Agatha, a witch with wild silver hair and a sly smile, drags a heavy burlap sack across the mossy threshold. The sack squirms and mutters protests from within, but Agatha only cackles, her boots thudding on the stone floor. She pushes open a trapdoor near the fireplace, the hinges shrieking, and heaves her prize down into the darkness below.

With a grunt, Agatha hauls the sack onto a cold slab. She unties it with a flourish to reveal Tim, a bewildered man in rumpled clothes, blinking against the lantern’s glare. Chains rattle as Agatha snaps shackles around Tim’s wrists, positioning him beside the rows of sausages. "What is this? Where am I?" "Relax, dear. You’re the guest of honor for Sunday’s rotisserie," Agatha purrs, her eyes gleaming.

Agatha[/@ch_1]’s old wooden table is laden with hot dog buns, pickled onions, and mysterious sauces.] Agatha hums as she sharpens her favorite carving knife, occasionally glancing at a battered recipe book. She tosses in handfuls of rosemary and garlic, muttering incantations under her breath. The sound of the other witches—her girlfriends—approaching along the cobbled path makes her smile widen in anticipation.

Tim[/@ch_2] struggles against his chains. The savaloys sway above him, casting grotesque shadows on the damp walls. A faint hope rises as he hears voices and laughter from upstairs.] "Please, Agatha, let me go. I won’t tell anyone what I’ve seen!" "Oh, Tim, you really must stop wriggling. You’ll ruin the flavor," comes the echoing reply from the stairwell. Tim grows pale as the savory aroma of roasting meat wafts down.

Mabel, tall and sharp-eyed, drops a bag of enchanted condiments on the table. Dorothea, with a mane of red curls, waves a wand for extra heat in the cauldron, while Priscilla admires the rows of savaloys. "Agatha, is our main course ready?" "Almost, darlings," Agatha grins, her eyes sliding to the trapdoor.

Agatha lifts a glass, toasting her girlfriends, while Tim looks on from his chains, hope glimmering in his eyes as Mabel offers him a hot dog—mercifully made from the savaloys instead. "To a wickedly delicious Sunday!" "To friendship—and a little harmless mischief," Tim can’t help but offer a nervous laugh as the witches dig in, grateful for the reprieve and the oddly festive company.