Inever thought a jar of spaghetti sauce would be my downfall.
Yet here I am in a standoff with a lid choosing not to budge. At this point, it has to be intentional. If it wanted to open, it would.
The mason jar sits on the counter, mocking me. The old lady on the front is laughing at my struggle. Granted, she's always laughing since she's literally a label, but it feels personal. Especially since I have no idea who she is. My mother slapped her on the jars without ever explaining who the old woman was to our family. I should have asked when Mom made the stickers for her canned goods. I doubt context would make me feel better in this situation.
“Bitch,” I mutter under my breath.
I've tried all the human ways to loosen it—the handle of a knife, hot water, a rubber gripper. I even borrowed a special can opener that's made for this purpose from a neighbor. It broke and now I need to buy a new one. I'm not exactly friends withsaid neighbor, and I'd hate for their impression of me to be borrowing shit I immediately break and never replace.
After all other tactics didn't work, I turned to the witchy ways. Not that I have a specific spell or potion to make this happen. Most of them revolve around intangible things. Opening a jar isn't exactly on the top of the list of spells to learn. In fact, I don't even know if it's possible.I could have gone out and bought some sauce and avoided all this, but it wouldn't have been the same. This particular jar is one of the remaining few from my mother's stores.
I press my lips together as my eyes alight on a book—thebook. The one I shoved on the shelf above the counter next to my recipes as if it’ll blend in and I’ll forget about it. It’s been handed down through the generations, from mother to daughter. I've read it many times, but I've never used any of the spells. Lessons on responsibility were drilled into me from a young age.
Being a witch wasn't something to take lightly. And the book was something beyond that. Until we had no other choice, we were to keep the spells unspoken. Until the need was dire, we were to leave it alone.
“This is a pretty dire situation,” I whisper. Spaghetti might not seem that important to others. To me, my entire week hinges on whether I can open my jar.
Before I can talk myself out of it, I rush to the bookshelf and tug the book from the shelf. My palm brushes over the embossed cover. The dark leather seems to suck the light into it—a perpetual black hole. My mother's warning brushes against the corners of my mind.Use with care, my dear. Everything with care. Except this—use these spells with caution.
I close my eyes and drop the book on its spine. Usually, I wouldn't treat a book with such disdain, but this is the only way it'll work. Pages flutter through the air and I hold my breath. I glance down when they fall silent and scan the page.
“Demon summoning?”
My bottom lip ends up between my teeth. I suppose a demon would be strong enough to open a jar. I wouldn't have to ask them to do anything nefarious. Surely, there's an easier way to do this. A spell or potion, though I'd rather not melt the damn thing. I hem and haw as I bumble around the kitchen, making tea. My eyes keep darting to the book.
As I sip my drink from my favorite mug, I contemplate the consequences. Magic always has a price. Sometimes, it's small—a few minutes of sleep or a twinge in the shoulder. Other times…
Other times it's a massive payment—death.
Never your own life, though. No, because of course it's not. Such is the way when dealing with magic. I used to think it was unfair. Now that I'm older, I understand the need to maintain the balance in the world.
Sighing, I set my mug down and slam the book shut. When I turn, I come face to face with the jar. Pages flutter behind me again and I spin. The book is open to the demon summoning once more. I scowl, curling my hands into fists before I march over and slam it shut again, then shove it back into its place on the shelf.I'm halfway to my mug when I jump about a foot in the air at the thundering noise behind me. I already know it's fallen from its place and is taunting me.
“Fine,” I snarl and grab the heavy tome.
I carry it into my spare room. It's supposed to be a guest room, but I turned it into my space for spell work. No use having a spare bed when I have no one visiting. Cauldrons, plants, and ingredients take over every available space. In the middle of the floor is an open area, and I set about drawing the summoning circle on the floor. It takes me longer than I want. I can’t remember the last time I chalked anything on wood. I was never very adept at it. The moon shines through the window by the time I'm done.
Sitting back, I admire my handiwork. It's not perfect, but it'll do. Which is probably the worst attitude to have when summoning a damn demon. It'll hold them, though, and that's all that matters.
I pull the book toward me and finish setting out the various candles and ingredients I'll need not only to get them here but also to send them back. The last thing I need is a demon hanging around randomly.
When I'm done reading the instructions for the third time, I realize I'm stalling. I could walk right out of this room and finish my tea and go to bed. Except I'll be plagued with dreams and insomnia. They'll take turns harassing me throughout the night. And I really want spaghetti. I rush to the kitchen and grab the jar, then hurry back in.
Snapping my fingers, I light the red candles around the circle. I pull in a deep breath before reciting the incantation. I expected them to be in Latin, but it's literally just speaking with intention.
“From the depths of Hell, I summon thee,” I say, my tone turning flippant toward the end, then press my lips together.
Nothing happens. The longer I wait, the more anxious I get. I've heard stories of other witches doing it wrong and the demon ends up in someone else's closet. Those tales never end well, but I thought they were fables to keep us from using the book. Now I'm wondering if I just set a demon loose on my quaint little town.
“Shit,” I mutter as I heft the book in my arms and scan the page.
I did everything right as far as I can tell. I drop the book, no longer caring whether or not it's actually damaged. Maybe none of the spells work and this was merely a ploy from my mother. She was so serious when she talked about it. Doesn't mean shedidn't have a wicked sense of humor. She's probably laughing at me from the grave.
Huffing, I grab the jar and make my way out of the room. As soon as I step into the hallway, the world goes dark and I freeze. What feels like an eternity later, the world rights itself and shadows wind their way around my legs. Slowly, I turn, all while trying to keep my breathing even as my heart attempts to burrow its way out of my chest.
“You summoned me…mortal?” The deep voice resonates in my body, making goosebumps explode across my skin.
When the smoke clears, I realize I may have fucked up. I've never seen a demon before. Sure, in pictures and shows, but nothing could have prepared me for what they're really like. The tinge of red in his skin makes sense, yet the black swirls embedded in his flesh are not what I expected. He towers over me, though I'm average height, which also makes sense. Actually, he's more human than I expected, despite the black horns and silver hair. Asking about the three-piece suit would be a very bad idea.
