Chapter 14
I spent the entire morning convincing myself that Margaret’s journal was pure, unaltered nightmare fuel to be avoided at all costs, but by afternoon my curiosity had run away with me.
Just a few more pages and then back in the cabinet it goes.
The wind outside Fhírinne’s solarium windows howled as I entered—the incoming storm gearing up for torrential downpour later that night—and found the little cursed book exactly where I’d left it: face down on the stone walkway.
I braced my back against the fountain’s edge as if the mother of magic encased in stone above me could somehow protect me from what might be concealed in those pages.
Of course, I knew it couldn’t, but her eyes over my shoulder comforted me nonetheless.
With a hefty sigh, I flipped to the second entry, bypassing the Red eyes and Teeth pages in fear they might grow real teeth and devour me whole. I chewed on the inside of my cheek as I waded through, discovering a weeklong gap between her first and second entry.
I have lost my mind. I had suspected as much for some time, but now I am sure.
Psychosis, the doctor confirmed; even went so far as to assure my father I am a lost cause.
Dr. Evans explained that psychosis in its simplest form is a lost touch with reality, and I cannot disagree with his findings.
This darkness inside me … it is all I see, all I hear, all I am anymore.
I’ve resorted to scratching, bruising, even burning myself, all whilst asleep, it seems.
My hands began to shake, my attention floating over my healed palms thanks to Cillian’s quick thinking that fateful night.
At first I couldn’t understand how such things were possible, but Father said I must have walked about in my sleep.
It makes sense, considering I have resorted to keeping myself from rest every chance I get.
Even my own body wishes to walk away from me, it appears.
I cannot say I blame it. If I had the option, I would be anyone else, go anywhere else to be free of myself.
Of these accursed visions, these beasts, and their cloaked master.
I fear her most … the beast tamer, eyes ever hidden from my own.
Always watching. Always waiting. Always plotting.
Heat spread across my chest as I recalled the cloaked woman on the tower landing, of how she so carelessly poked and prodded my dead mother’s body.
The terror I’d seen cut across the beast’s face when she’d snapped her fingers unsettled me yet again, and I squeezed my eyes shut for a cleansing breath before returning to the page.
Though, worse still might be her song. That cursed, repetitive sound I can shake neither day nor night. I dare not utter it aloud. Dare not give it the power she implores. For I fear if I do, what little remains of my mind will be absorbed into oblivion. Gnashed about by Chaos himself.
My throat turned to gravel. That had been far too pointed to be mere coincidence; I could feel it in my bones.
It was a warning. One my gut urged me to soak in despite the overwhelming desire to set the pages on fire.
And so, I continued. Every entry took me deeper into Margaret’s madness, farther down the rabbit hole until there was nothing left but broken English and fear.
Shattered, lost, useless one entry had called herself. Forgotten, alone, said another. But upon the last entry—the one so rattled her handwriting had become a shell of its once clean penmanship—I lurched forward.
I sing sometimes, maybe, always. Red or black, but white no longer. Her darkness is mine. Mine, hers. Her voice was smooth. Me, being dragged underwater.
Forgotten. Alone.
One. Two. Three.
Where Chaos begins, the world’s end soon follows.
Four. Five. Six.
I sing, I sing, I sing.
Seven. Seven. Seven.
From the hunger of forgotten Gods came the wrathful Ancient Lores.
My veins turned to ice and I smashed the cover shut.
There was something so urgent, so real, so downright disturbing about those words; I could hear the singsong melody in my head.
Every nerve ending in my body vibrated. Leave it alone, Fey.
Just … leave it alone. I tucked the eerie diary back on its shelf, collected my bag, and headed down the halls now steeped in night.
The quiet of Fhírinne’s hallway settled me, giving me ample space to process Margaret’s twisted narrative.
Reading a firsthand account of someone’s descent to madness hadn’t been on my bingo card for the day, but then again neither was the subtle desire in me to spend more time with the ever-elusive Cillian in all his sarcastic glory.
The latter proved far more difficult to unpack, so naturally I focused on the more palatable questions at hand: Why was Margaret’s journal in Fhírinne to begin with?
Celine had called Fhírinne a wealth of old knowledge.
But what part in history had Margaret played?
How had her story found its place among so many historical books?
I emerged from Fhírinne and my fragile peace dissipated, replaced by the bustling return of the student body. C’est la vie. Maybe a break from the heavy was needed anyway. I turned the skeleton key over in the lock until it clicked before making my way to the dining hall.
The kitchen counter was ripe with Sue’s fixings, though most were odd bits and ends that could do with sitting for long periods without going bad: muffins, protein bars, fruit, etc. I assumed that was due to everyone’s varying return schedules.
“Hey, Fey,” Sue called through the busyness. “Care for a snack?”
“I’d love one.” I scooped a particularly plump blueberry muffin off the counter and smeared butter over the top. “How was your weekend?”
A wide smile claimed her face as she twisted the top off my prescription bottle.
“Wonderful. Got to spend some time with my youngest and my new grandbaby, Dawnya.” She sighed. “She’s beautiful. So innocent and bubbly, like her daddy.”
I took the pill from her hand and washed it down with the iced tea she’d extended. “How sweet! Sounds like a great time.”
“It was.” She sighed again. “How about you? Did you have a good weekend as well?”
Talk about a loaded question. The burns? Not good. The constellation of burning petals? Good. Fhírinne? Good. The journal? … well, the verdict was still out on that one. But for her sake, I simply said, “It was great. I got to read a lot.”
“Ah, reading: the exercise of the mind. I used to be an avid reader, you know. But now I’m much too busy for pastimes.” She motioned around the kitchen with a chuckle.
“Better you than Miss Celine.” I raised my eyebrows.
“Lordie, don’t tell me she …”
“Yup.” I leaned in and whispered, “Charcoal pancakes.”
She grasped her chest. “Oh, heavens no.”
I laughed, a bit at odds with how much easier communication had become for me since my arrival at Saint Peter’s.
In the past, I’d have been fumbling over my words, blabbering, and searching for any means of escape.
Surprisingly, I didn’t want to run from Sue.
In part, I think the level of genuine interest Roxie, Cillian, and Celine had greeted me with played a hand in that, but even further, I had Fhírinne to thank.
It relaxed me to the point that I had hardly felt anxious since stepping foot in those hallowed walls. Hardly, but not completely.
“Don’t worry,” I said. “I taught her a thing or two.”
“You saint.” She winked.
With a smile, I excused myself and headed for Roxie’s and my usual table. A wave of disappointment ran through me to find her seat empty, the sensation foreign. Wait a damn minute … Did I—did I miss her? That couldn’t be …
I exchanged simple pleasantries with Samantha and Josh—friends of Roxie’s who thankfully carried the conversation as I devoured the remainder of my god-tier muffin—while internally coming to an inevitable conclusion. While becoming friends with Roxie had never been part of the plan … it was a fact.
The Trazadone worked its sleepy-time magic. Once back in my room, I mindlessly climbed into my oversize sweatpants, slipped into bed, and pulled my phone off the charger. My finger hovered over the message I’d typed out to Roxie. With a sigh, I hit send.
Fey: You get lost on your way back or what?
A second later my phone pinged.
Roxie: What, is someone missing me already?
Fey: Maybeeee.
Roxie: Ha, well the feeling is mutual. I’ll be back in the morning.
Fey: I’ll save you a pancake. Consider yourself lucky it’s Sue’s cooking and not Celine’s. *shivers*
Roxie: Lol you’re going to have to put a pin in that for me! I must know!
I chuckled.
Fey: You got it. See you tomorrow.
Roxie: Goodnight, friend.
The last word shook me as I tossed my phone back on the side table.
Friend … Despite fighting it at every turn, I couldn’t help but want to be near her.
She was so easy to be around. She made me feel good, and she actually inspired a version of my future I hadn’t imagined before.
One where I might not have to resign myself to a life of solitude and loneliness.
But my habitual nature to destroy was not lost on me.
There was still ample time to do what I did best and ruin a good thing.
With a sigh, I set my attention on the curious demonology book I’d found in the main library.
Hardly a good before-bed read, but braving the halls in my sleepy fog wasn’t the best idea either, considering my predisposition for sleepwalking out windows and such.
I flipped open to where I’d left off, Chapter Three, titled “Knowing Your Foe.”
“Foe: noun, meaning an enemy or opponent.”
Simple enough.
“To know one’s foe is to take the unexpected and create expectation. While such luxuries are not always readily available, the simplest and most effective first step is a name: the untapped well in which all abilities of a creature of darkness reside.”
Breathe in, breathe out.
“A simple insistence on said foe’s name will usually suffice. But, should you find yourself in the presence of an older, wilier foe, an appeasement to their pride may be the only viable option.”
Eyes: heavy.
“Under the guise of fear, manipulation may be one’s best and only option in the face of true evil.”
Unbeknownst to me, the nightmare had already begun.