The Grimoire

Nan is late. Again. Not even death cures chronic lateness in some people.

I return to the horror story.

Heavy footsteps.

"Hand it over."

"I'm almost done."

"Now."

"Just wait a-"

"Do not test me today." I stand, his receding hairline barely reaching my chin. Basil's vein throbs.

"Fine."

Patriarchal prick.

A slick exit impedes further burglary as a newly-arrived catches Basil's attention, no doubt for the 'sorry for your loss' talk.

My pace dissuades would-be sympathisers. I'd rather bite my tongue off than have that conversation again. Into the pewter day, I seek shelter from the wind as it strives to strip my scalp. Don't want to look like Basil too soon. Or ever. Does baldness skip a generation?

The barren cemetery lacks even a hint of green, covered in browns and greys. Basil could spend weeks here and hardly make a difference. Of course, landscape gardening a cemetery was hardly his specialty.

I try not to tread on any names, but some are stuck far too close for any reasonable person to avoid.

Seeking shelter, I spy a hunched and decrepit mausoleum next to a withered tree, failing to hold onto its leaves.

Rushing to it, the mausoleum buffers me from the squall.

A great black door guards it.

I consider the door: dark wood, simple handle; bland, really. Like the rest of the cemetery.

I try the handle. It doesn't move. Not like a locked door doesn't move. Like a concrete wall doesn't move. It doesn't matter what I do, it doesn't budge, shake or rattle.

The door considers back. I shiver.

The frustration boils over and I throw a fist at the door.

Howling, I hold my hand. "Son of a b-"

"RAAAAAAARRRRGH!"

A snickering curly-haired tomboy appears, guffawing at my glare.

"Not funny." I stomp over.

"Naw." She pokes her tongue out.

I kiss it before she can retrieve it.

"Gross!" she shrieks and peppers me with her mock anger.

"I got you!" I sing as I retreat from the barrage, then catch her as she loses her balance, holding her to me.

Her panting warms my collarbone. The scent of her hair, finer than the whole of Basil's garden, rouses me. Peaches and strawberries. And her.

Perfect ivory teeth beam under her golden amber gaze.

"Saw you and your Dad. What happened between you two?"

Cold, I let go and walk off. The wind sulks to an inconsistent gale.

"Nothing."

"Hmmmmm." She follows matter-of-factly.

I glower at the grey of the day.

"Basil just uses any excuse he can to take what's mine. I work, I pay for my food, why does he still treat me like a child?"

"Hmmmmmmmm." I feel her smirk.

"Yeah, I know you're right."

"Didn't say anything."

"Losing your Mum sucks, I get that. I just wish he'd leave me alone.”

"MmmmmmHmmmmmm." Twinge of sarcasm.

I grab her. The hunger in her gaze rivals my own.

"Getting a lil' sick of that," I husk.

Frustration forgotten, the soft heat of her awakens a different passion.

"What are you going to do about it?" Her lashes dance.

Nan and Basil will have to wait another 10 minutes.

I nuzzle her collarbone as she pulls me beneath the tree.

I zip myself up and aid her de-leafing.

We pass the mausoleum door, and the red marking. I rub my knuckles.

"That temper's going to get you in trouble." Softer, "You could hurt someone."

"Hah! Basil's a prick, but I'd never touch him. Can't even beat a door," I joke.

"What about me?" Cin whispers.

Aghast, I embrace her.

"I would tear my heart out before I hurt you."

I hold her until I'm sure she believes me.

Hand holding, silent strolling.

"How much?" Cin wonders.

"$20,000."

"Not bad."

"Surprised Nan put me in at all." Shrugging, "Never seemed that interested."

"Probably because you're not that interesting."

My longer stride means nothing as her laughter outruns me back to the church.

Sweaty, I wipe my forehead.

Basil and Basil's vein glare at me. Whatever. Nan had only just arrived anyway.

I have to stoop a little as I'm a foot taller than Basil and the other four who help me lift the coffin.

I go to lay Nan down to her final resting place.

Or I try, except my hand is sweaty.

Honestly, if five people drop a body because the sixth one lets go for a second that's on them, not me.

And you certainly can't blame me if the coffin isn't sturdy enough that it can't take a three foot drop.

Basil's vein disagreed so much it had a baby.

Cin's amber eyes blazed as her fingers covered her shining smile.

‘Least we all got to see Nan again.

Folding her back into the coffin, she descends.

As we file back, I notice something.

The mausoleum's door. Ajar.

I'm compelled towards it.

Cin tugs. "We should go."

I squeeze her hand. "I'll be 5 minutes."

The door challenges me. I pull. It moves easily. Breezes have offered more resistance.

Bewildered, I peer into the room.

Pitch black, except for a single candle, drowning in its own wax. The open door provides no illumination.

Something's behind the flame.

Curiosity conquers caution. I step through.

The closer I get the heavier I feel, as if the room is pressing me, dragging me.

The fire offers no defence against the dark of the room. It just curls up, waiting to die. Behind the flame I see it. A little black book. The door slams. I start back but the book beckons me. I touch it. The torch flickers out; the world falls to shadow.

One yellowed eye opens. Another. Another. A dozen. A hiss behind my ear. I yell, fist swinging. The light flickers back.

Nothing there.

I run, but the pressure builds the closer I get to the door. Two more steps and my legs fail. My brain tries to squeeze through my tear ducts. Probing, my hands fall away red. I crawl back to the candle, back to the book. The agony subsides. I grab the book.

The light dies.

A breath on my neck.

Screaming I crash into the door, except it's not a door, there's no handle. Palms scraping, eyes useless, eyes everywhere, getting closer, fingernails tearing, where is it, faster breaths, hungry moans, slithering closer, there is no door, there is no door, where is the fu-

Light.

Nothing.

No breath, no slithering, no eyes.

I am outside.

The door is closed.

The black notebook snuggles my palm.

Horrified, I try to throw it away, but don't.

Confused, I try again, then realise I don't want to.

Nodding, I turn back, the book clutched.

I go to wipe my face but there is no blood. Only scratches on my hands. Bizarre.

Have I been reading too much Poe? Hallucinating?

Cin appears, reaching for my hands. I cringe away.

I can't let go of the book.

I try to make her understand but realise I don't.

Something's in my throat.

Basil tows me away before I can clear it.

The grunt of the engine and tut of the indicator fills the void.

It'll be a long drive.

"What've you done to your hands?" Basil gruffs.

I start to reply, but the mirror shows yellow eyes behind me.

I try to scream, but something's in my throat. Horrified, I try to throw the book, then remember that would be wasteful and that's not me.

Surely there are reasons to keep it.

There's certainly no reason not to keep it, unless we're counting a trick of the light in the window.

Write.

Write what?

Write.

I nod, eyes shut.

Basil's pride, his greenhouse, welcomes us with its beautiful colours. Every day, I marinate in the wonderful and exotic fragrances it offers.

Not today.

I fly through the door up the stairs to my room and lock the door.

A shout from outside.

For me?

No.

I place it on my desk. I was wrong. It's not a notebook, it's a-

Grimoire.

It purrs as I caress the cover, the smooth dark hide of some unknowable creature. Fine paper, pure white, tickles my fingers.

Write.

I write.

I don't know what I write. The words, if they ever were words to begin with, lose all meaning, all semblance of structure and character. I try to read what I’ve written, but it's in no discernible pattern or language I've seen: lines and shapes and images distorted and contrived and extraordinary in their inscrutability.

How many pages are there? How long have I written? Hours?

The Grimoire doesn't end. I'm running out of pens.

Thumping.

Coming from my door. Warily, I unlock.

A short red-faced balding veiny fellow looms.

“***-you-rea**-**-*ome-dow*-***-****-dinner?-**'s-been-ove*-*ix-days."

Cannot speak.

Relock door.

Thumping behind me as I return.

The Grimoire calls.

The pens in my room have run out. Abject terror. I run, tearing open cupboards and ripping out drawers and dumping all not-pens.

Ink.

I find pens. Abject joy.

An incessant bleating. The short veiny ape squawks at me. Louder and higher until-

Stop it.

It stops.

Something hanging on the wall rings and peals, driving glass into my ear drums. I stop it.

Inside the noxious room of too bright colours and shapes, I dump the no-longer-ringing next to the still ape.

The pens run out, all of them. Every one.

Ink.

I can't talk.

Ink.

I can't swallow .

Ink.

I can't breath.

Ink.

I can'- Ink!

I gargle, unable to rid the cloying gag stuck in my throat. INK! I grab it and pull INK! And gag and pull INK! and slam my teeth into my feculent flesh.

Agony. Ink.

Ecstasy. Ink.

Ink.

I have Ink. It gushes from my lips. So much Ink, and yet still not enough. I write and write and write and when the Ink, dries up I pick at my fresh swollen pen until it flows again.

I gaze with wonder as Ink drools on the paper. It lands on the page not as a drop or blemish, but as more indescribable formations.

I no longer feel pain. I no longer feel. I no longer.

Pounding, and screeching. It burns my ears.

I rip open the door.

A beast appears, blinding teeth and two orange eyes.

No.

Yellow eyes.

It reaches for me.

Utter horror. I try to run. It's faster than me. It holds me in its claws and screeches at me. A putrid stench of rotten berries and fetid fruit. It paws at my face, at my swollen pen.

Hit it.

I'm scared.

Hit it!

No. Something's wrong.

HIT HER!

I hit it. The monster shrieks. Again. I hit it. Again. It collapses. Again.

It's soft.

It whimpers. Crawls away.

Don't let her escape.

I don't.

Every page, inked. The Grimoire is finished.

All the pain and nightmare acts it concealed, overwhelm me. My ruined tongue, excruciating.

I scream at the Grimoire. I hit it. The ink drips. I claw at its skin, its muscle, its hair. Drips become gushes, then waterfalls as I tear and rip and crack it open, and find the throbbing centre and rend and mangle until the ink is no more.

Untouched, the Grimoire lounges on my desk. How? My hands are drenched in ink. Red ink. Flesh in palm. Hole in chest.

Suddenly I fall into a wall. Covered in red. I push away but it drags me down.

My chair and desk are upright, above me.

Not a wall, the floor. Someone’s on the floor with me.

Yellow eyes.

No.

Amber.

Oh, God.

Have to destroy the Grimoire. Have to make it pay. Straining, I try to drag myself up the desk.

My face hits the floor.

Rage.

It has to pay, pay for what it's done to me, and Cin. What it made me do.

Salt burns my eyes.

I reach one more ti-