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Aunt Aletha's Infernal Legacy

The Little Black Book Challenge

By Rebecca Rose VassyPublished 3 years ago 10 min read
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photo by Mike Haufe on Flickr; used with a Creative Commons license

Most people remember Aletha Magritte from a lurid episode of a spooky-mysteries show on basic cable, a woman of sixtyish sporting a pink pixie with rhinestone glasses too round for her face and a Muppet pelt coat. A woman who walked out of the elevator in a haunted hotel, past the grainy eye of the security camera, and seemingly out of existence.

For me, Aunt Aletha’s the woman who re-shaped my reality with two dollars and eighty-five cents’ worth of postage.

It was months after we’d given her up for dead, when I’d done all my crying for her. I trudged home through old February snow melting into my worn-out shoes, up too many flights of stairs in a building too old to have to care about elevators. The manila envelope in my mail was damp and had a muddy footprint on it.

At least it wasn’t marked “Final Notice”.

I should have known it was from Aletha—the envelope was bigger than the contents, clearly re-used, and sealed with three rounds of duct tape as if that would prevent someone from just ripping it open in another spot. Like I was doing right now.

A single item fell into my lap. It was…plain. Small.

Just a slender saddle-stitched notebook with a black paper cover, the kind you take to Starbucks when you hope the cute barista asks what you’re working on so hard.

(She never does.)

I flipped through the pages, and something fluttered out. A postcard, or rather an index card from Aletha’s obsessive supply, collaged on one side with magazine bits and googly eyes. I flipped it so they wouldn’t see the sudden shimmer blurring my vision.

Dearest Wendy,

I hope this reaches you as I intended. Things got interesting for me, if it did. Use it well and it will change your fortunes.

No goodbyes, you know I hate them. But I love you.

Eternally,

Aletha

I opened the notebook cover. Whatever she meant, I could use some fortune-changing at this embarrassingly unaccomplished point in my life.

There was no heading, no instructions. Just a list, in Aletha’s unmistakable printing.

Names. Strings of numbers. Each line marked with stars and symbols.

I shook the envelope, but it was empty. I flipped through a few more pages; it was more of the first.

The names were strange. Nicknames? Some had no vowels. Abbreviations? Were the numbers phone numbers?

I tried to recall if I’d ever seen Aletha with a date. Or a partner. No—she’d always shown up everywhere alone. For that matter, what had she ever done for a living? I’d assumed she was in some kind of early retirement, or had a trust fund. She always seemed to have enough money, but I’d never heard her talk about, you know. Having a job.

My fingers traced the weird names. Changing fortunes. Aletha lived by her own rules and had long since sown the last damn she had to give.

Were they…?

I had to admit I was intrigued. There was a whole other side of her in this book, and you know what? If Aletha was a sugar baby or an escort, then good for her.

Just to see, I dug out my phone and tried the first number in the book. It was the right number of digits for a phone number, but the squeal and beep told me that it wasn’t an active one, at least.

I stayed up too late that night, lying in bed with my ancient cat Humphrey hogging most of the mattress and purring in his stuttering rusted way, as I turned page after page and tried to make sense of it. Once in a while, a page was taken up by a sketch, but they were all abstract. They reminded me of geometric proofs, from my murky memories of the high school math courses I’d struggled not to fail.

The next day, I slept through my alarm one time too many. No more job for Wendy. Thanks for playing.

I’d put the notebook in my purse and I took it to Starbucks for a consolation-ccino purchased with the last ten bucks on the gift card that same employer had given me as a Christmas bonus. The barista wrote “Fanny” on my cup.

When there had been only dregs left for longer than I could justify taking up a table, I glanced up towards the shadow that fell across the page, guilty smile at the ready.

“Fascinating reading?” The barista smiled back, ignoring my empty cup as she swept a crumpled napkin into the dustpan. I named her Fanny in my head out of spite. “Something you wrote?”

“No…something I’m trying to figure out.” I don’t know why I felt the need to show the page to her. “This is a little black book, literally, right? Phone numbers and star ratings?”

Fanny looked over my shoulder. “That’s one hell of a date, if it is. Like actual Hell.”

“What?”

“Well, that’s the name of a demon. So’s that one. And that one.” She pointed them out.

It was like the entire page came into focus. “Do I want to know how you know that?”

“Just the useless knowledge of a former teen goth.” The ink peeking out of her shirt collar and the silver pentacle dangling over it said otherwise, but I didn’t press.

Instead, I flipped to one of the geometry proof pages. “And this?”

She leaned closer. She smelled like coffee beans and sandalwood oil. “Probably a diagram of the summoning circle. You stand here, in this circle. And you put the demon’s sigil here, in the circle with the triangle. That’s where they’ll appear when you call it.”

“And—then what?”

“Depends on the demon.” She shrugged. “Usually, you bribe them and if it’s good enough, they’ll give you stuff.”

I shivered. “A bribe like, selling my soul?”

She turned her head, looking at me from under her lashes, and grinned. “Yeah, sure. That's adorable. Let me know how it turns out, if you’re not a soulless husk.”

“I’m not going to—” But she was hurrying back to the counter to take an order.

Maybe someone else would’ve made another choice. Burned the book and salted the earth. Gone to church. Thrown it out and laughed it off.

I’m just saying, I’d been fired. I wasn’t in my right mind and I had all the time in the world to Google the names on the list and sit around my living room for three days trying to get the chant and the numbers of the sigil right.

Shax, a Grand Marquis of Hell, showed up around ten on Night Three. I’d moved my beanbag chair into my conjurer’s circle and was nodding off with Humphrey in my lap.

“I’m sorry, is this boring you?”

The voice was gorgeous, like church bells and singing bowls. But he looked annoyed. Probably. I wasn’t sure what “annoyed” looks like on a giant pigeon-man with an eyeball necklace.

I scrambled to stand, failed, and splayed back in the chair while Humphrey bolted and my snacks spilled on the floor. “No, I just, I mean—I’m—” I combed my hair with my fingers. “Uh—hi. Shax?”

He looked at my nightshirt, my stripey knee socks, my shabby living room. Sighed. “Once upon a time, they dressed for the occasion. How did you get this number, anyway?”

I was still trying to get out of the chair. “Never mind that right now.”

“Take your time there.” Could the song of water falling on crystal sound sarcastic? It did.

Finally I was on my feet, brushing off my hands and facing an actual demon. We stared at each other.

I tried to think of something to say. “So. Welcome? Can I uh, can I get you…a drink?”

The pigeon head quirked to one side. “Are you trying to make me an offering?”

“Oh. Right. Um—I mean, sure, I could do that. I didn’t think I’d…get this far.” I looked around the room. “Is there something you’d like?”

His eyes gleamed, a flash of infernal brightness. “Got pizza?”

Fortunately, the jumbo slice joint down the street delivered until midnight. I ordered two pies because Shax was vegetarian and I was in the mood for pepperoni. “Get garlic knots!” he called after me.

“That’s a lot of bread.”

“I haven’t been summoned in a while. Give me a break.”

“Fine. One order of garlic knots, please.”

I put on music while we waited. Shax liked old-school country. Johnny Cash, early Dolly Parton. “She’s a treasure.” He closed his eyes and bobbed his head in time, then looked at me. “Okay, down to business. What is it you want? Horse stolen? Someone’s eyeballs taken?”

“God, no!” My gaze fell on the book. “She said I could change my fortunes if I used this. She didn’t say how.” I held it up, flipped through the pages. “My Aunt Aletha.”

“No way! You’re Aletha’s niece?”

Hope fizzed in my chest. “You know her?”

“Honey! We all do.” He paused, eyes going to memory, and laughed, shaking his head. A sound like a summer night in the woods. “Quite a gal. Good times.”

“What happened to her?” I could barely breathe.

“You tell me. The rumors are wild over here, though. For my money, she’ll be Queen of Hell inside of a millennia.”

The pizza arrived. It cost more than I expected, with my usual overly-generous tip. Shax saw me wince. “Everything okay?”

“Yeah, no, it’s fine. It’s fine. I just—I got fired this week, so. You know.”

“Ugh. The worst. Want to talk about it?”

I found that I did. We tore into pizza and garlic knots and box wine, and I told him all about it. The long hours, the crappy pay, the constant criticism, and yet now the fear of being un-hireable in this small-world industry I’d worked so hard to break into.

“Wait.” He held up a feathered hand. “Are you telling me you didn’t get any overtime?”

“I was salaried.”

He was shaking his head. “Oh no. No, girl. What you’re describing is clearly a non-exempt position and if you didn’t get overtime, that’s just plain and simple wage theft. That’s just not right.”

“I mean, what am I supposed to do about it now?”

“Another slice, please. And some paper and a calculator, if you don’t mind.”

He wolfed down the slice while he wrote, making me recount how long I’d worked there, my pay rate, and my average overtime.

“Here’s what you’re going to do. Tomorrow, you call this number. He’s a labor rights lawyer and he owes me. You tell him I sent you, and to squeeze those bastards for every penny he can get you. They’ll try to settle. Don’t let them go lower than this.”

I looked at the page he handed over and the breath went out of me.

He’d written in big bubble letters: $20,000.

Shax wagged a finger. “Get. Yours. Girl. Okay? Listen to Uncle Shax, it’s all going to be just fine.” Again that infernal glint when he smiled. “Shaking down kings is kind of my thing.”

“So is HR law, seems like.”

He shrugged. “Best way to do it.” He slapped his knees and stood up. “All right. Don’t want to overstay. But it’s been a true pleasure.” He looked at my television. “Hey—what streaming services you got?”

“What—" The lightbulb went off. “Do you—want to come back sometime and watch something?”

“I mean, if you’d be into it? Next pizza’s on me.”

I smiled. “Extra garlic knots next time.”

It’s nice. We watch house hunter shows, and he tells me the latest gossip about Aletha’s adventures through the underworld with her demon lover. I get advice on the business I started with my $20,000 settlement.

Oh, and sometimes Fanny (actually Marin, but Fanny’s our in-joke name) joins us. She still smells like sandalwood.

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About the Creator

Rebecca Rose Vassy

Writer. Performer. Force of nature.

If you like what you've read here, follow me at https://divanations.com

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