mrs. Crowe's voice? Did something happen?" Evan Crowe had recognized it too. He turned toward the door, frowning as he asked.
