Page 7 of Fallen Angel

She fanned the books out on the desk. A symbol or etching of some sort peeked out from beneath the others. She shimmied it out, careful not to tear its soft binding. This one was flimsy and handwritten in old script. Hannah’s skin tingled.

She blew the dust off the cover. The symbol was a scale that balanced two unfamiliar sigils. Her temples pulsed as the image flared across her mind, like a fleeting memory. It appeared more vibrant than its appearance on the manuscript; one of the sigils glowed white, and the other throbbed behind shadow.

Hannah couldn’t identify why the symbol felt familiar. She gasped and clutched her head, shaking the image away. Though Hannah assumed these flashes were a symptom of her PTSD, she didn’t always know what triggered them.

Hannah took a photo of the symbol, zooming in on the details with her phone. She carefully opened the book and read the first lines:Magic can be gracious, vengeful, rewarding, punishing. Depending on the intention of the spell, the caster may owe magic gratitude, commitment, or blood. Some magic is love, some is hate, and some is indifference. The greatest knowledge we have of magic is that it is unknown.

Through Hannah’s brief studies and exploration of religion and mysticism, she had never come across a passage like this one. Most known cultures believed their mysticism to come from somewhere—a god, a mythical creature, the earth—but this seemed to insinuate that magic was an entity unto itself; that magic was personified in some way.

She continued to peruse the manuscript and came across a passage that stated:For a witch who breaks the cycle of his/her own spell or curse may face the consequences of committing themselves to that fate.

Hannah assumed this text must be Wicca or a magical sect of paganism. Though she continued to flip through the book, she couldn’t seem to find an origin—year, location, or even an author.

The handwritten manuscript appeared more like a personal journal than an academic document. And for that reason, it sparked her interest even more. As her fingertips brushed the brittle pages, her nerves stood on end. It was a feeling that Hannah recognized, and she was dangerously close to backsliding into old ways. She couldn’t allow herself to obsess like she did after her parents died.

She closed the manuscript. This was research. A homework assignment. Nothing more.

She gathered the books to take with her, but noticed a small plaque on the inside of the door that read, “Due to the age and condition of books in this room, they may not be checked out of the library.”

Hannah scoffed and neatly piled the books on the small desk. She doubted anyone else would be in this room for a while, so she didn’t see an issue with leaving her stack as it was.

She placed her hand on the doorknob, but paused. The hairs on her arms and neck pricked on end.

H-a-n-n-a-h…

She whipped her body around to locate the voice, but no one was there. It was louder this time, almost like someone stood directly behind her.

“Who’s there?” Hannah demanded, her voice raspy with fear.

No one answered.

She raced out of the room and slowed her steps as she descended the spiral staircase, trying to maintain composure. She knew the voice wasn’t real. It couldn’t be. Every couple of steps, she forced herself to suck in a deep breath. She reached the main floor and noticed that the natural light streaming through the windows had dimmed. Only the eerie glow from the yellowing bulbs illuminated the floor. The wall sconces flickered.

Edwin sat behind the circulation desk, consumed by a book wrapped in protective plastic covering.

Hannah rushed past the desk.

He lifted his head. “Did you find everything all right?”

She nodded, glancing over her shoulder.

H-a-n-n-a-h…

She startled at the noise. It was fainter now—as if the voice resonated from deeper within the library.

“Did you hear that?” Hannah asked Edwin, no longer trying to control the panic on her face.

“Hear what?” he asked, his tone bored.

She waited another moment and listened for the whisper, but the open space was silent and still. She inhaled through her nose, closed her eyes, and exhaled as she shook her head back and forth.

Edwin surveyed her as if she was a little deranged. “You all right?”

Hannah nodded. “Must be hearing things,” she said, gripping the strap on her bag and shoving it farther up her shoulder. She tucked a curl behind her ear and nibbled on her lower lip.

“It’s an old library. Things creak and moan. You get used to it.” He shrugged, picking up his book.

Hannah nodded and relaxed her shoulders as she walked through the detector, toward the library door. Her blood pumped, and her skin prickled. Hannah knew that if she didn’t get herself under control, she would spiral.

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