The moment Anne stepped into the cottage, something shifted.
It was the same cabin they'd seen before—same porch swing, same door, same windows—but inside, it was impossibly vast. The walls stretched farther than they should. The ceiling arched like a cathedral. Hallways branched off into places that couldn't exist.
Zahir stopped just past the threshold, his jaw tight.
"This place is wrong," he muttered.
Anne glanced at him. "It's bigger than it should be."
"It's older than it should be," Zahir said. "And it's watching us."
Before Anne could respond, the song began again.
That same haunting tune from the 1990s—warped, echoing, like it was playing from a cassette buried in the walls. The melody curled around them like smoke.
Mrs. Hodgins appeared from the far hallway, holding a tray with two porcelain teacups. Her smile was polite, but her eyes gleamed with something unreadable.
"Chamomile," she said. "Good for nerves."
Anne took the cup with a quiet thank-you. Zahir didn't move.
Mrs. Hodgins led them into a room that looked exactly like the one in the overworld cabin—same rocking chair, same crooked table, same sealed windows.
She sat down, her skirt folding neatly beneath her, and began to rock.
The fireplace lit itself.
Anne sat across from her, the tea warm in her hands. Zahir remained standing, arms crossed, eyes scanning the room.
Mrs. Hodgins smirked. "You don't trust me."
Zahir didn't answer.
She turned to Anne. "But you do. That's why you're here."
Anne swallowed. "We're looking for Leo."
Mrs. Hodgins nodded slowly. "And you'll find him. But first, you need to understand what you're walking into."
She leaned back, her eyes fixed on the flames.
"In the 1990s," she began, "the witch hunts returned. Not with torches and pitchforks, but with whispers and rules. The occult was rising—books, films, rituals. People were afraid. And fear makes monsters out of women."
Anne listened, the firelight flickering across her face.
"They said if you kept your nails too long, you were hiding claws. If you smiled too brightly, you were casting spells. If you were too happy, too beautiful, too alive—you were dangerous."
Mrs. Hodgins paused, her voice softening.
"I had just married. We moved to Burkittsville, Maryland—the town where the Blair Witch trials took place. My husband, Ernest, was kind. Gentle. He brought me flowers every Sunday. Daisies. I loved daisies."
Her eyes glazed over, lost in memory.
"He never looked at another woman. Never raised his voice. We were happy."
She took a slow breath.
"And then one day, in broad daylight, a woman appeared on my doorstep. She wore a red shawl and had eyes like glass. She asked for a grain of rice and a cup of water."
Anne leaned forward.
"I went to the kitchen," Mrs. Hodgins continued. "I was gone for less than a minute. But when I came back…"
Her voice cracked.
"She had killed him. My Ernest. He was lying on the porch, eyes open, no blood. Just… gone."
Zahir's eyes narrowed.
"She turned to me," Mrs. Hodgins said, "and threw the knife. It sliced across my hand. I screamed."
She looked at her palm, as if the scar still burned.
"People came running. Neighbors. Strangers. They saw me with the knife. They saw Ernest's body—no blood, no wound. They said it was witchcraft."
Anne's breath caught.
"They dragged me into the square. They tied me to a post. And they burned me."
Mrs. Hodgins' voice was calm now. Hollow.
"As I wept my final tears, I saw her. That woman. Standing in the crowd. Smiling."
The fire flared.
"She was the real witch. And she enjoyed every second."
Anne sat frozen, the tea cooling in her hands.
Zahir stepped forward. "You survived."
Mrs. Hodgins smiled. "Magic has a way of preserving what the world tries to erase."
Anne looked at her. "Why tell me this?"
Mrs. Hodgins leaned in.
"Because the same magic that saved me… is the magic that binds Leo."
The song played again.
And the flames whispered secrets.