“Show yourself!” I demanded.
I was sick of the games. I wanted her to face me; to confront the monstrous demon she’d always claimed me to be.
“Or are you too afraid?” It was my turn to taunt, voice mirroring the Devil’s. “You know I can’t kill you twice, right?”
A flicker of white flew past me, a barely visible apparition that descended the staircase before I could process what I had seen. I followed, quickly, floorboards grunting with every step.
In the centre of the living room stood a figure, a white mist emanating from within the faded chalk pentagram.
“Mother?”
“Augustus.”
The voice did not come from the figure standing in the circle. It came from behind me, urgent. Pleading.
I peeled my eyes away from the faceless mist and turned. The second my eyes landed on the solid figure standing at the top of the staircase, everything in me crumbled.
“You…” I breathed out, hand reaching to steady myself on the cold, dust-drenched railing. “It’s you.”
CHAPTER TWENTY
Rain chased me up the wide, uneven steps of Dawnridge University, brown locks glued to my forehead. Wet leaves clung to my shoes. Water soaked through my backpack. And, most gratingly, my brown woollen sweater had begun to secrete the distinct, earthy scent of lanolin.
I released a long sigh, gaze drifting up toward Dawnridge's towering spires, grey stone adorned with moss. Deep green vines crawled along the sculpted scholars that lined its walls, small cracks birthing hints of lichen.
A heavy wooden door, framed in a detailed arch, guided me inside. It groaned shut, condemning me to a damp chill that poured from its ancient walls.
Wet footprints coated the marble floor. They darted in all different directions as students and teachers flocked to their respective classes.
It was day one of a three-year bachelor’s degree in Psychological and Behavioural Science. A two-year post-graduate degree to follow, and then a doctorate—the end goal to be a clinical psychiatrist. It was a long and arduous journey, butI had one goal. To understand what happened to my mother, and what was happening to me. I was going to prove to myself that I wasgood,and thatI could achievegoodthings. I was not the Devil, and he was not me.
Nervous anticipation clawed through my insides, nausea bubbling up the closer I got to the lecture hall. I was early—half an hour, to be exact—so I found an unoccupied bench and sat down, legs bouncing wildly.
Wanting a distraction, I pulled out my phone and logged on to social media. Ava and I had not unfollowed each otheryet, so her post was the first to appear on my screen. She was standing in front of the Birmingham University entrance. According to her caption, she was studying Art and Design. Her smile was wide, joy pouring from her in endless waves. I debated liking the photo but continued scrolling instead.
We were both too stubborn to apologise, neither one of us willing to be the first to break. Perhaps we meant less to each other than we initially thought. It didn’t matter. I didn’t need her. I didn’t needanyone. I had Auden, and that was enough.
A notification from my manager, Edith Browning, lit up my screen. I clicked on the message, sighing as she asked whether I could work that afternoon. Knowing I had a full schedule of classes, I replied apologetically, explaining that my semester had begun and my availability had changed. When she didn’t respond, my stomach cramped with guilt.
Two weeks prior, when Auden and I first moved to Guildford, I applied for a job atBrowning Books,a small family-owned business selling second-hand books donated or sold by members of the community. It was only a ten-minute walk from the unit I rented, convenient since I had not gotten my driver’s licence and did not want to spend what little money I had on public transport more than necessary. Aunt Vera made it clear she would not be a bank.
Mr Browning, an elderly man dressed in suspenders over a white collared shirt and brown trousers, wanted to retire. His daughter, Edith, worked at the bookstore six days a week and required some part-time work now that her father would no longer be working alongside her.
She was a cheerful woman, with mid-length strawberry blonde hair that she often wore in a loose ponytail, her bright blue eyes always scouring for things that needed tending to in store.
A high school student named Penny could only work weekends and school holidays, so I was hired to offer Edith extra support.
It was a good job. On most days, it was just Edith and me in the store, sorting through recent donations and choosing which books to prioritise on the shelves. The store was not a large one. It had a small wooden counter near the entrance with a cash register as old as Mr Browning and a grandfather clock from the early nineteenth century. There were four aisles, with tall dark oak bookshelves on either side. General fiction, romance and literary classics were in aisle one, fantasy and science fiction in aisle two, young adult and children’s fiction in aisle three, and non-fiction in aisle four. Books that did not fit into these categories were scattered throughout.
Auden loved the bookstore. He visited often when I worked, not wanting to be in our new unit alone. Edith didn’t seem to mind when he took a book off the shelf and read it quietly at the counter while I served customers and repriced stock. He hadn’t been thrilled about the move, so having somewhere he grew to love likeBrowning Bookswas a good start to getting him adjusted.
Prior to the start of university, I was working every day from Wednesday to Sunday, but with university starting, my work hours were limited. I could only work Mondays, Fridays, Saturdays and Sundays. This was made clear to Edith prior tomy being hired, but still, guilt ate away at me the longer I went without a reply. I hated the idea of disappointing someone, especially with my history of doing so. I wanted Guildford to be a fresh start. A new beginning.
As it neared nine am, I rose from the bench and approached the lecture hall, teeth chattering, though not from the cold.
The outdoor gothic architecture had creeped inside, grotesque sculptures of bats and the undead hung above images of saints on the smooth, stone pillars holding up the arched ceiling.
Dawnridge University had not always been a school. In the early sixteenth century, it had been a Cathedral and home to hundreds of monks, priests and important Christian figures. The campus had of course expanded since then, with many modern buildings adjoining the original architecture, but its religious history was evident everywhere in the lecture hall. It was a reminder that God was watching me from the stained-glass windows.
