“You can still enjoy one though! My phone says tonight is a full moon, so perfect creepy vibes for you to smoke weed and watch all your murder shows and movies.”
Full moon.
Shit. This is perfect.
I can head out back and go into the woods and maybe examine the grimoire a little more.
Now I’m excited.
“That sounds like the perfect night to me!” I gleefully say as I chassé around the kitchen.
“God, you are so weird. Don’t go joining a cult like the Keepers of the Mist or any crazy shit,” Jules jokes.
“You know, a cult could be kind of fun. Offering blood under the full moon in a chalice while chanting spells to the Dark Lord herself. Sounds like a good time if you ask me,” I smile.
“Alright well don’t do any of that without me! I gotta borrow your car. Is that ok?”
“Yup! Not going anywhere today. Here,” I grab my keys and toss them to her. She grabs her bag off my kitchen counter and kisses my cheek, “You’re the best!”
I follow her to my front door, carefully opening it with a flourish. “Chivalry isn’t dead after all,” she teases, shaking her chest playfully as she walks out the door. “If only you were into girls,” she adds with a mock frown, her eyes full of mischief.
I respond with an impish grin and give her a playful swat on the ass, eliciting a surprised squeal. “Dani, take me to dinner first, geez!” We both laugh, the sounds echoing in the quiet morning air.
As she climbs into my car, the engine hums to life, and I wave goodbye, cradling my steaming cup of coffee in one hand. I watch her drive away, until she disappears around the corner.
Turning back inside, I pause for a moment, inhaling the fresh, crisp morning air. I can already feel the heaviness of the impending rain, but I welcome it, knowing it will wash away the remnants of the night and usher in a new day.
I decide to clean my house. The interior of my home reflects a blend of simplicity infused with some Victorian vibes, plus a hint of bohemian flair that I absolutely adore.Plants hang in macrame netting from the corners on my walls, and books fill the living room walls. After my father died, I threw his shit out, only keeping a photo of him and my mother before I was born, when they were at their happiest, and then I painted the living room black.
He left me the house, a seemingly quaint relic of the past, somewhat haunted by unspoken memories. For reasons I could never entirely grasp, he clung to it with an unwavering tenacity. Perhaps it was the very walls that bore witness to the love my parents shared, a love that blossomed for eight beautiful years before my arrival cast an unexpected shadow over them.
I was the catalyst for the fractures that eventually tore our family apart.
My father always blamed me for my mother leaving, and this accusation burned deeply within me, fueling a resentment that prompted me to escape the confines of this place the moment I turned eighteen.
I sometimes entertain the idea that he willed this house to me as a form of retribution, a cruel reminder of the ties that I seemed to unravel. It was as if he knew my aversion to this home, yet something inexplicable held me back from putting it on the market.
Instead of sinking into despair, I took matters into my own hands. I began the daunting task of decluttering, tossing aside the remnants of a life I felt disconnected from, while breathing new life into the space by repainting the light colors to dark tones that resonated with my own style. Each brushstroke and decorative touch became a silent rebellion against the memories I could not escape, transforming the house from a prison of my past into a canvas of my present.
The mortgage is fully paid off, a significant relief that lifts a weight off my shoulders. After my father passed away, he left me a decent inheritance. While it’s not a fortune, it’s enough to cover my bills and support my unconventional work schedule. Thankfully, living in this town has itsadvantages; the cost of living is reasonable, making it easier to make ends meet without constant worry.
After a few hours of diligent work, I finally finish cleaning the house, the air around me fresh and invigorating. With a sense of accomplishment, I light my lavender candle and the gentle floral scent fills the room, soothing my senses. Next, I take my bundle of sage and begin to spiritually cleanse my home, feeling a wave of tranquility wash over me as the fragrant smoke dances upward, carrying any lingering negativity.
I go over to my couch, pull out the grimoire and necklace, and set them gently on the dining room table. The sounds of the sage smoldering in the kitchen fill the air, and I marvel at how robustly the sage burns today. It’s as if the spirits themselves have decided to join the cleansing ritual, urging me to create a space that is not just clean but also spiritually vibrant.
I begin carefully flipping through the pages, reading some of the incantations and translating some of the Latin. I turn back to the page with the three men; their gazes meet mine once again and heat radiates through my body as if I’m being summoned by them.
It’s the strangest feeling.
My fingers glide over the faded ink, tracing the ancient Latin words hidden by time. I immerse myself in their meaning, the soft rustle of my paper accompanying the quiet of the room as I jot down each decipherable fragment.
The text feels charged with a sense of mystery; it resembles a spell, drawing me deeper into the cryptic language.
Hours slip away unnoticed as I passionately translate the arcane script into English, my heart racing with a mix of excitement and trepidation.Summoning Spell of the Triad. An electric thrill courses through my veins—this page is a summoning spell.
I meticulously record the rest of the incantation, transforming each Latin syllable into its English counterpart. A subtle unease unfurls within me when I recall the stipulations outlined on the first page: the spell can only be wielded beneath the full moon and within the embrace of the woods. How peculiar that I inhabit a forest, that a luminous full moon hangs in the night sky, and that I stumbled upon this grimoire just in time...
This is no coincidence; it feels as if fate itself has interwoven our paths. With pen scratching eagerly against my journal, I commit every detail I’ve uncovered to memory, my mind racing with possibilities as I wait for midnight.
