Chapter 4
four
LIZZY
I don’t remember my parents.
My father died somewhere overseas the night I was born. He never even held me, never even knew my name. My mother, who both held and named me, gave me away when I was three. Kate was nine, Rachel twelve. We were told our mother was sick.
We stayed with a distant family friend in Syracuse for the first two years—a kindly woman who used to hide candy bars around the house for us to find—but she died in a car wreck. With no one else lining up to claim us, the state stepped in.
They kept my sisters and me together, at least. That was the only bright spot.
Soon after Rachel turned eighteen, she got legal custody of Kate and me, and moved us to a shitty one-bedroom apartment in Buffalo. It sucked, but it was a major upgrade from foster care, so Rachel did everything she could to make it work. We all did.
For a time.
It’s been more than two decades since I saw the woman we once called Mom.
I never consciously learned her scent, her laugh, the color of her eyes.
I don’t remember whether she was kind before she abandoned us, or cruel, or indifferent.
I don’t know if she gave us birthday gifts or put Band-Aids on scraped knees or made us chicken noodle soup when we were sick, or sat around day-drinking with strange men and falling asleep with lit cigarettes dangling from her lips.
I have no idea who she was, who she became, who she wanted to be in her earliest dreams, before she had three daughters. Before she gave us up.
So don’t ask me how the fuck I recognize the woman hovering at my bedside as Mommy Dearest. I just do.
“Shit!” I bolt upright and crash to the floor, tangled in the sheets, certain I’m going to die. But Ghost Mom doesn’t make a move. Just keeps on staring, her glare even more judgy than Rachel’s.
Half-convinced I hallucinated her, I drag myself back into bed and flick on the nightstand lamp. The apparition is still there. Frowning now, as if I’ve somehow upset her.
“Well, you’re not saying anything!” I point out, emboldened by the light. “It’s rude!”
She opens her mouth—to speak? To unleash a flock of wild ravens to peck out my eyes? To projectile vomit, Exorcist-style?—but nothing comes out. Not even a creepy ghost-moan. Before I can figure out what to say next, she just—poof!—vanishes.
Figures. Even in death, my mother has perfected the art of the quick exit.
I’m about to turn the lamp off again when I catch sight of another flicker, and the ghost reappears.
But no, this one is different. Younger. Late teens, maybe twenty at most. Her hair is long and auburn-colored, like Rachel’s, spilling over an old-timey dress. The bottom half is black with char.
A chill slithers down my spine.
“You’re not my mother.” I’m not sure why this realization disappoints me. What would I even say to the woman who “quiet quit” motherhood and left us with this legacy? Sorry you kicked the bucket, thanks for the creepy Hell magic, now fuck off? They don’t exactly make a Hallmark card for it.
Ghost Girl shrugs, a gesture so human I almost forget she’s not. Then she trails out the door and down the stairs.
“Wait!” I cry out, but she doesn’t.
After Helena left, Rachel made us swear on our mother’s proverbial grave that we wouldn’t go into the basement tonight.
Well, call me a sinner, but that woman’s grave is the least sacred thing to me in the world right now, and I have zero interest in sitting around waiting for the next otherworldly surprise.
Rachel’s in total denial about witchcraft—swears Helena’s bat trick was just a clever illusion, never mind the fact that the magical murder house cleaned up after its own feast, unpacked all our bags into our respective childhood bedrooms, and lit scented candles in the bathrooms—and Kate’s busy playing the role of supportive middle sister.
So that leaves me. Getter of answers. Disobeyer of orders.
Ignoring the prickle of goosebumps along my scalp, I wrench open the basement door beside the fridge, revealing a set of rickety wooden stairs that leads down into dank, musty darkness. At the very bottom, the faint glow of my young ghost companion flickers.
She folds her arms and glares. Impatiently. Like, well? Are you coming or not?
Okay. Let’s recap. Sentient, scone-making house? Check. Mystical bat-woman telling us we’re witches? Check. Demonic legacy, dark magic, portal to Hell? Check, check, check. And now, a ghost from Ye Olden Days is beckoning me into the basement.
Right.
This is the part where a smart, rational girl says, “You know what? Let’s wait until morning. Bring a friend. A flashlight and a weapon at the very least. Oh, and leave a note! Always leave a note.”
But this girl? This girl says, “Fuck it. Let’s go.”
The steps are rough and damp against my bare feet, the air thick with mildew and rot.
Not of the decaying corpse variety, thankfully, but it’s definitely giving Mother Nature is Tired of Your Shit and Has Taken Over Management.
I guess that explains why there’s lichen on the walls, and at least three different species of mushrooms sprouting from cracks in the cement floor.
I consider harvesting a few, but I’m severely out of my element here.
Murder-house basement shrooms? Yeah. Something tells me these are not the edibles I’m looking for.
I love a good hallucinogenic experience as much as the next girl, but I think I’ve had enough Alice-in-Wonderlanding tonight to last me… at least until tomorrow.
Ghost Girl has vanished again, so I wait for my eyes to adjust to the dim and then try to find a light switch or chain. I’d even take a dungeon torch at this point, but no dice. Nothing but cobwebs and moss and probably other things I don’t really want to be touching.
“Hello?” I call out. Just like every girl in every slasher movie ever. At least I’m not wandering around in my underwear. That would be a bridge too far, even for me.
Plus, spiders.
Pulling my sweatshirt hood up to prevent any wayward arachnids from descending into my hair, I soldier on, tiptoeing across the cold floor, eyes slowly adjusting. The space is cluttered with boxes and tote bins, garden crap, old glass jars. Typical basement stuff.
But then, bisecting the back wall, an archway opens up into some new darkness. I step through it, and that same warm-bath feeling envelopes me again, propelling me forward.
Is this a terrifying house of horrors? All evidence points to yes. But I’ve never felt safer or more calm. For now, we’re going with that.
“I’m putting my trust in you, house. Don’t make me regret this.”
A light flickers on in the distance—benevolent confirmation—illuminating a long tunnel I can’t see the end of, which in all probability leads to the chamber where they prepare the virgins for sacrifice.
It’s got that kind of vibe. Thankfully, I’m not qualified.
Rodents seem like the more pressing concern anyway.
I decide not to look down. Just march onward, one foot in front of the other, the light shifting, slowly revealing every twisty-turny curve.
I’m no cartographer, but there’s no way I’m still under the main house. I have to be out past the backyard somewhere. Way out.
How far does this property even go? And why would someone dig out a basement like this?
It’s a real-life labyrinth. I’m half expecting to run into the Goblin King rocking that 80s hair-band situation and a pair of tight leggings that put any man’s grey sweatpants to shame, but my only companion so far is the ghost, who shows up again right as I reach a new room at the end of the tunnel.
“Good looking out, co-pilot,” I say. I swear she rolls her eyes at me.
She vanishes again, but this time she has the decency to leave a soft lavender glow in her wake, just bright enough to see by.
The room—a large, open chamber—is about the size of the entire first floor of the house.
A massive chalk pentagram marks the center of the concrete, ringed with several black pillar candles set into waist-high bronze candle holders covered in melted wax.
Strange markings surround the entire circle—ancient-looking symbols I can’t make out, painted in red and black, some of them partially erased.
Bookshelves line the walls, stacked high with books and statuettes and more candles of every size and color.
Jars full of powders and herbs, neatly labeled.
A deck of Tarot cards fitted into a velvet-lined box, propped open.
Crystals on every shelf, and positioned in the corners too.
There’s very little dust, which tells me someone used and tended to all this stuff recently.
I take a deep breath, my insides fizzy with excitement. The room smells like cinnamon and brimstone and mud. Like magic. I run my hand along one of the shelves, stopping at the Tarot cards. It feels like they’re calling my name.
The moment I lift the deck out of its box, my hands go all tingly, and that pale lavender glow intensifies around the cards, pulsating in time with my heartbeat.
I’ve never been into Tarot, never gotten a reading or anything, but I shuffle the oversized cards easily, as if I’ve always done it.
Always known how. The deck responds to my touch, coming alive in my hands and buzzing with energy, cards zipping by with neat little “snicks” until finally a card leaps out and lands face up at my feet.
Six of Cups. There’s a woman on the card who looks uncannily like me, with waist-length blonde hair and a heart-shaped face. She’s walking up a moonlit path, reaching backward toward a small child emerging from a pond full of lotus flowers. A glowing cup appears where their hands touch.
As soon as I pick up the card, the tingling in my hands intensifies, racing up my arm and into my chest, cranking up the dial on my heartbeat until I’m nearly dizzy. I close my eyes to stop the room from spinning, and when I open them again, a vision comes to life before me.
Not my new ghost bestie. My mother. She’s different from before, though. Less like a ghost and more like an old film projection, grainy and opaque. I get the sense she can’t see me. That this is merely an echo of something that happened in the past.
She’s standing at one of the work tables now, her back to me as she leans over a huge leather-bound book.
It’s about as thick as an old phone book, but larger, the pages yellowed.
She smooths her hand over the cover—a rich brown leather, cracked and darkened with age.
A silver medallion gleams in the center, untarnished despite its age.
The bottom of the medallion contains one unmistakable word.
Bonnivarde.
It’s the grimoire. The one Helena mentioned. It has to be.
I creep as close to my mother as I dare—so close I could reach out and touch her if she were real.
From a vase of mixed florals on the table, she plucks out a bouquet of tiny pale blue flowers—forget-me-knots, I think—and crushes them into a small wooden bowl with her thumb.
Next, she adds a sprig of rosemary, then sprinkles the mix onto the medallion.
Her lips move in what looks like some kind of incantation. Then, still muttering, she grabs a knife and draws it across her palm, squeezing her blood onto the medallion. The whole thing begins to glow a deep and pulsating red, like a heart.
Ignoring her wound, she heads for the pentagram in the middle of the room, walking backward around it three times. The candles flicker to life at a wave of her hand, calling forth an image at the center of the pentagram. I can’t make it out. Looks like a storm cloud flashing with dark lightning.
My mother raises her hands, blood running down her arm, and utters another incantation. An alabaster white hand punches through the cloud, clenching something raw and bloodied. I cry out on instinct, warning her not to reach for that ghastly hand—
The woman vanishes. The portal goes dark. There’s no grimoire, no flickering candles, no swirling storm cloud.
The basement is just a creepy basement once more.
I glance down at the Six of Cups, still warm and buzzing in my hand. Helena’s words echo.
You’re witches, girls…
Holding my breath, I wave toward the candles.
The ring of fire ignites.
And despite my exhaustion, despite all the alcohol and the frustrations and the craziness of the entire night, every last one of my doubts is obliterated.
Magic is real.
I’m a freaking witch.
And I’m ready to do whatever it takes to find the family grimoire and claim this legacy, with or without my sisters’ involvement.
Because if our magic is strong enough to manage a portal to Hell and keep peace with demons, then I bet my cute little ass it’s got the power to fix the disaster I’ve made of my life.
“Awesome!” I tuck the cards back into their velvet box. “Before you know it, I’ll be brewing up love potions and witching my way to millions. All I need are a few quick magic lessons, and—”
A sharp gust of wind howls through the chamber. The candles snuff out, bathing me in a darkness so complete, I feel like the floor has dropped out from under me.
“Let’s start with lesson number one, shall we?
” comes a man’s deep, silken reply. The darkness parts to reveal the portal, once more flickering with that strange and silent storm, and out he steps, a monstrous beast of shadow and smoke with glowing silver eyes, a deadly looking tail, and claws as long as knives.
“Never turn your back on the summoning portal.”