Chapter 14
September rolled toward an inevitable end, and the chill worsened as October rushed at me like a brick wall.
The essence of winter dragged across the campus, fog and gray gloom and sleet crushing Kilbride with a deadening chill.
I was constantly annoyed by the state of the weather, but it had simply become the dreary background to my new life.
I felt like I was going insane, though the logical side of me sustained that monsters weren’t real.
Perhaps the university really would devour me. I could already feel the slow consumption taking bites of the edge of my mind, nibbling away at the meat of me.
And dreams… my dreams… they were sapping the energy from me. Night after night, dream after dream, moving shadows and voices in the dark. The sound of an owl hooting in the woods made my skin crawl.
Though the lack of sleep gave me more time to work on my assignments.
With everything happening in my life, it must be the stress corrupting the chemicals in my brain.
I couldn’t concern myself with delusions when I had a thesis to write and assistant hours to keep up with. Hours, and hours, and hours.
Hours.
There were so many hours in a day. And they were, all of them… lonely.
Except when I was with Professor Quinn.
After the first awkward week passed, we settled into a noticeable routine.
He never mentioned what his daily strides were before, only adapted to accommodate me into the fold.
I met him at his office at the agreed upon times.
Professor Quinn silently handed over my work for the session: grading assignments, editing coursework, or building from his existing lesson plans.
And his presence provided a sort of agonizing company.
Not that he was cruel or demanding, but because it seemed neither of us knew what to say to one another half the time. Within the unspoken boundaries laid between us, his was the company that alleviated my loneliness.
We seemed to simultaneously come to the same conclusion that whatever chemistry ignited each time our obits crossed endangered the precarious line of a student and teacher’s relationship.
Sparks when hands accidentally brushed together over his desk, lingering stares when the other wasn’t looking, an incessant pool of warmth building in my stomach the moment I crossed the threshold into his office.
There was only so long I could endure the sight of his forearms when he rolled up his sleeves before gnawing off my bottom lip.
So, we only ever spoke about the bare minimum.
I don’t accept late assignments.
Can you clarify your grading rubric here?
Do you mind leading my office hours this week?
Hand me that pen.
Nothing of substance. Not since the first meeting.
At any rate, I might have said the stints of stillness in between conversations were companionable.
Two people who understood the language of silence, caged within the warm confines of his cozy, isolated office.
Time stretched thin and sweet, like molasses, glueing us together.
Cloying, saccharine and bittersweet in the back of the throat.
There was an understated intimacy hidden in those shared hours.
I sat in the same seat as the first visit, sharing his desk space. Close enough for our feet to occasionally bump together underneath. If his sharp leather loafer stayed connected to the toe of my boot, only the shadows bore witness.
The tension ran so high that by the conclusion of each shift my panties were soaked through. It was a miracle I hadn’t left a permanent wet spot on the chair by the end of our first month working together. Between the physical frustration and sleepless hours, my vibrator could barely keep up.
Exhaustion often led to poor choices. I didn’t want to dream of beasts or birds. I didn’t want to dream at all.
When caffeine and orgasms couldn’t keep me awake, like a junkie seeking thrills, I sought out Moth, Niffy, and Talon.
For distraction and entertainment, sure, but that part of me that longed for friendship kept me going back for more.
Whatever dangers the professor tried to warn me of didn’t exist within their little trio.
I’d hardly consider grabbing a few drinks at the bar dangerous. Not by any stretch.
They were simply… odd.
Strange comments I didn’t understand and jokes that went over my head weren’t uncommon for me.
Learning their social cues and body language each weekend helped me maneuver my piece on the gameboard.
I wanted to overcome my frequent relationship challenges but could only afford so much of my attention on masking myself into the person they wanted to be friends with.
It was easy to sit with them in a crowded bar, drink in hand and palm sweating from the glass’s condensation, arm resting on the residually sticky surface while they volleyed conversation back and forth.
Classes, students, professors, obscure media and indie music.
It was easy for me to escape into my mind and watch them interact.
Several times Moth asked for my opinion on a subject I had no experience with, and they laughed and moved on.
I flushed hot and red before melting into the safe confines of my daydreams and spiraling thoughts.
They didn’t seem to mind that I had difficulty focusing or sustaining attention on their favorite topics.
Most times I felt like an ornament, or a useless fourth leg, to them. It didn’t matter. Not really. As long as I wasn’t alone and they didn’t bring up my family, I’d continue seeking out their company.
It was Saturday evening, and I hadn’t yet heard from the trio about meeting up.
I tapped my pen on the edge of my laptop, listening to the rhythmic click of plastic on metal mimicking the seconds passing.
Being forgotten for a meetup didn’t bother me as much as being alone in the house for too long.
Hours, and hours, and hours—every little groan of the house creaking and shifting made me flinch.
I slammed my pen onto my notebook then closed the laptop.
My thoughts were dizzying, and there was no way I’d be able to study under the incessant spiraling and jitters.
The familiar warmth of my grandfather’s study only went so far to comfort me.
The atmosphere hugged me close, and draped me in a soothing sense of nostalgia.
In the confines of my only sense of safety, I craved the blessed escape of sleep.
But outside the barricade of the book-laden shelves, the floors creaked, and the overgrown hedges battered the exterior walls.
Panic increasingly threaded through my veins, and the ever-present background sense of dread provoked urgent restlessness.
I shifted in the wingback seat and tugged at my collar even though it wasn’t touching my neck.
The rattling outside grew louder as the evening wind howled a haunting tune, sharper and sharper.
Skritch-crack. Skritch-crack. Skritch-CRACK.
Heart thundering, I jumped from the chair. Too fast. My hip banged into the corner of the desk. Pain radiated through me, and I doubled over.
“Fuck…shit!” I hissed through my teeth, collapsed on the floor and curled around my aching hip. My whine broke into a pitiful whimper. I rolled onto my back, sprawled across the rug like a pathetic rag doll and feeling properly sorry for myself.
How did I end up in this mess?
I should have been in England. I should have been finishing my degree at Oxford.
And I wanted to be with my established friends, who I didn’t need to mask around.
Never in my life did I think I would genuinely miss my dorm.
Yet there I was, plastered on the floor like roadkill and pouting over the life I missed.
Eyes cinched shut, I gently probed my hipbone and immediately winced. Then I grimaced, before venting an exasperated sigh.
Get it together, Ophelia. You’re better than this.
After a dramatically extended groan, I opened my eyes. A hint of faded green snagged my attention. From the floor, I was partially angled to see the underside of my grandfather’s desk.
A tingle ran across my skin. My chin wobbled, and my throat closed.
For a moment I stayed frozen, heart pumping steadily as I registered what I was seeing.
My eyes fixed on that scrap of green peeking out of a crevice in the underside of the mahogany.
Unfurling from the floor, I tentatively reached out as curiosity bloomed within me.
Nothing terribly interesting had been left behind on the desk when I arrived. Grandfather’s documents and notes had been filed away shortly after his passing. But underneath the glossy wooden surface, tucked away in the nooks and crannies of drawers, the corner of a book jutted out.
It must have come loose when I bumped the desk.
My fingers brushed it, and a rush of electricity sparked through my fingers and up my arm. A small gasp breached my lips, but I snagged the cover and managed to jiggle the book out.
Faded forest green, inlaid with gilt symbols.
I couldn’t make them out, but there was something familiar about them.
Circles and triangles overlapped, with stars and crescent shapes marking certain junctions.
It had a distinctly occult look that didn’t fit with the rest of a language professor’s collection.
What an odd thing for my grandfather to have.
“What is this?”
Why was it hidden in the desk?
I crossed my legs and opened the book in my lap.
There were hundreds of pages, slightly yellowed with age but remarkably pristine.
It must have been a journal because everything was written by hand.
There was line after line of symbols and an ancient language I couldn’t read.
The script was elegant with swooping curls I recognized as my grandfather’s handwriting.
I flipped to the front of the book, and his name stared back. Confirmation it had been my grandfather’s.
Hunter Ashcroft.
It didn’t read like an ordinary journal. There was something strange about it. He knew so many languages, but even this seemed like utter nonsense.
“Grandpa, what the hell were you into?” Pages fluttered under my fingers and a burgeoning tide of curiosity swelled under my skin. It grew and grew until my eyes widened and my jaw dropped.
A distinct shape sketched between the pages stopped me. A tremor ran through my fingers as I turned back a couple of pages.
Was that a wing?
My blood ran cold, and a gasp choked me. I stumbled back, dropping the book as if it had been a venomous snake ready to strike. Even with my eyes clamped shut, the image of the owl monster was seared into the wounded meat of my brain.
Stunned and leaning away, my grandfather’s journal sat open on the floor across from me.
I clutched my hands together, afraid of picking it up despite my respect and admiration for my grandfather and his belongings.
The thought of touching the book again evoked sudden visions of feathered demons in a forest prowling in the dark and dragging me into the unknown.
Dread made me shaky, and my persistent exhaustion made me stupid.
An abrupt trilling made me flinch like a rabbit spooked by a fox.
I stood silently, swallowing hard as I forced my limbs into motion. Blindly smacking the desk’s surface, my palm finally landed on my vibrating cell phone. I couldn’t tear my eyes off the journal as I pulled the phone down. Several long moments passed before I sucked in a reassuring breath.
A message from Moth flashed across the screen.
Drinks in 30.
I deflated instantly, slumping against the leg of the desk. Wiping at my eyes, I exhaled the uncoiling thread of tension in my chest. Then I looked toward the window and the dreary light angling through the slip in the heavy velvet drapes.
“I’m sorry, Grandpa,” I said weakly, staring at the windows and not at his handwritten mystery journal. “But I gotta get the fuck out of here.”