Page 16 of Witch's Wolf

8-16-1991

I think it must be Dennis’s hand. A moment frozen in time, pressed between memory and decay. The simplicity of it, a date and a name, feels heavier than anything else in this shed.

Emotions war in my head. This isn’t just clutter or forgotten junk. This is her parents’ legacy. Their lives boiled down to boxes and a handful of mementos. Why has she left it all here, untouched?

The thought needles at me, and I don’t have an answer. I glance back at the door, half expecting Erica to be there, watching with her sharp eyes, daring me to say something, but she’s not. She’s left me alone with the ghosts she refuses to face. I stare around the shed, but this isn’t getting me anywhere. The memories embedded in these items aren’t mine to understand, and I don’t want to linger too long in someone else’s ghosts.

Moving back to the door, a box on the right wall catches my attention. It’s similar to all the rest, a faded cardboard cube tucked into the corner, but unlike the others, its top is sealed. I grab it and carry it to the table. There is bold writing on the lid.

For Erica’s eyes only.

Anticipation makes my skin tingle. Maybe I shouldn’t open this, but curiosity gnaws away any resolve I might have had to not invade her privacy too much. Besides, she gave me permission.

I pull out my pocketknife. The blade slices cleanly through the brittle tape, the sound sharp in the silence. The moment I pry the flaps open, an unexpected scent rises, rich and sweet, likechocolate melting into strawberries. It’s so vivid, so out of place, I pause, inhaling the warmth of it.

“Erica!” I call louder than I intended.

“What?” her voice carries from outside, sharp and impatient. A moment later, she appears in the doorway, her gaze shifting warily to the open box. “Did you find something?”

“You didn’t pack this stuff yourself, did you?” I ask, turning towards her and trying to keep my tone casual. Her eyes narrow, suspiciously.

“Yeah, sure. Seven-year-old me packed up all my family’s life and sealed it with tape. What do you think, Sam? No, I didn’t pack it. My grandma must’ve done it.”

“Your grandma’s gone?” I ask, fishing for answers I’m not sure I want.

Her expression softens, her gaze dipping to the floor.

“Three years ago.”

“Then it was her who didn’t want this opened by anyone but you,” I murmur, pulling two books from the box.

One is dark brown, its leather cover cracked with age. The other is pristine white, though its edges are tinged with yellow. There is a line of calligraphy on the cover of the white one that catches my eye with its deliberate and flowing elegance.

To my precious Erica.

Be blood and open.

I grab the white book and try to open it, but the cover doesn’t budge. It’s as if the pages are fused together. I try again, my fingers digging into the unyielding spine, but it doesn’t move.

“What? The big bad wolf can’t open it?” Erica asks mockingly.

“No,” I growl angrily. I tilt the book, looking it over before coming back to the cryptic message. The words taunt me, like a riddle. “This is locked… somehow. Maybe it’s a riddle? Give me your hand.”

“What?” she asks, taking a step back as she shakes her head.

“Trust me,” I say, voice sharper than I want, but frustration is making my temper short.

I take a hold of her wrist, her skin warm under my grip. She hesitates but doesn’t pull away. I guide her finger to the cover. The moment her fingertips brush the surface the book comes alive. A pink glow radiates from the point of contact and spreads. A web of light races across the cover. My breath catches, and for a moment, all I can do is stare.

“What the hell is that?” her voice trembles and she tries to jerk her hand back, but I hold it in place.

“Only someone with your mother’s blood could open this,” I murmur. “That’s what the riddle means.”

I press her palm to the book and the glow intensifies. The light crawling faster and brighter, until it engulfs the entire cover. When I release her hand and she jerks it back, the book falls open.

I flip through the first few pages. Nothing stands out, but I stop when I reach a list scrawled in the same handwriting as the cover.

Names of the oldest and strongest witch families around the world:

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