Chapter 3
Bianca
The words were jumbled up as I tried to read the paragraph for the third time. It was a translated version of The Grimoire of Armadel. I was reading the chapter on ‘Concerning the ways of knowing the devils and of banishing them.’
The words on the page swirled. The black ink pooled together. I blinked, and the title now read,‘Concerning the Ways of Becoming the Devil’s Vessel.’The ink bled, rewriting itself into new words.‘Thou art the gate, and the gate shall open.’
I slapped the book shut. This shouldn't have been possible. The book had angelic sigils in it. Last night's weird sex dream had messed my head up. William Montague was haunting me. I glanced at the doll, deciding she wasn't worth my sanity. An email notification caught my eye.
My response on the online forum garnered some reactions. Almost everyone responded with William Montague doll references, which were extremely rare since most of them were burned in the fire. My jaw dropped at some of the money being offered for her.
I accepted the highest offer without hesitation. I sent them a private message with her picture, focusing on her face and missing hand so they knew she was damaged. The buyer wasn't put off and gave me a postal address. I messaged my bank details, telling them I would post her via the secure and signed service once the payment was made.
The username was _PorcelainCollector. They were willing to spend £3,000 on a damaged doll.
Why do you want the doll?I typed and waited for a response.
There are many private collectors willing to pay high prices for an original WM doll. The serial number you shared was one of his first dolls. I have made the payment.
I checked my bank account, and the payment was received.
I will parcel her up and post her today, guaranteed next-day delivery.I checked the time and quickly grabbed Angelica to make it to the post office before it shut.
I rummaged through my recycling until I found a suitable-sized box, grateful to be rid of her but also pleased with my return on my initial investment. I paused once I finished taping up the box. My lower belly ached, and I groaned, rubbing my stomach, but nothing would stop me from getting rid of her.
There was no time to waste. I stuck the red fragile labels on the box and drove to the post office. I messaged the buyer and gave them the tracking number. I'm glad to be rid of the cursed item.
When I returned home, I could breathe again. After putting some dinner on, I was back to reading my book. After studying the recommended sigils, there were no clear notes on how to use them against a being like Montague. The original was written in the 1700s, with the subsequent English translation in 1890. It was a mixture of angelology, Christian mysticism, and occult history.
Knowledge was diluted, and such books were cast aside. There would be practitioners of such rituals, but it would take me time to find them. I would need to vet them to ensure they weren't scam artists. The dark, foreboding instinct told me it would be too late by the time I found someone to help me.
???
The following day, I woke up relieved that there had been no nightly encounter with William Montague. However, when I stripped out of my pyjamas for a shower, I noticed my stomach bulging out as if carrying a food baby. I moved to my side to look at it in the mirror, placing my hand over the bump.
It was hard.
My finger pressed into the bulge beneath my skin. It shouldn’t have been there. It shouldn’t have been hard like that—unyielding as bone, smooth as polished stone. A shudder ripped through me, bile surging up my throat so fast I barely made it to the toilet before I was retching into the bowl.
I groaned, wiping my mouth with the back of my hand, but something tickled the back of my tongue. A strand of hair, maybe. I hooked a finger into my mouth and pulled.
It kept coming.
Black thread, slick with spit, longer than any hair on my head. I gagged as it caught in my throat, yanking like I was unravelling a seam deep inside me.
“Fucking disgusting,” I muttered, flinging it into the toilet. The thread coiled in the water like a dead snake before I slammed the lid and flushed.
But the taste lingered—burnt sugar and wet ash, thick on my tongue. I scrubbed my mouth under the tap until my gums bled, but the sink swirled with milky water, my spit gleaming like diluted paint.
That’s when I saw it.
A single black thread was still stuck between my teeth.
I told myself the trembling was just from the cold, just the shock, just anything but the truth. But the proof was right there, coiled in the sink like a dead thing, glistening under the bathroom lights. And beneath my skin, that hardness, that wrongness, pressing back when I prodded it.
Infected.
The word slithered through my mind, ugly and final.
