The late afternoon sun trickles through the small windowpane above the earth, illuminating the large space that was once filled with furniture, family heirlooms, and decorations that could cover at least a year of rent and expenses if sold. Coming from old money means having countless antique goods.
As with upstairs, all the Feds left behind are the white sheets that once covered my family’s things and the odd bit of broken or soiled furniture. I used to like it down here. It’s quiet. I’d come here whenever I got in trouble, or if my parents were in a mood, or when I saw them put Ella on another pedestal while they kept me in the shadows behind the curtain.
No one could ever find me when I hid in the basement, not even Ella. So when the cops rolled down the driveaway, I only learned what was happening when I heard Mom yelling.
Let’s hope the demon doesn’t track me down here or magicallypoofup beside me.
For old times’ sake, I wade through the piles of cloth covered in dirty footprints. There are some odd things on the shelves like rusted tools, cords, and spare parts. Anything that isn’t worth something was left behind—like Grandma’s creepy-ass doll that’s lying on its side, staring right into my soul.
I never liked that thing. When I was a kid, I hid it behind a vase so I’d never have to look at its beady black eyes.
Grimacing, I walk closer to cover it with something, but my foot catches on something hard beneath the cloth. I pause, frowning down at it.
My ghostly knees don’t click or squeal as I squat down to push the fabric away. It takes several tries and a couple beads of sweat to pull it back enough to see the offending object.
The grimoire.
I snatch it off the floor with unnatural ease and rush closer to the window, where it’s brightest, to confirm that the spell I used is still there. I can’t believe that fucker hid an antique book on the dirty floor.
Disgusting. That man truly has no morals.
For the first time in days, hope flickers in my chest. Maybe I just needed to be something other than human in order to summon her. It’s not like I can summon my murderer twice.
I’m not daft enough to think he’s the only demon in existence, but it’d be worth dealing with two of him for a chance to talk to my sister. It’s worth the risk and the potential price. Even if neither happens, maybe it’s the answer to undoing the link between us and freeing him from me.
And if the blush on the demon’s cheeks is any indication, he’s not going to be seeking me out anytime soon.
If I want to do the spell, I need to do it now, while he’s preoccupied and/or embarrassed. Can demons feel embarrassment?
Whatever. Not my circus, not my monkey.
Wait, shit, we’re basically in the same circus. Fuck my life.
I storm to the door and fling it open, fueled by sheer anger. You know what? Screw him. If we’re going to be stuck in this godforsaken place, there needs to be ground rules because he has another thing coming if he believes he can just shove me around and then jerk off in front of me.
I spent my entire life having crap thrown at me by my parents, and then I spent four years barely making ends meet while being reamed out by customers on an hourly basis.
Like hell am I going to let my undead life be the same.
Fuck complacency. Fuck submission. And fuck my parents for saying my personality is the worst thing about me.
If they thought I was bad before, they’ve seen nothing yet. The only difference between me and the prisoners that could go after them is that I’m behind a different set of bars.
Stomping up the steps lacks the same effect when my footsteps don’t make a sound. It’s for the best, lest I want to alert that fuckface to my plan. He’s gone to the effort of hiding the grimoire—I doubt he’s going to show his enthusiastic support about me doing another spell, even though I’m still struggling to wrap my head around the fact that it worked.
Sort of.
My attempt failed successfully.
I pause before Ella’s door. My corpse is in there. I’ve been… I keep staring at her—me. I’m not sure why my chest grows heavy every time I come near it. It’s like I expect to find myself walkingaround like nothing ever happened—or my body gone as if I’ve actually been real the past few days.
I take a deep breath, my movements slow as I step inside. And there I am, gray and blue and rotting. I keep expecting to find my body infested with insects or half eaten by rats, but I’m still the same lifeless lump of limbs and sinew. Untouched and unwanted by nature. I’m telling myself it’s the magic in this room that’s stopped that from happening, not that even pests find me unworthy enough to feast on.
Every time I see myself, I look a little different.
Yesterday, I stared at my milky, unseeing eyes for hours. The cold room can only do so much to hinder the course of decay and the smell I’m emitting. I’d nearly doubled in size from bloat, and my skin had turned a mossy green. Foam and blood had seeped from my perpetually open mouth.
Today, I’m unrecognizable, hidden beneath a white cloth I never placed. I can’t see my eyes or the state of my skin. I don’t know if the foam has made it onto the floor or if a lone fly has made its way into my organs.
