Page 67 of Cursed

“Please,” I whispered as the pages turned without my help. I set the dagger down on the vanity and ignored the drops of blood that fell onto the wooden surface as I snatched up a piece of clean linen and wrapped it around my arm to staunch the bleeding.

Frustrated, I set my hands to the pages and turned them myself, searching for something—anything—that might lead me to her. The grimoire throbbed beneath my fingertips as though it were feeding off my fear and desire.

“Show me what I need,” I urged. I could sense something shift in the room, and when I glanced up, it seemed that the shadows in the corners of my room had stretched and curled toward me, as if they too were straining to glimpse what lay within those forbidden pages.

The grimoire seemed to respond - the whispers in my head growing in intensity as I moved through its monstrous illustrations and arcane symbols.

As I turned another page, a strange force gripped my wrist and held it tight.

I let out a gasp of surprise, and then pain as my fingers turned pages without my consent—and then stopped. The force dragged my fingertips down the page, smearing the blood-red ink as they traveled, and then stopped.

“Shade Summoning?” I read aloud hesitantly.

The drawings were simple enough to follow—a circle of bone dust or salt, and the symbols I would need to trace around it to complete the summoning.

An item—a personal item.

But everything my mother possessed had been taken from the room on the day she’d died.

On the day I had found her dead in the bathtub.

I swallowed hard and blinked away the tears that stung my eyes.

I could do this… I had to do it.

I lifted the grimoire and cradled it against my chest as I walked into the bathroom.

The scene of the crime.

I laid it down on the marble tiles and walked to the bathtub.

I needed a bowl of still water—the claw-footed tub would have to do.

I put in the stopper and turned on the water.

As it gushed out of the tap, the noise filled my ears and drowned out the grimoire’s whispers—blessed silence—but it wouldn’t last long.

I loosened the bandage around my arm and bit down on my lip as I squeezed the fresh wound to bring blood to the surface once more. This time, pain radiated from the cut and my breath hissed through my teeth as blood dripped down my fingers and onto the stark white tiles.

I fell to my knees and sketched out the circle, finger-painting with my own blood, and then drew the arcane sigils to mimic the drawing in the grimoire’s ancient pages.

I skidded across the floor to the grimoire and read the requirements of the spell again.

My hand was slick with blood, but I couldn’t be bothered with re-bandaging my arm.

I would need it again.

I pulled the book closer and my blood soaked into the page. The symbols grew brighter as it soaked into the pages, and I gritted my teeth as my arm throbbed.

Salt— I didn’t have any salt, and I didn’t want to ask for any. I didn’t want anyone to know what I was doing.

Scented bath crystals would have to do.

I scrambled to my feet and stumbled across the tiles to the edge of the tub. I turned off the water and grabbed a packet of scented salts.

I ripped open the package and sprinkled the salt over the circle I’d drawn in blood around the tub.

“Good enough,” I muttered.

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