“Perhaps.” He moves around the table to stand across from me. Then, nodding toward the book, he urges, “Look again.”
My jaw falls open as I stare down at the ink beginning to form on the page. I marvel at the sight, transfixed and befuddled.
“How did you?—”
He holds up a cautionary hand, interrupting my train of thought. “Say the words only if you truly seek a life beyond the bounds of the mundane. What comes next is not for the faint of heart.”
His words fill me with trepidation, sending a wave of goosebumps down my arms. I blink, glancing from his face back to the spreading ink. My eyes widen further as a silent request etches itself onto the page.
Read me. Speak me. Sing me.
I would look upon the world as it were. To see what is unseen. To know what lies beyond the veil.
The words strike an inexplicable sense of foreboding within me. Yet I can’t tear my eyes away from the page.
Serena.
I gasp, pushing back from the heavy chair. My name’ssudden permanence on the parchment fills me with a deep sense of unease, bordering on dread.
“Okay, very funny,” I say apprehensively, an edge of panic lacing my words as I stare him down. This is beginning to feel less and less like a practical joke or innocent magic trick.
“I didn’t bring you here for a laugh.”
I swallow thickly. My intuition is tugging at me, flashing warning signs that it’s time to leave. Something is not right about this.
Studying him closely, I realize that he isn’t all that short. His shoulders are not as sunken as I thought, his body not as frail. And then it suddenly dawns on me that I don’t know this man that well. While his stature is still far from imposing, I am now aware that he has led me upstairs behind locked doors and is spewing fanatical nonsense at me with a frightening degree of conviction. My palms grow clammy at the prospect of a homicide with my name on it.
“I have to go,” I mutter, rushing for the door. I scurry past him and yank at the handle, but the door is locked. I tug relentlessly before whirling to him.
“Unlock the door,” I command.
A sudden sharp pain shoots through my fingertips and up my forearm, rooting me where I stand. I cry out and grip my right arm as the spasm works its way higher and higher. He remains watching me, unfazed by my outburst.
“What the fuck is happening?! Are you doing this?” I shout, holding up my searing arm.
He watches casually, offering no answer. Trembling from the pain, I wrestle the door handle with my good hand.
“Open this door!” I cry, panic threatening to choke me.
“I’m afraid I can’t do that.”
I turn to face him, pressing my back against the wood.
“What do you want from me?” I grit.
“Say the words.”
“What?”
“Say the words, and you will be free.”
What the actual fuck.
“If I say the damn words, you’ll stop whatever you’re doing? You’ll let me go?” I bark, fighting to keep my voice steady.
He inclines his head in a silent dare.
I cautiously approach the table and slide the book toward me. The pain is now lancing through my other arm and up my shoulder. Bracing my throbbing hands on the cool table, I tonelessly recite the words on the page.
