I turn the thick, frail book over, finding no words on the cover or back. It’s bound like any old book from the back of those study rooms in a library. I open it, and as I do, a picture falls out. Pausing to pick it up, I discover there are three polaroids on the ground, not one.
I frown as I lift them, peering at the picture in the first one. Grainy and dark, all I can make out is a bulky form and a canine’s grinning face. Unsettled, I moved to the next one, only to find it as obscure as the first except there are two people in it in addition to the dog. A middle-aged couple. The canine is looking at them. I flip to the last picture and it’s the body of a fish, but without the upper half. Only the tail, long, tapering to a slender end with two sweeping but crumpled fins, the black and white image just as uncanny as the other two.
Throwing the pictures in the garbage, I walk out of the bathroom with the book and head onto the upper deck to make sure there are no more surprises. Finding the area mostly untouched, I slip out my phone and finally text Mom.
You’re not going to like reading this, but…
I delete the message and start over, trying once more before deleting it again. Staring at the screen, I scrape my teeth across my bottom lip, wondering what to do. My parents are older than they used to be, and the house is still clean enough to have it done in a couple of hours. There was nothing to indicate real dark magic happened, only an attempt, and the mess it left behind.
I don’t want to be stuck here all afternoon. I sigh up at the sky.
Chapter 2
Circles of Summoning and Demonic Sigils
Grace
With the laundry running, condoms and paraphernalia swept up, and trash taken outside, besides the wiping and dusting, there’s only one more big task to take care of.
You see, renting a lake house like my parents’ isn’t without insurance. Any renter willing to pay the nightly rate to stay here also must sign a legal agreement that they will cover the cost of any damage to the property, or items inside, that might happen during their stay—magical or otherwise. So, if the red stain doesn’t come out of the carpet, it won’t be my parents who will pay for it. It’ll be deducted from the renter’s credit card that’s temporarily on file.
Sure, my parents have “lost” things over time but that’s the downside of renting out your property. Dad just laughs and calls himself a masochist. Someday I hope to have the same humor he has, the kind that only kindles after a long life of ups and downs.I just need a big up-up first before a big down… at least, another one.
I plug the steam cleaner into the outlet and roll the bulky machine toward the circle. Though the sweet smell remains, there’s far less of it, overpowered now by the crisp noon air coming off the lake. There are enough fluffy white clouds in the sky to keep the temperature perfectly temperate—a common brag of those who live or vacation at the lake during the summer.
Leaning down to turn on the steam cleaner, I flick the switch and gird my loins, then drive it straight into the circle. Releasing the water from the machine, the hum of it fills my ears as a clean lemony scent wafts up, replacing the rest of the cloying sweetness quickly. The red paint bleeds and spreads as the carpet soaks and I run the machine back and forth.
My parents came into their wealth before I was born, and sometimes I wish I’d known them before they had it. All my life I’ve been grilled to appreciate everything I have, what I’ve been given, and I do, fiercely, but it’s hard knowing I’ll probably never be remotely as successful as they are.
My mom knew who she was before she hit puberty. From the time she was just a kid, she stayed awake all night, asleep all day, always wanting to be under the moonlight. As for my dad, he was the son of a disgraced politician who moved to Cobbin Lake to get out of the limelight. The day they met, they fell in love, or so they’ve told me. Mom’s magic grew and she rose up in the leadership of her coven, and Dad started his own business. They’re still at both to this day, even though they’re technically supposed to be retired.
My eyes water and I reach up to swipe them with the back of my hand. It doesn’t help though, and when they water some more, I stop the machine and rub my sleeve over them, blinking the wetness out, thinking I must be crying. It’s like that onoccasion—sneaks up on me out of nowhere, a heavy, hopeless feeling that needs to work itself out through tears.
Wanting to get this over with, I try to stop only to realize I’m not crying at all. Something else must be wrong. Maybe the chemicals from the steam cleaner irritating my eyes?
With my left sleeve now soaked, I wipe them with my right as I head for the bathroom. But just as I reach the faded boundary of the summoning circle, an awful itch forms in the back of my nose and the uncontrollable need to sneeze overwhelms me.
I stumble backward several steps from the force of it, and water drains from my eyes as I scrub viciously at them with my shirt. Heading for the bathroom again, another sneeze overcomes me, and I find myself back inside the circle.
At least I think I’m back in the circle. I can barely open my eyes to look around.
Just as I’m about to focus on something through the blurry, stinging tears, an even more violent sneeze overtakes me, making my stomach wrench and my body bend forward, yet it still drives me backward.
“What the…!”I sneeze again.
Blinking rapidly, I pull my shirt off to mop up my face. This time I approach the outer edge of the circle slowly, sweat beading down my brow, my body racked from the sneezes. My bare feet shimmy through the faintest edges of the red, where the water has spread out the most, and just as my toes touch the diffused border, I feel a prickling in the back of my nose.
I take a quick step back.
“Help me—”comes a deep, rumbling voice from somewhere behind me.
I spin around. Wildly patting my eyes dry, I make out a large dark form on the floor in-between blinks. I throw myself backward only to end up violently sneezing my way forward again, toward it. “What the hell!” Suddenly angry and overeverything, I turn on the man—body—thing—that I can’t see because the excessive salty tears won’t let me. “I don’t know if this is your idea of a joke but screw you for putting pepper spray in the air! Who are you? What are you doing here?—”
“Stooop shouting,” the man grunts up at me. Just as I’m about to get a clear look at his face and why he seems so oddly shaped, my eyes cascade like a waterfall. I release a cry of frustration.
“I—Stop shouting?” I demand. “I’m trapped! And I can’t see you! My eyes…” My shirt’s soaked and—shit!I stumble back and turn around to throw my shirt on. “Who are you!?”
“That circle is not meant for your kind. It is meant for mine,” the voice explains. “The sigils you’ve broken are now wet. That is why your body is reacting against you.”
