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My fingers go to my hair, pulling on the thick locks in frustration.I have to figure this out. I have to.
I go back to pacing, my bare feet sore, leaving streaks of red across the wood planks of the floor. It creaks and groans, filling the quiet with an odd sense of comfort. Anything is better than the eerie silence.
The groaning of the floor grows louder over a plank, then quieter as I move on. Louder, quieter. Louder, quieter. I pause on the noisy piece of wood, rocking from my toes to my heels, and back again.
What the hell?
Squatting down, I press my fingers into the piece of wood, watching as it rocks back and forth slightly, as if it isn’t nailed down correctly.
I push on the edge, letting the other corner pop up slightly, and I dig my fingers around the rough wood, pulling it up. I wince as the sharp splinters dig into my sore hands, and for a second, I feel as if I’m being silly. This is an old place, after all, but tugging harder, I listen to the squeak of a rusty nail, then the wood releases, and I fly backward, my spine hitting the floor as the long plank stays clutched in my grip.
“Ow,” I grunt, tossing the wood aside as I roll over onto my knees. I look in the small hole in the floor, a cubby of sorts that’s filled with dust and such thick spiderwebs a shiver rolls through my limbs. I take a deep breath, my eyebrows scrunching as I dig my hand inside, whipping back and forth to remove the webs.
“Ewww,” I whine, pulling my hand out and scraping it against the floor. The constant icks are rolling through me and I can’t stop the rippling goosebumps. Leaning back over the hole, I look in, my eyes narrowing in confusion as I see something in the corner.
“What?” I breathe, my shaky hand going back in. It’s tucked far underneath, a dark brown that camouflages with the floor, making it nearly impossible to see. But the moon is brighter, and it reflects off a corner of the wooden box. My fingers wrap around it, and I instantly get a sense of dread as I pull the heavy box out. It’s full of dust, and my nose tickles as I lift it from the hole, scrambling back and onto the mattress, bringing the box with me.
I wipe off the layers of grime, my eyes permanently wide at what the hell this could be. I’m scared, and excited, and a little nervous about what other shit I’m about to unveil.
With shaky fingers, I lift the metal latch on the front, pushing the lid open, revealing the contents inside.
My eyes widen, and I let go of the box, sitting back as my breathing picks up.
“Oh, no,” I mumble.
The darkness I felt when I clutched the box was only a fraction of the things contained on the inside. I swallow down my terrified whimper as I stare at the pentagram made of sticks, tied together with some sort of twine. I don’t want to touch it, so I barely brush my fingers against it, pushing it aside and revealing a chunk of hair tied together by more twine. In the corner is a bunched-up piece of fabric, and I lift it out, the small square stained with a dark substance.
“Is that blood?” I whisper, my fingers brushing back and forth. I frown at the discoloration. The swath of fabric is a baby blue, yet the brown stain makes it hard to know for certain what it is. This is clearly old, the rough fabric shredding on the ends, but it’s thick, an old wool that would’ve been used back in the day.
I sigh as I squeeze the fabric in my palm, setting it back in the box. I tap my nail against a small black vial, pursing my lips as I lift it out. It’s full, whatever it is. There’s a tiny cut cork in the top, and I pinch my fingers around it, pulling it out. It pops, and I look in the tiny hole, swirling the liquid around.
What is it?
Bringing it to my nose, I take a small whiff, my eyes rounding into saucers as I swallow down a gag.
Holy shit, it’s blood.
I shove the cork back in, dropping it in the box, wiping my fingers on the mattress and feeling like whoever’s box this is was not a good person. Not at all.
The only other thing in the box is a small book, and I’m almost scared to see what’s inside. My fingers brush the leather cover, and I pull it out, bringing it to my lap. It’s bound with a leather string, thick and tied tight, as if it’s meant to be read by no one.
The energy coming from it is dark and heavy, the words inside not meant to be read, or consumed, by anyone. I want to say a spell, give myself some type of protection, but every time I try, I end up creating more problems.
So, I grab the small tie on the front, pulling it loose and setting it aside. With a deep breath, I open the cover, instantly realizing this isn’t a book, it’s a journal.
This journal belongs to Rowena.
Do not read.
The letters are a thin script, and my pointer finger goes forward, brushing across the name.
Rowena.
Where have a I heard this name?
I turn to a random page.
February 25th, 1967
