Chapter One
Anguish.The energy surrounding this place reeks of it. A lonely cottage perched on a hill, a dark silhouette against a brooding sky. Arched windows peek through a covering of overgrown ivy, panes waxy with age.
My boss, Alaric, didn’t tell me much about this job. Only that the old couple who lived here recently died, and their family wanted the place cleansed of any negative energies left behind. Apparently, a Soul Wraith has been seen wandering the four walls.
Weeds claw at my ankles as I cross the wild garden. Their thorny fingers snag greedily at my tights, and a small nick sends a run up the side of my leg.
I curse under my breath. That’s another pair ruined. I’ll have to try and fix them in my room tonight, after my sister, Elara, has gone to bed. She’ll never let me hear the end of it if she finds out I’ve ruined my last good pair. We don’texactly have the money to replace them. Recently, we haven’t even had enough money for the heating.
The air around the cottage is thick. It’s like trying to breathe through a mouthful of dust, suffocating with the bitter taste of neglect. Half-empty milk bottles litter the porch, filled with murky rainwater and crusted with grime.
I retch as the smell of sour milk fills my nostrils. Quickly push open the front door and step inside. The floorboards groan, dust particles pirouetting through the air.
My rucksack lands on the floor with athud, and I rifle through it for a bundle of sage and a box of matches. Once lit, the sage crackles softly. Little orange embers eat away at the dry leaves until plumes of white smoke curl through the air.
I suppress a sneeze, inhaling the dust and the wisps of sage that envelop me as I crouch down to inspect the post. The floor is strewn with newspapers, piles of unopened envelopes and old copies of magazines.
Blooms & Roots Digest.Herbal Living Quarterly. One of the old residents must’ve been a Flora. I doubt they’d approve of the garden’s current state. Most Flora elementals wouldn’t be caught dead with weeds strangling their rose bushes.
The low sound of a hummed tune drifts towards me, and I look up. As if conjured from my thoughts, a tiny figure with white hair clutching a pair of knitting needles crosses the end of the hall, a half-knitted scarf trailing behind her on the dusty floor.
There you are, I think.Seems like an easy enough job.
The old lady stops at the foot of the stairs. Still humming. Knitting needles still clacking together. She has her back to me, entirely unaware of my presence. I tiptoe forward, trying not to startle her. But the floorboards are old and uncooperative.
The wood lets out a splintered whine. She doesn’t move. I take another quick step forward, feeling the hair stand up at the back of my neck. She’s almost within reach. There’s a force tugging at my skin, urging me towards her.
I give in to the pull, allowing my Emo senses to focus on the threads of energy surrounding the old lady. Forming around her. I reach out a hand.All I need is a single touch…
My fingers reach for the dangling end of her scarf, wrapping it around my hand and yanking it back. The old lady ducks and escapes the loop.
Her knitting needles clack against the floorboards, and she runs straight for the wall to her right, her small, hunched figure melting through it like it’s absorbing her.
The scarf evaporates in my grasp, leaving a stain of wispy black energy hovering in its place.
“For Aether’s sake…” I wave the stain away with smoking sage. It was an amateur move, lunging at her like that. I was too eager. They’re always faster than they look.
I fling the sage at the wall in frustration.So much for an easy job.My fingers trace the gritty surface of the wall through which the old lady disappeared. I follow it down the hallway until I reach a closed door.
The doorknob twists easily, and I take a deep breath. I throw the door open. A cosy kitchen stares back at me.
The wooden cabinets are weathered and worn, and crooked shelves showcase an array of jars filled with herbs, spices and mysterious colourful concoctions. Potted plants sit wilted on the sun-drenched windowsill, their leaves now dry and brittle. No old lady.
I approach a cauldron perched on the stovetop, recoiling at the sight of a murky, lumpy substance within. Its aroma is faint – dirt, mostly – but I still wrinkle my nose in distaste. Floras and their concoctions. If you ask me, the family will have a much harder time cleaning up this mess than a roaming demon.
Moving towards the shelves, I scan the collection of jars. The contents are mostly chalky and crystallized, but a small glass shaker grabs my attention – starbliss zest, a vibrant yellow spice known for its ability to amplify flavours.
I only know this because Elara has been gushing over it in some cookery catalogue for weeks. She would absolutely adore it, and it just so happens I’m yet to find her a birthday present. The glass shaker finds a home in the front pocket of my tunic, and I give it a satisfied pat before turning and surveying the rest of the kitchen.
Something stirs inside the pantry. This time, I don’t rush. I take my time, slowly approaching the wooden door. I throw it open. The old lady stands frozen with her back to me. Her shadow throws strange shapes against the shelves at the back of the pantry, twisting and writhingunnaturally. Its outline is sharp and jagged, a contrast to her rounder, plumper form, and it’s dancing and contorting like it’s trying to escape.
We’re both quiet. Motionless.
I close my eyes and try to focus on her bitter energy. I remind myself that I’m not facing an actual old lady, but a demon donning her face, born from whatever tragic, untimely death had claimed the old couple who lived here.
The old lady spins. I only see her dear, innocent face for a second longer before her skin pales and her wrinkles deepen, her irises turning dark as coals, shrinking like prunes as the Soul Wraith begins to reveal itself. The old lady stares at me, and then a cough shudders through her, spraying out a thick midnight-blue liquid.
I bring my hand to my mouth as the liquid trickles from her eyes and ears, carving a path down her neck and into the collar of her dress.
