Young Writers Society

This one going to be both short and a bit rough going but I hope you enjoy the ride! 

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Daylight hit her eyes, bidding her to wake with a hand raised to shield them. Morning wandered into her apartment with a sense of normality and ease that had been sorely missing. The shadows were memories stolen by the golden hue radiating through the room. Cinnamon and the nauseating smell of lilies lingered. A flame with its dying flickers caught her eyes as they spun a few inches away.

Sitting on her table was the same candle, its wax leaking over the edge into a small, eternally setting puddle. The book sat on her lap. However, someone had flipped away the double-page spread. Instead of the hand-rendered drawing, a wall of text welcomed her with a stark, matter-of-fact title: Summoning the refined version.

That wasn't there before. Was it a dream? Even this was stretching the realm of possibility.

Her hand reached out to the flame, heat soaking her fingertips, threatening to burn her, yet she kept going. Pressing her skin to the blackened wick as it crumbled, the flame snuffed out from this plane. Curls of smoke tickled her nose, teasing out a sneeze as something clattered to her feet with a soft thud. It slipped from the folds of her clothes, leaving behind white dust in its wake, flaking onto the floor into a suspicious pile.

She hadn't lit that, so if it all carried over, does that mean…

She patted down her body, searching every crevice and fold for something. Only to come back with dusty hands, while plumes of white powder filled the air as she cleaned them off. It filled her lungs and brought on a coughing fit, ready to leave. Through gasps for air, her foot nudged a loose stick of chalk that rolled in a soft back-and-forth motion. Somehow evading every attempt she made to grab it before it was turned around in her hands. Every detail and crack was like a bug under a microscope. A black splotch consumed one side, still carrying the bitter scent of being burnt.

It couldn't be real, she must've been sleepwalking or or…

A phrase stuck out in her mind, repeating itself a thousand times over.

” You have everything you need.”

Her stomach turned in a sharp tumble as she got to her feet, no longer caring much for the book as she moved.

Summoning? Why would she want to summon anything after this?

As she walked towards the bathroom trying to breathe in deep level breaths, another phrase hit her

"I’ll leave you with a little extra help.”

Lilian's stomach flipped in full, shifting into a bottomless pit of knots, while she tried to rush towards the door. The handle refused to turn for a few long seconds before it gave way. Her breaths came out in rough patches as she cranked on the faucet, impatient for the water to rush out in an icy stream while the pipes whined. 

She was fine; she was going to be fine. Whatever this was wouldn't last.

Her hands cupped the cold water. It rolled over her skin and pierced her bones while Lilian swallowed desperate gulps of air. She tried in some convoluted way to steady herself by digging her elbows into the countertop. Splashes of water beaded around her lashes and clogged her nostrils while her nerves screamed from shock.

This had to be a weird side effect of a stress-induced hallucination.

A pain cut into her wrist as the sink’s edge pressed against it, burning like a small ember under her skin. The pain refused to leave, unlike the water that slipped from her fingers, adding an uncanny ticking to the room. It split the air in with an echo, threatening to drown out the heaves that rolled from her throat and wracked her body. Fatigue came in due time, stilling her pitiful show and stealing the strength from her muscles.

Move. Why wouldn’t she move?

Perhaps her gaze kept her buckling knees on a taut string. One that would snap the second she tried to turn on her heel to flee from her slick hands and wide, searching eyes. Whatever water remained dragged down her features in a silvery cast. It glinted like a feverish sweat as her heart broke through her chest in racing beats.

Her legs finally gave way to a heavy descent while a cabinet handle pushed against her spine. It threatened to tear into her skin while she sat in a heap on the chilled bathroom floor. Her limp body felt like a husk, ready for the soul to leave it. Bits of water gathered by her side in growing puddles, while her twitching hands lay curled a few inches away. Her breathing came out in shallow wisps of air, almost unnoticeable. Lilian’s stare turned lifeless as if her mind had been broken from the inside out, letting the world pass her by.

Hours melted into mere moments, as memories of fingers stained with the scarlet of pomegranate juice and stolen red wine blended with the present. Even the reflective pools that crawled closer to her seemed to have darkened into a blood-like mahogany. For just a second, it mimicked the pockmarks buried deep within her childhood room’s shag carpet. Despite her eyes being stuck on the wall before her, she could still hear the high-pitched lies of her teenage self. 

This was the karma for all her offerings and juvenile prayers, wasn't it?

In a way, these walls were both a haven and a not-so-gilded cage. As long as they stood tall, they were a glimpse of undeniable sanity, ready to anchor her drifting mind. There was a sense of worry threaded through the growing calm that overtook her. Instead of revisiting smoldering bookstores or mundanity, the world fell away and was eager to take her with it. Even as her body ached, and her heart slowed from its panic, reality seemed thin. Any knock on the door or loose traffic that rang through her living room felt like it belonged to a different universe.

A soft rolling sound broke through her spell as it drew closer. It shifted from a rumble into a low roar that became unavoidable the nearer it came. Soon her mind was dragged back from the depths of nothingness when something dry pressed against her hand. The bitter scent of smoke filled the room and shattered her impassive expression. Shock replaced it as she rubbed her eyes raw to stop seeing things. Sat right next to her and stopped on a dime was the chalk as smears of black streaked behind it.

What the…

There was a slight shake in her legs as she got herself back onto her feet. Onceagain, she held the chalk in her grasp like it was infected. Her frown seemed to deepen the hollow nature of her face while her gaze fell to the trail. With a sigh, she tried to rub it out with her heel, inch by frustrating itch. It led her through the strangest unguided tour of her house, straight towards her door. Before, the trail of chalk and ash stopped short in a sharp dot.

Oh god, that wasn't normal. What was she meant to do? Who would she go to…? What would she even say?

A light knock came from the other side before it grew in both strength and heavy-handedness. The knocks continued until it was a steady, base-like pounding that echoed through the apartment. Her heart returned to its former pace as the chalk slipped from her hand. Blindly, she rushed towards the cluttered table sitting by the door, sorting through her keys and junk mail for something a bit more helpful. In time, she pulled out a stout black and red canister of half-empty pepper spray.

The next weird, possibly supernatural freak was going to get it, mark her words.

She crept forward, taking soft, hopefully soundless steps before grabbing the handle. Then, with both an unsure and trigger-happy hand, she opened, the door with a slight creak. When she poked her head out, she was confronted with the chilling sight of an empty hallway. No breeze or strolling strangers were unlucky enough to gain an eyeful of spray. Once her paranoid gaze had been satisfied, she sneaked the door closed in a slow pace. However, the small current picked something up, and soon a piece of Bristol board fluttered by her feet.

It found her grip easily. Whatever it was it was no bigger than a business card. The type of card one would see attached to a packed bulletin board in a coffee stop advertising clubs or start-ups. Upon further inspection, an uneasy energy ebbed from it, for this was no friendly start-up just trying to get around. Instead, there was shining wet ink in looping handwriting, which was becoming a bit too familiar as of late. A simple phrase taunted her.

“ Need a push? “

The red ink hadn't yet dried, playing the dangerous game of being wiped from existence when she turned it in her palms. Another simple but far more sinister phrase was printed on the other side trading in the red ink for the harsh black stamps of a typewriter.

“Your Guide To The Other Side: The First Sinners Coven, call 6-666-6660 today. “