But then, bisecting the back wall, an archway opens up into some new darkness. I step through it, and that same warm-bath feeling envelopes me again, propelling me forward.
Is this a terrifying house of horrors? All evidence points to yes. But I’ve never felt safer or more calm. For now, we’re going with that.
“I’m putting my trust in you, house. Don’t make me regret this.”
A light flickers on in the distance—benevolent confirmation—illuminating a long tunnel I can’t see the end of, which in all probability leads to the chamber where they prepare the virgins for sacrifice. It’s got that kind of vibe. Thankfully, I’m not qualified. Rodents seem like the more pressing concern anyway. I decide not to look down. Just march onward, one foot in front of the other, the light shifting, slowly revealing every twisty-turny curve.
I’m no cartographer, but there’s no way I’m still under the main house. I have to be out past the backyard somewhere.Wayout.
How far does this property even go? And why would someone dig out a basement like this? It’s a real-life labyrinth. I’m half expecting to run into the Goblin King rocking that 80s hair-band situation and a pair of tight leggings that put any man’s grey sweatpants to shame, but my only companion so far is the ghost, who shows up again right as I reach a new room at the end of the tunnel.
“Good looking out, co-pilot,” I say. I swear she rolls her eyes at me.
She vanishes again, but this time she has the decency to leave a soft lavender glow in her wake, just bright enough to see by.The room—a large, open chamber—is about the size of the entire first floor of the house. A massive chalk pentagram marks the center of the concrete, ringed with several black pillar candles set into waist-high bronze candle holders covered in melted wax. Strange markings surround the entire circle—ancient-looking symbols I can’t make out, painted in red and black, some of them partially erased. Bookshelves line the walls, stacked high with books and statuettes and more candles of every size and color. Jars full of powders and herbs, neatly labeled. A deck of Tarot cards fitted into a velvet-lined box, propped open. Crystals on every shelf, and positioned in the corners too.
There’s very little dust, which tells me someone used and tended to all this stuff recently.
I take a deep breath, my insides fizzy with excitement. The room smells like cinnamon and brimstone and mud. Like magic. I run my hand along one of the shelves, stopping at the Tarot cards. It feels like they’re calling my name.
The moment I lift the deck out of its box, my hands go all tingly, and that pale lavender glow intensifies around the cards, pulsating in time with my heartbeat.
I’ve never been into Tarot, never gotten a reading or anything, but I shuffle the oversized cards easily, as if I’ve always done it. Always known how. The deck responds to my touch, coming alive in my hands and buzzing with energy, cards zipping by with neat little “snicks” until finally a card leaps out and lands face up at my feet.
Six of Cups. There’s a woman on the card who looks uncannily like me, with waist-length blonde hair and a heart-shaped face. She’s walking up a moonlit path, reaching backward toward a small child emerging from a pond full of lotus flowers. A glowing cup appears where their hands touch.
As soon as I pick up the card, the tingling in my hands intensifies, racing up my arm and into my chest, cranking upthe dial on my heartbeat until I’m nearly dizzy. I close my eyes to stop the room from spinning, and when I open them again, a vision comes to life before me.
Not my new ghost bestie. My mother. She’s different from before, though. Less like a ghost and more like an old film projection, grainy and opaque. I get the sense she can’t see me. That this is merely an echo of something that happened in the past.
She’s standing at one of the work tables now, her back to me as she leans over a huge leather-bound book. It’s about as thick as an old phone book, but larger, the pages yellowed. She smooths her hand over the cover—a rich brown leather, cracked and darkened with age. A silver medallion gleams in the center, untarnished despite its age. The bottom of the medallion contains one unmistakable word.
Bonnivarde.
It’s the grimoire. The one Helena mentioned. It has to be.
I creep as close to my mother as I dare—so close I could reach out and touch her if she were real. From a vase of mixed florals on the table, she plucks out a bouquet of tiny pale blue flowers—forget-me-knots, I think—and crushes them into a small wooden bowl with her thumb. Next, she adds a sprig of rosemary, then sprinkles the mix onto the medallion.
Her lips move in what looks like some kind of incantation. Then, still muttering, she grabs a knife and draws it across her palm, squeezing her blood onto the medallion. The whole thing begins to glow a deep and pulsating red, like a heart.
Ignoring her wound, she heads for the pentagram in the middle of the room, walking backward around it three times. The candles flicker to life at a wave of her hand, calling forth an image at the center of the pentagram. I can’t make it out. Looks like a storm cloud flashing with dark lightning.
My mother raises her hands, blood running down her arm, and utters another incantation. An alabaster white hand punches through the cloud, clenching something raw and bloodied. I cry out on instinct, warning her not to reach for that ghastly hand?—
The woman vanishes. The portal goes dark. There’s no grimoire, no flickering candles, no swirling storm cloud.
The basement is just a creepy basement once more.
I glance down at the Six of Cups, still warm and buzzing in my hand. Helena’s words echo.
You’re witches, girls…
Holding my breath, I wave toward the candles.
The ring of fire ignites.
And despite my exhaustion, despite all the alcohol and the frustrations and the craziness of the entire night, every last one of my doubts is obliterated.
Magic is real.
