The hand drawn pentacle stared at him, as though trying to remember a friend not seen in ages. John inwardly cringed. Was he really prepared to go back there? He had never even truly been sure that these rituals worked. He knew that his own doubt lowered the chances of success, but he had to try anyways. Dad's health was failing. It wasn't fair, not after all the man had been through. Mom had died barely a year earlier. Why did he have to suffer through the depression and now the illness?
John went to his closet and dug around until he found an ordinary enough looking back pack, save for the numbered combination lock that held the zippers together and the bag therefore closed. The combination came to him easily, as if already sitting in the back of his mind. From the bag, he produced a white candle and a small ornate blade. John lit the candle and began to meditate.
An hour later, he felt that his mind was sufficiently cleared and his intent well enough formed. He made a tiny slash on his ankle and dabbled the resulting blood onto the pentacle. With closed eyes he concentrated intently on his dad's health improving. When he felt that the conviction was strong enough, he allowed the pentacle to burn in the candle's flame and imagined his life essence committed to the cause.
Afterwards, he stashed his supplies back in their hiding place and sat in contemplation. It had been like getting back onto a bike that he hadn't ridden in years. He was unsure if he should like the feeling he had, or not.