I’m in no rush to look around the newly discovered room, my focus firmly planted on the illuminated hardback in the left corner of the room, surrounded by weird looking ornaments and candles.
I stand in the attic just staring at the worn down, grubby looking book, my head tilted to the right slightly and my eyebrows raised in wonder. It glows a pretty shade of yellow, almost gold if you will, in stark contrast to the aged, dirty looking paper the glow wraps around.
Liquid courage allows me to step forward until I’m leaning over the book, nose practically resting on it. The pages aren’t quite properly contained, torn and dust smattered pieces of paper sticking out from the edges. There’s some sort of writing that I can’t make out but not because it’s a different language. Oh, no. It’s because my eyesight is blurry from the seven, wait.. eight beers I pretty much inhaled. The only way I can even see the writing at all is by bracing my nose the damn thing.
With my eyesight a little clearer, I decipher the writing on the cover of the book:
Grimoire:
Witchcraft & Magic
“What in Lucifer's name is a ‘Grimoire’?” I slur, getting no reply because I’m obviously still on my own.
Continuing to mutter to myself, I say “gotta be a spellbook, right? Because that’s magic..” hiccup “..or it could be a book for magicians.”
I gasp dramatically, “What if it’s the secrets those shady bastards don’t want us to know so we never figure out how they’re doing their tricks? That’s what it’s gotta be!”.
Dragging my head back so I’m no longer face hugging the book, I convince myself that it definitely belongs to a sneaky magician. After staring at it for another couple of minutes to cement my theory, I make my decision, and with a resolute nod, I flick the front cover of the book open. I realise I might should have opened that with a gentler hand, seeing as though the book looks like it could fall apart with one wrong turn of a page, but it opens easily enough, bringing a layer of dust with it that flies straight into my face.
A half a dozen sneezes later finds me staring at total gibberish, and it’s not due to my less than stellar vision this time. The entire page is written in a completely different language. What language even is that? It takes me longer than I care to admit to realise that it’s Latin, a language that I studied at college for no reason other than they forced me to pick one to study. French was not going to happen when I realised I couldn’t talk without doing the “uhhh” thing every couple of words that the French seem to have perfected, so I was stuck with Latin.
I flick through the pages, noting that they all look to be written in the same language. I can barely speak English at this point of the night, so it’s unlikely I’ll stand a chance at putting any of the Latin I know to use. However, not being one to resist a challenge, I stop on a faded looking page and press my nose onto the paper so my blurry eyes can focus on the writing again.
I take a deep breath and read the page out loud, knowing very well I’m butchering the language and slurring words but pushing through for the sake of not quitting.
I don’t get to finish the last sentence properly when a little bit of leftover dust tickles my nose and a whole new round of sneezes hits me out of nowhere. There’s two words left on the page, but what leaves my mouth is actual gibberish thanks to all my sneezing.
I wipe my face on the long sleeve of my jersey, hoping that will remove the dust that still clings to my face. When I lift my head from my arm, I glance over to the book again and pause. My eyebrows furrow at what I think my eyes are seeing. The book wasn’t glowing red before I read from it, right? Because it sure as shit is now.
I take a couple of steps away from the now creepy looking book. I squeeze my eyes shut and open them again, only to see that the book still glows red. I repeat the action, getting the same result in return. Clearly the alcohol has done a number on my imagination, or so I think before a gust of wind barrels through the attic causing me to shiver violently.
With a big ol’ ‘fuck that’ and a slightly hysterical laugh, I swiftly turn, almost toppling over in my haste, and rush my drunk ass straight on back down the wooden ladder. It becomes quite obvious ladders weren’t invented for the intoxicated, a point that is made clear when I almost die trying to hobble down the stupid thing. I try to make my way down backwards, I never said I was a smart drunk, and lose my footing on the third rung down from the top, so I sail down the ladder much quicker than I’d have thought possible, my ass bumping every rung as I go.
Due to how suddenly it happens, I’m not prepared to land properly, so my feet, still covered in my fluffy socks, slip out from under me when I reach the floor. I land hard on my ass, groaning at the pain that shoots up my spine from the impact.
I roll over and rub my sore ass a little to ease some of the ache before remembering the creepy book in the attic that I’m running away from. With that reminder, I suck up the pain, pull myself back to my feet, and make a mad dash towards my new bedroom. At any other time, I’d have laughed at myself making an uncanny resemblance of Bambi when my socks make my getaway look more like a fun game of ‘Slip ‘n Slide’ but without the water.
I build up enough momentum that when I stop running a foot away from my room, my sock covered feet easily glide on the wooden floor straight into the room. I stop about three feet away from the door once I’m inside, calling out my thanks to the dresser that provides a not so gentle buffer, and kick my leg out towards the door, reenacting the scene from 300 where my man Gerard Butler kicks some poor unsuspecting fool into the pit of death, and slam it shut with a loud thud.
Although safely tucked away in my white and grey colour themed room, my heart feels like it’s five seconds away from pounding straight out of my chest, and I’m sucking in labored breaths. It’s a fucking book, Livvie. What’s it gonna do, give you a papercut?, I tell myself snarkily, trying to reason with my brain.
Drunk me is very convincing, so with that sarcastic comment, I find myself beginning to calm down. Not enough to stop me from jumping into my king size bed and throwing all of the decorative cushions off the side where they land in a heap right next to the bed. It’s a universally known fact that hiding under blankets protects you from being snatched away by the demons under your bed, so I make use of this knowledge and burrow myself under my thick white and grey floral printed duvet. I keep my head facing the door so I’ll know when a spook tries to grab me, and they won’t catch me off guard.
I stay like this for what seems like hours, but must only be about twenty minutes or so, with my knees tucked under my body, my elbows digging into the bed and hands holding the duvet around my head so only my face is visible.
The adrenaline from the scare and rushing to hide stole some of my intoxication and replaced it with some logical thinking once again. The returned logic makes me realise that I’m acting crazy. A thought that’s cemented when nothing actually comes through the door or the imaginary demons don’t try to grab my leg from under the duvet and drag me to the underworld.
After a deep inhale, I fling the duvet off and climb out of the bed on wobbly legs. I brush the hair that’s stuck to my face thanks to the sweat from running for my life and being enclosed in my furnace like duvet. Lightly tiptoeing towards the door, I ease it open and poke my head out, checking that the coast is clear. One I’ve confirmed that it is, in fact, clear, I step out of my room.
After briefly checking the hatch is clear, I make way way down the stairs. I check over my shoulder more times than I care to admit, but my nerves push me forward. I reach the top of the stairs without incident, my mission to reach my stairs unscathed accomplished. The alcohol seems to be slowly wearing off, but I’m still tipsy so I hold on the banister when I walk unsteadily down the stairs, doing all I can to stop myself from falling again.
When I reach the downstairs, I head straight for the kitchen to get myself a much needed glass of water and some Ibuprofen for the headache that’s making itself known.
I
go about making my water and retrieving the magical tablets, pop them in my mouth, and down the cool liquid like I’ve lived in the desert for a month with no water. Once I sate my thirst, I set the glass in the sink for me to clean tomorrow.
Exhaustion slams into me from nowhere, likely the last of the adrenaline draining, leaving my body aching and tired. I shuffle my down the hallway and to the front door to check the lock.
Realising that I’m going to have to turn off the light, I prepare myself to bolt up the stairs once the lights go off. I make like a cheetah the second I flick the switch, sprinting up the dark wooden stairs. I take the stairs two at a time, and I don’t stop until I reach the safety of my room once again.
I lock the door, not wanting to potentially risk my life, and head into my bathroom. After relieving myself, much to my bladder’s relief, I brush my teeth and wash my face to get ready for bed.
As soon as I finish, I make a repeat performance of jumping into my bed and diving under the covers once again, only the right side up this time. I snuggle down into my giant bed and gradually begin to drift off to sleep.
Before sleep fully claims my conscious, I get a niggling thought in the back of my brain: What if everything that happened in the attic wasn’t actually my imagination? If so, what the fuck did I read?
CHAPTER THREE
Livvie
My mouth's as dry as a desert wasteland when I wake up. It feels like I’ve been chewing on an entire box of crackers and all the moisture has been absorbed.
Slowly, oh so slowly, I move my head as not to set off the one man marching band in my head. In my haste to get in bed last night, I forgot to close the curtains, and the sun is being super obnoxious this morning. I look at the alarm clock on my bedside table through squinted eyes and note that it’s only eleven in the morning. Way too early to be joining the living right now. Sadly, the asshole cat that resides with me doesn’t seem to agree.
Salem scratches at my door and yowls, probably none too pleased that I locked the door so he couldn’t come in the room. It’s entirely probable that he’s also pissed that I abandoned him downstairs to be stolen by demons, too. He doesn’t stop until I drag my body out of bed, zombie walk towards to door and open it. There he sits in all of his black, fluffy glory, his tail flicking back and forth to display his lack of amusement at being stuck on the wrong side of the door. I think if cats could do the whole unimpressed eyebrow lift, that’s the face Salem would be pulling right now. My bad.
I lean down and boop his little pink nose, ignoring the feisty glare he gives me, and make my way to the bathroom to go about my business. After brushing my teeth to rid of my morning breath and the lingering taste of beer in my mouth, and splashing my face with water to wake myself up, I begin to feel a little more human.
With those small tasks out of the way, I open my bathroom cabinet to reveal the blessed box of Ibuprofen I always keep in the bathroom. I snatch two out of the box like my life depends on it, turn on the tap and shove my head under the spray of water, filling my mouth with what could very well be described as liquid from the heavens. I swallow the tablets and go back for more water, drinking until I don’t feel like my mouth is full of cotton. I wipe my mouth on my jersey that reeks of beer, gross, I didn’t even change before passing out, and shuffle out of the bathroom.
Before leaving the room, I drag my feet to my king size bed where I pick up my massive duvet, wrap it around myself and shuffle through the hallway and to the top of the stairs, all while grumbling to myself about hangovers and never drinking again.
With my body tightly wrapped in the thickest duvet ever, I sit on the top stair, close my eyes, and push myself a little until I’m sliding off the edge. Thanks to the duvet, the bumps of the stairs aren’t too bad on my head, and I slide all the way to the bottom.
I stick my feet out straighter and hold my legs firm when I glide off the bottom step, continuing to slide across the smooth wooden floor. My feet connect with the front door that sits directly opposite my stairs, bringing me to a stop.
I drag myself to my feet, and I’ve only walked about three feet away from the door when there’s a loud knock that breaks through the silence. I don’t need to answer it, however, when my best friend Rylan uses his key and steps over the threshold.
“Oh, babe, you look like death warmed over” he says as soon as his sky blue eyes land on me. Eyeing my duvet that I’m pretty much using as a cape, his eyebrows so far up his head I’m surprised they haven’t flown off yet. I know what he sees because I kind of scared myself when I looked in the mirror upstairs. My hair, which I put in a messy bun at the top of my head last night, is a boat load messier, strands of hair sticking up in all directions. My eyes appear slightly bloodshot thanks to the daylight, and the bags under my eyes have darkened from my restless sleep and alcohol consumption. I look like a hot mess.
“Good morning to you too” I grumble and turn to make my way to the kitchen like I planned.
Rylan catches up easily after shutting the door and strides up next to me, flinging his arm over my duvet covered shoulders. We’ve always been touchy feely, never short in supply of affection for one another and always ready to give the other a hug if we need it. It’s one of my favourite things about him.
“Happy twenty fifth birthday, by the way” he says, giving me a big smile and a kiss on my temple before leading me to my kitchen. The gem of a man directs me to a stool at the island counter and goes about making me my coffee.
“Thank you, Muffin” I reply, giving him a sweet smile when he grins at the nickname I gave him a week after knowing him. Muffins are his weakness, and I found this out whenever he’d steal mine every time we went for coffee during our brief college days.
That was almost six years ago, and we’ve become tighter than a leather catsuit. We met in college when we literally bumped into each other because neither of us were looking where we were going. Halfway through college, my mother died, and he quit college, moving home with me. He stayed at my side every single day, living in my old house with me, and we both took our courses online instead. We're so close that he never has to wait for me to open the door to him when he has his own key, and better yet, only lives three doors down from me.
As soon as this house went up for sale, Rylan practically forced me to buy it. When he bought his first house at twenty one, I happily moved in with him at his request. So when he got his new job six months ago, and he had to move closer to where he’d be working, we were both devastated there was only one house for sale in the neighbourhood he wanted to move to. I insisted on a house of my own instead of crashing with him again, just to regain a little independence, but I still wanted to be close. As soon as another house went up for sale only three doors down from his, Rylan raced me to the realtor and, quicker than I could blink, the house became my new home.
I’m still squinting to stave off the sun and bright colours from burning my retinas, when he delicately places my giant mug of coffee directly under my nose, thanks to the way I’m leaning on the table. He takes a seat opposite me and sips on his coffee before he asks “So, got totally wasted last night, huh?”
I can hear the mocking smile in his voice. I groan before picking up the liquid gold he’s made just how I like. I take a couple gulps before replying, “I got beyond wasted. I think I drank, like, eight beers or something, and I vaguely remember moonwalking. I don’t even know, but I was most certainly not sober”.
He chuckles at my response before taking another sip of his drink. We sit in comfortable silence until I finish my coffee and nudge my mug towards him, hinting for him to make me another. His left eyebrow raises, but the amusement in his eyes is unmistakable. I flutter my eyelashes a couple of times now that my eyes are used to the blinding light, and give him my best pout before I quote the movie Big Daddy, “P-p-p- please don’t do dis to me”.
It’s all it takes for him to snatch my mug off the table while laughing and make me another mug of liquid gold.
; “You’re the best, Ry” I say sweetly, meaning every word. The caffeine begins to take effect, and I can feel myself perking up a little more now that the coffee has hit my bloodstream.
“You’re damn straight I am,” he winks at me “and because I’m the best and am clearly awesome, you’re coming with me to a Halloween party tonight to celebrate your birthday”.
“Celebrate my birthday? Psshhh. Right. You wanna go to the party to pick up some poor unsuspecting girl,” I laugh out, joking with him even while a small pang of jealousy creeps up. It’s actually one of the reasons I decided it would be a good idea to have my own place. He’s only had a handful of dates that never worked out for him, but he’s never brought anyone around, which I assume was because of me living with him. I don’t want to feel like I’m in the way or stopping him from dating or whatever. It’s never bothered me before because I’ve never wanted to share Rylan with anyone, which brings me to the other reason I decided on claiming my independence. There’s the teeny tiny, little detail that I’m.. sort of ..in love with him. I know! I know. He’s the one I’m head over heels in love with. It’s the typical ‘I don’t want to ruin so many years of friendship’ thing, and I’ve made peace with it never acting on it. Kind of. Not really. Ugh. I'm a walking cliché.
His smile dims a little at my comment, which confuses the crap out of me, but it’s gone in a flash, his normal smile right back in place, making me think I’m probably seeing things again.
“I’m going to be with you, nerd. Plus, if you don’t go with me, you don’t get your birthday present. Up to you, Buttercup” he replies with a smirk, using the nickname he gave me when he found out my favourite colour was yellow. That sneaky shit. I told him not to get me anything, and he knows I’m super impatient when it comes to presents. Damn him.
Wicked Tales Anthology Page 26