I squat down, examining the spot. Lost in my thoughts, I wonder why he really shot them. What drove him to pull the trigger? What drove him to that harrowing moment when he chose violence over words? His son was only 12 years old...
“Almost done, rookie?” Spencer’s voice cuts through the silence like a sudden crack of thunder, jolting me from my concentration. I jump, almost falling over, and instinctively reach out to steady myself. One hand finds the cool, textured surface of the wall while the other grips a loose floorboard that creaks under the pressure—a reminder of the old structure’s age and wear.
“You startle easily... hurry up with this; I can’t leave until you’re done since I’m in charge here. I’m going to pack everything up and expect you to be finished and have all your shit put back by the time I come back here. Got it?” His tone is harsh, he’s clearly annoyed.
If he wasn’t such a dick, he’d be incredibly good-looking. Spencer never fails to rub it in our faces that he is in charge...
“Aye, aye, Captain!” I joke, saluting him with my middle finger. He rolls his eyes and walks away. Spencer isn’t my boss, just my superior, so I have no problem being a bitch to him.
I quickly return to work, scrubbing the last little blood spot from the floor. I examine my work, making sure I actually get everything cleaned this time.
I push myself off the ground and I can’t help but notice that loose floorboard again. I push on it and realize no nails are holding this board in place. Something catches my eye—the faintest glimmer of light escaping from between two floorboards.
My body starts to hum, and I’m not sure if I’m about to faint. Curious, I put my brush down in my bucket, remove my mask and gloves, and wipe my brow, glancing around to ensure I am alone. I pry at the loose board with my fingers until it creaks ominously and pops free. Dust billows up around me as I lean closer, my heartbeat quickening.
“What the hell is this?” I whisper to myself.
A dusty, black, leather-bound book is nestled in the shadows beneath the floor. Its cover is worn and cracked, and the title is barely legible.
I open the book. The sound it makes when I flip open the front cover is like a jaw cracking open from a deep sleep. “Latin?” I whisper to myself, the word hanging in the air like an echo of a forgotten memory. My grasp on the language may be somewhat rusty, but the word “Grimoire” stands out boldly in English on the book’s front cover, its faded letters almost beckoning me closer.
A thrill of intrigue surges through me and ignites a spark deep within my core, causing my senses to tingle and come alive as if the very essence of the book is coaxing me to uncover its secrets.
I am always captivated by the mystical and the enigmatic, yet this feels profoundly different—this is an invitation to delve into the shadowy depths of the arcane, something undeniably dark and alluring, waiting patiently for someone brave enough to explore its mysteries.
I laugh to myself. I can be so dramatic. It’s just a fuckin’ book.
With deliberate care, I lift the ancient grimoire from its concealed spot, shaking off the fine layer of dust that has settled like a cloak over its surface.
As the leather cover comes into view, I am fascinated by the designs embossed upon it—swirling spirals and cryptic symbols that seem to pulse with an energy of their own.
My fingers, tingling with anticipation, glide over the contours of the ornate patterns.
As I prepare to replace the creaking floorboard, something else catches my eye in the dim light filtering through the floor.
Curiosity piqued; I swiftly dip my hand into the dusty earth that lies beneath the wooden slats. My fingers brush against a small, oval object, and as I grasp it, I realize it’s a necklace. It feels cold and oddly heavy in my palm.
I pull it out, the chain glinting momentarily as it emerges from the shadows. A plume of dust dances in the air as I blow gently on the pendant, sending a cloud swirling before me. I cough reflexively, the fine particles irritating my throat.
As I gently wipe the dust from the pendant, my thumb reveals a sumptuous red gem at its center. Deep like spilled wine, the ruby is surrounded by tiny, glittering diamonds that catch the light. The tarnished gold chain, though aged, exudes elegance with its knottily woven links, holding stories of the past. The gem seems to pulse with a life of its own, mirroring my heartbeat.
A strange warmth radiates from the necklace, resonating with an energy that feels both foreign and familiar. It’s as if the necklace and I are intertwined in an unspoken bond, connected by something deeper than mere chance.
I laugh again and shake my head. There I go, being dramatic like some low-budget romance movie you’d watch on daytime TV.
Casting a cautious glance toward the front door, I ensure that Spencer remains oblivious to my transgressions—a surge of rebellious exhilaration courses through me as I swiftly return the board to its previous spot.
I dart across the room to my bag perched on the counter, and with trembling hands, I carefully slide the grimoire and necklace into the bag’s depths, feeling as though I’m sealing away a powerful relic from a world that has long since forgotten its dark knowledge.
I wipe the sweat from my forehead with the back of my hand, feeling the dampness cling to my skin. The oppressiveheat wraps around me like a thick blanket, and I can’t shake the discomfort of the protective gear I’m wearing.
Damn.I’m sweating like crazy. I hate wearing this heavy shit.
I gather all my tools and remove my protective gear. Before I leave, I glance at the floor one more time to ensure I placed everything back correctly.
“You, uh, heading to the Irish pub? I was thinking about meeting everyone there.” Spencer asks as he runs his hands through his thick sandy blonde hair. Hair that I used to envision myself pulling while I screamed out his name...
His dark brown eyes dance with amusement, and I fight the urge to keep eye contact with him. Spencer has never been friendly with me before.
