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The air at Wilson Farm carries that early‑fall contradiction—cool shade under the trees, warm sun on the open fields, and the faint sweetness of harvested corn lingering like a memory. It’s nothing like Los Angeles; there’s no stage fog, no synthetic haze. Just the real thing: dirt, stalks, and the earthy smell of a working farm preparing for autumn.
But the alligator is real.
It sits in a temporary livestock pen the crew set up beside the cornfield, half-submerged in a galvanized trough meant for cattle. The reptile’s ancient stillness makes the back of Robbie’s neck prickle. Its mouth hangs open in a lazy cooling posture, rows of yellowed teeth catching the afternoon light. The alligator has rows of jagged teeth, and the teeth belong to Sully—at least, that’s how Robbie sees it. Sully is pacing the edge of the corn rows like he’s trying to summon a storm, his gruff-voiced Wiccan intensity vibrating at a frequency that threatens to blow the nearby amplifiers. His boots kick up dry husk fragments, his tattoos stark against the late‑September sun.
He’s vibrating with a restless, spiritual static and dressed for the ritual, symbols inked and painted on his skin that mean more to him than just aesthetic. His hair is a wild halo of grit; Sully isn’t just a rock star; he’s the architect of a vision, and, right now, the blueprints are soaking wet and tearing at the seams. The vision is smothered by what he keeps calling “farm‑store fakery.” He stops in front of the makeshift altar the crew assembled beside a tractor path—a bundle of bones, feathers, and props that look more like someone raided the seasonal Halloween aisle than prepared for a spiritual invocation. Sully’s lip curls.
“It’s fuckin’ shit!” he roars, his voice carrying across the open field and startling a few crows from the fence posts. He gestures at the altar, rings flashing in the sun. He looks at the director, then the ground, then finally at Robbie, searching for an anchor. “Look at this garbage, Rob. It’s plastic. It’s hollow. We’re trying to invoke something real here, and they give me Styrofoam skulls. You’re falling apart if you think this is gonna fly.”
Robbie stays leaning against a wooden produce crate the farmhands dragged over for equipment storage. The crate smells faintly of apples. His posture is a deliberate contrast to Sully’s jagged edges. Five years of marriage have taught him how to read the barometer of Sully’s perfectionism, and right now the pressure is dropping fast. He pushes off the crate, boots crunching on gravel as he closes the distance. He doesn't bother looking at the props and instead places a grounding hand on Sully’s shoulder, right over the ink.
“It’s fuckin’ family,” Robbie says, low and steady, a cooling balm to the frantic energy swirling around the cornfield.
Sully pauses, his chest heaving as the swear dies in his throat. He glances toward the folding tables set up near the farm’s greenhouse, where Tony is laughing with a couple of crew members, the drummer’s presence as steady as a heartbeat. Robbie considers Tony like a brother—the kind of bond that doesn’t need a blood sacrifice or a polished music video to validate.
“The set is just wood and paint, Suls,” Robbie murmurs, squeezing his shoulder. “The real thing is right here. It’s in the track, it’s in us. Don’t let the plastic stuff get in your head.”
Sully looks back at the alligator, then back at Robbie. The tension doesn’t vanish, but it shifts—transforming from frantic anger into a focused, sharp-toothed determination. He nods once. Robbie is about to say something else when he notices movement near the gravel drive. Dean Karr is striding toward them from the direction of the farm stand, waving someone forward with the kind of relieved urgency that means he’s finally solved a problem. Behind him walks a small group dressed in black and deep autumnal colors, their presence quiet but unmistakably intentional.
At the center is Laurie Cabot. Her long dark hair, her beads, the unmistakable Cabot glasses catching the afternoon sun — Robbie recognizes her instantly. You don’t grow up in Massachusetts without knowing who she is. And if he recognizes her, Sully definitely will. Dean stops a few yards away, slightly out of breath but grinning like a man who’s just pulled off a miracle.
“Sully,” he calls, “I figured you deserved the real thing.”
Laurie steps forward with the calm gravity of someone who doesn’t need to announce herself. The cornfield rustles behind her, a breeze moving through the stalks like a whispered acknowledgment. Her coven members fan out respectfully, carrying bundles wrapped in cloth — herbs, bones, feathers, objects that aren’t plastic, aren’t hollow, and definitely didn’t come from a Halloween aisle. Robbie watches Sully’s face shift — confusion first, then recognition, then something softer, almost reverent. The restless static around him eases, just a fraction, but enough for Robbie to feel it under his hand.
Dean gestures toward the coven. “If you want authenticity,” he says, “we brought in people who actually know what they’re doing.”
Robbie doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t need to. He just gives Sully’s shoulder one more grounding squeeze, knowing this—this—is exactly what will pull him back into himself. Sully, for the first time all afternoon, lets out a breath that isn’t edged with frustration. The ritual can continue now, not because the props are fixed, but because the spirit of it finally feels real. Laurie steps closer, her coven forming a respectful crescent behind her. The breeze shifts, carrying the scent of crushed corn stalks and early‑fall earth. Sully stands rooted in place, jaw tight, eyes sharp, but something in him flickers — recognition, awe, maybe even relief.
“Sully Erna,” Laurie says, her voice low and steady, the kind of voice that doesn’t need volume to command a space. “I hear you’re trying to do something real.”
Sully swallows. He doesn’t have a comeback ready. He nods, slow and deliberate. “Yeah. I’m… trying. But they keep giving me plastic bullshit. I can’t work with that. I can’t disrespect the spirits like that.”
Laurie studies him with a calm, discerning gaze. “Intention matters more than props. But intention deserves tools that honor it.” She gestures, and one of her coven members steps forward, unwrapping a bundle of real ritual items—bones that have weight and history, feathers that haven’t seen a factory, herbs tied with twine instead of glue. Sully’s breath catches. Robbie feels the shift in him like a pressure drop before a storm breaks. Laurie continues, “If you’re calling on something ancient, you don’t need perfection. You need sincerity. You need grounding. And you need to remember why you’re doing it.”
Sully’s eyes flick to Robbie, just for a heartbeat. Robbie feels it — the silent acknowledgment, the tether between them tightening. “I know why,” Sully says quietly. “I just… I get lost in the noise.”
Laurie nods, as if she’s heard that confession a thousand times. “Then let’s clear the noise.”
She places a hand — gentle, steady — on Sully’s forearm. It’s not dramatic. It’s not mystical. It’s simply real. And that’s exactly what he needed. Robbie watches, not jealous, not confused — just grateful. He doesn’t understand the ritual the way Sully does. He never pretended to. But he understands this: the way Sully’s shoulders finally drop, the way the frantic static around him dissolves into something grounded and purposeful.
Robbie steps closer, brushing his fingers against Sully’s back. “Told you,” he murmurs. “Real thing’s right here.”
Sully exhales, long and steady, and for the first time all afternoon, the breath doesn’t shake.
Laurie smiles — small, knowing. “Shall we begin?”
Sully nods. “Yeah. Let’s do it right.”
With the cornfield rustling like an unseen audience, the coven begins to set the space—not for Hollywood, not for show, but for the spirit Sully’s been trying to honor all along.