A full moon shone high in the eastern sky, without clouds or wind to blot its concentration. The time for finding. The great orbit with invisible hands and crazed, greedy eye turned the world to scour the day's still kingdom for secrets. Its pure glare cast moonbeams down faster than lightning, dousing the earth in silent quicksilver to draw out hidden truths.
Crashing through the ether and frozen night, the moonbeams scouts touched the earth for their master. Scorching a sleeping neighbourhood, they found a quiet suburban lot, rectangular: a double-story home wedged to the right, surrounded by garden-lawn and fortified by a fence against the uninvited.
Within the lawn rose a dark abrasion to disrupt the great plain of level green grass; from its centre and top shone two white gem-stars. The light fell obliquely on its left, finding a human figure kneeling before the fence, silent, cold and still as the night.
Sitting on its feet, a quaint figure buried in black pyjamas, buttons done to the collar. Only twice did unblemished, stark white skin emerge, provoking such intense lunar focus that she appeared glowing. A faint pulse of life, a painted-over blush struggled to flower in her cheek and palms. Her small unworked hands lay in her lap, and her profile was framed by a curtain of black hair, razor sharp, shoulder height and disappearing into black pyjamas. Her small features and saucer eyes fixed to some point between the fence and yard.
The light without warmth eventually broke her trance. She gently lifted her large eyes and slight frown up to the eastern face of the night, and made eye contact with the unflinching.
She sighed
However often she indulged this broody introspection, nothing ever came of it: no happier paths or lighter burdens; just more dead irrecoverable time. Still, entranced she looked to the moon: These cold, lonely nights always calmed her, more than any closed roof or sunlight.
Soon her neck ached and pulled her back to earth, eyes returning to her garden against the fence: It was a gift for her truest friend, and it was where she felt closest to him. It was something she fought for, gave zealous attention for, tried her hardest for, and it was not right. Order was totally lost. Flowers grew randomly, or not at all, and the zombie growth of weeds was an unending chore; her hands only appearing unworked. Her eyes sank further but saw more weeds: why? For five years she'd tried, was trying her hardest, it was all that mattered now, all she had, how'd he get away, why like everything else, why crashing, why-
She stopped: Her cheeks were molten in the cold night, and might soon be streaked.
Weeding was a task for the day, and the night was for her and for calm. All was chaos, but not all bad; flowers still sprouted, beautiful ones. Wherever was too much weedy ugliness something nice broke through: tall shrubs, some spiny and flowering little blue stars, others with sprawling yellow tops like savannah trees; mesmerizing roses of resplendent, painted-in red and vivid, veinous petals; the tallest plant had bouquets of purple flowers atop stems of dark green leaves in a sparse and uniform pattern. The whole smelt sweet and piney, like comfort to her. An uninvited guest in the middle caught her eye: Collared by enormous leaves which hid the stem, its flower was a radiant white pinwheel floating amongst near uninterrupted dark green; A star in her garden, a radiant star, a star that grew as she stared. Its heart was beautiful violet of such depth, which hypnotically enticed her gaze deeper into it: she wanted to follow it, to see…
A chill: her shins felt earthen-cold. She'd shuffled off her mat. Her knees shot to her chest, wide eyes peering over them to see the faded white skulls of her pyjama pants buried under brown earth. A pained sigh then heavier frown. She had enough of a break anyway: no insight came tonight.
She rose, retrieved a dirty towel from under her, and headed into her house: she turned her back to the moon, walking the width of her house before turning right and following along the house's west side. Bright moonlight gave to dark shadow, which she apprehensively fell under. Already the dark smelt like home's mummy musk, the promise of stasis. She walked along until white weatherboard became a French Colonial window-wall: the loungeroom. She stopped at a red earthward bowl on the ground. Kneeling, she saw the bowl marked "James" was still full of water, as she'd made sure of every day for the last 14 years. Less important and more painful, the bowl was next to the door inside.
There was no light except for the red numerals of the bar clock: 12:30. She'd memorized the path to the stairs, pausing only to take off and ball her pants and towel for a practised shot into the laundry. She jogged up the tall stairs to the second story hallway: she was 45 kg and the whole house was carpeted; her parents wouldn't react or care anyway.
Up, left, right, Doorway: just above her eyes was written: "5'4 14"; nothing had changed in the 8 years since except a bit of fading.
She stood in her doorway, as if hiding from a disaster. Angled moonlight spilled in from the single, east window and cast a rectangle at the foot of her unmade bed. One safe spot. Still however it was very dim; here grew unpredictable and migratory piles of floor-bound clutter and laundry. The resulting trip-explosion would throw her across the room and spray mess everywhere. It was imperative she reach the bed in a minimum of steps. Her left hand fumbled out a bracelet from underneath her right pyjama cuff and hung it on the interior doorknob. No mortal encumbrance. She-knight, brace yourself. Amor Fati! Steps, one two JUMP!
Stretched like a sugar glider, she bounced on her mattress: before she even landed her body tried to curl up and crash into sleep, but she fought off the urge. She lay as she fell, belly down, and with effort stared over her right shoulder into the dim south west corner of the room behind her: her eyes made a special effort to find any fuzz breaking up the walls monotone dark pink – after two minutes she could see none: her friend had not come out, or at least she chose to believe that. She rejected sleep however, and making a special effort she shifted her body and pulled out her laptop from under the bed, the harsh light burning her eyes into focusing.
Her body filled with tension, and something in her fearfully begged to run, pull up the sheets, hide from the computer and rest; She commanded herself to sit up. 6-year Veteran user "Jess- Abell18=" logged in to "Ora Terminus Digital Grimoire and Coven" at 12:36AM. The site had a black background with tall, thin white font and textboxes: most images were also thin white on black, appearing like woodcuts. This eased her eyes but quickened her heart. Her homepage presented spells on induced anastasis, trans-mortal theurgy, warnings about the spectral huntsman alongside a red lettered page on "mortality risks". She opened her account tab to find her spell. It came a month ago and was the fulcrum of her world. She'd never had it as a conscious goal, but it was obvious to her that she had been seeking this spell all along. there was no return for her once she saw it. Though the red warning text and blank line for a signature, there was no enchantment on the spell itself, although it's "rank" and extensive bibliography left no doubt that it was as real as magic itself. No divination or outsider could help her. Despite knowing that from the start she'd tried everything, meditating wherever she could, divination, staring at it nightly for answers, anything.
A mortal risk, a grave profanity, a spell to cross worlds and a chance to see him again.
First day
The sun took the moon's old post and early sent warm light rebounding through Jessica's room. Jessica stirred and arduously began (failed) to rise, though she had no alarm and no obligations — except for her task and to her friend. She habitually slept side-on facing the windowed eastern wall, along which was her book pile: clothes (tended) to be thrown west, piling up with other problems like rotting scholastic supplies, but the books were east for ease of use. Lining the wall were many books, primarily fiction, with dog ears and broken spines that grew yellow sticky notes, piled like the glorious dead. She rarely gave up her books, so the wall became a lifetime's anthology. Closer to her head the favourites lay in neat groups: tomes on gardening, Botany, French Chateaus and English Gardens, and some aberrations:
Baker's Old English and Wheelock's Latin; Grimoires stayed as PDFs to calm her parents. She wasn't fluent, but it was part of her serious if mostly academic commitment to the occult, primarily expressed through Ora Terminus. It was a strange, lonely website: no verification needed; anyone could join. Jessica had always liked the internet, so she could not remember how she found it. Proactive users could post or edit spells, spell classifications, and fill out preset reports and questionnaries on casting them which aggregated to create the spell's "score" all subject to admin approval and verification. Spell "rank" was the measure of a spell's power, and was set by the admin by unknown criteria. All spells were accompanied by a bibliography and were vested in various menus and categories such as "spell trees", graphical taxonomies (closer to genealogies, she thought) of spells which represented one of Jessica's primary contributions to the site. She rarely practised the spells herself, often categorizing them, trying to find possibilities and undiscovered spells. Jessica would compare it to a growing online encyclopaedia, although it wasn't truly open - whole new categories of spell, entire new menus and site features only appeared at certain initiate "levels" although that was an educated guess and never a stated policy. It seemed that a valid way to "advance" was simply to react to certain spells: all spells could be saved to a user "grimoire" and doing so altered what spells appeared on the start page. Indeed, it seemed the whole experience of the site moulded to the user: she'd only actively used the site for 3 years, and yet the site seemed to exponentially change to her preferences, moulding itself, trying to learn and guide the user: her limited online social interactions, and some active forum browsing, seemed to confirm this impression. She vividly remembered that after adding 5 spells to her "grimoire" the hanged man tarot appeared on her account page. The account page; all of this leading up to "her spell." It was of the highest rank, but had no score.Thinking about the spell threw her gaze to a marbled blue folder next to her bed. It delayed her rising for a few seconds. She sat up to face it, bringing the corner into her gaze. She snapped to face it: Two thin, hairy pairs of chestnut brown legs protruded still out of her wall. Her friend still occupied his shy perch in a plaster alcove. Teddy, as she called him, was a huntsman spider who emerged 2 months ago from a long-broken patch of the wall. Most girls do not like spiders, but Jessica, both averse to involving her father and compassionate to the creature, surrendered the corner after identifying him as harmless. Of course she used her phone cameras from distance to do this; all girls are frightened of spiders, and Jessica habitually avoided his corner and always checked if he had moved when she entered her room: thankfully he never did, and she welcomed his constant presence. She used to sing to him, and still tried to force herself.
She got up and, giving teddy a wide berth, headed for her inbuilt closet, on the south wall opposite the foot of her bed. Today was an important day. She opened the dresser, finding the only clothes that were hung up. She could not remember last time she used them, and wondered if they'd still fit. Today she would go out. She could bring herself to appreciate, if no longer enjoy, them: her long skirts with lace, a mix of boots and buckle shoes. She had to dress well; today was her ultimatum to the world.
She wasn't sure exactly what she was asking, but still she had to.
She was rational, she thought: If Magic was real, she risked her life to escape the world with her friend. If it wasn't, she committed a grave sacrilege against him - perversely it was still the only path to reconcile. She'd give anything for that, but she'd be an abomination even if only she knew. It'd destroy her minute chance to return to life. What would she even liv-
She sighed
All of these answers gave up on the world, and she felt obligated to at least try. Whatever god or subconscious could help her she gave an opportunity. She settled in to her black dress; she'd worn these clothes before.
She took the bracelet from her doorknob and began to head downstairs: it was a Kindergarten friendship bracelet, made with her mother in hopeful times. To her it still held that hope, like nothing else. Jessica's mother politely defused inquiries to its twin for years.
Jessica stopped halfway downstairs; both her parents sat on the couch, using their phones with the TV on. Her worn father noticed her, and shot a weak smile at her; she reciprocated. Downward she went. It'd been like that for a while, and hurt to dwell on.
For the first time in over a month, with hands clasped together in her lap as she walked, Jessica went outside on a still day through her local neighbourhood: these were the same streets she'd grown up on. As she walked, she sensed a bubbling dread; the houses, the stores, the buildings, the shapes, the colours, everything: they were different – simpler, baser: decomposing. She fought hard against the thought and kept walking for hours, but the more she walked the more she felt it. The people were sick just the same, wrong. She tried escaping to the sky, feeling the sunshine and seeing the clouds, but it felt filtered and wrong and the clouds wavered like a pool's reflection. Her breathing became gasping and difficult. The whole world was submerged; there was something wrong with the air. The world was a leper sunk in formaldehyde that still kept rotting. She had to fight the dirty yellow liquid in her lungs for oxygen, forcing her to take more gulps. Automatically she turned back home. As she closed, her chest felt tight: the streets warping and closing around her like mummy-bands, the asphalt road like black-rotted fingers with exposed white phalanges, trying to hold her in hell.
Finally, she reached home: she reached up to open the gate. Small rivulets and streams of blood trickled from where she'd been scratching her right hand: seeing the blood made her feel sick, feeling it flow moreso. She tried to calm herself by checking the bowl. After the window-door clicked shut, she saw her parents still in place before the TV; she stood looking for a while in silence before moving on.
It was pointless to cry yet still she silently wept, moving through the house and to her room, same as midnight as daylight as all the same anyway.
Her door slammed shut
She'd made her decision, and there was no reason to delay.
The world held nothing for her: Magic or not, death or not, she didn't care; she'd do it.
She'd divined, she'd thought, she'd prayed, she'd meditated: in the end-
She signed: the page didn't change at all, but an undoable commitment had begun; even without magic. Immediately she cleaned her floor, marked out large circle at the foot of her bed and placed her old friendship bracelet in it.
The ritual was relatively simple, past the warning text: Two or more of your greatest personal treasures to draw the dead and sever your connection to this world, and the bone of a loved one (for safety(?)). Sign the document: this is the first day. Draw a circle of any size, and place one or more treasure/s in the circle per day for 2 days: place the bone and yourself in last on the third day anytime between 12:00 – 1:00. They will appear and take you to their realm.
To Jessica, this meant two things: an escape from this hell, and a chance to see James again.
Second day
The morning found Jessica busy at work tending her garden. Gloved hands tore weeds, as always, but also the pride of her garden, their stems uniformly cut and the beautiful corpses carefully placed in a Ziplock bag: Roses, Rue, Rosemary and Oleander: alongside the happy accident of Jimsonweed, which grew luxuriantly.
She took the heavy bag and went straight back to her room with a quick step and firm glare, but not before swapping her contaminated gardening gloves for preprepared latex ones at the door. James' bowl was still full.
In her room she carefully stowed the Ziplock bag and began her new routine. Endlessly she meditated, went over the ritual, researched the world beyond, poured over notes; tried to write questions and hypotheses about the beyond, found her inquisition falling to James, and gave up when the questions couldn't be pried from heart to page. Agitated, she began listlessly meandering in her room.
Looking at the bag, she knew she had to take them out tonight and leave them the in circle. She knew she'd collected many poisonous plants, let alone violated the laws of nature, so she tried to write a simple will. She had much to write, and eagerly set to page:
- Jame's Garden to be maintainedShe scratched that out: She'd see him again either way, so it might not be necessary:
-She scratched that out and rewrote the first, and was soon repeating herself, only occasionally adding new clauses to the cycle: deeply sighing, she stopped herself before frustration set in.
Writing: her thoughts fell to the blue folder: "Stories for Cats Volume 8-17"
As a child, she'd misunderstood what a volume was, so she simply inserted her age and since then kept the tradition going. These were stories she wrote for James, her best and only friend; a rescue kitten she'd adopted at 8. Her pale hands and keen eyes darted over the pages, withdrawing into memory. He was all-white with short, rich fur and yellow eyes that wanted to see everything. Curious, endlessly loving, he was the best her life got. Every night he'd come and sit on her lap, in her room, and she'd softly read him stories or sing to him. She started writing her own, and gave a volume to him on his birthday every year. She'd started murmuring his favourite when she noticed the words blur: the room was dim: night had fallen.
She put away the blue folder and spread her poison flowers in the circle, placing the bracelet on top and quarantining the gloves. The moon appraised her circle. Sleep came easily.
Third day
She woke to the sweet smell of her garden
Shuffled out of bed to the drum call of an agitated heart, she rose early: today was the ritual.
Today she'd have to disinter James
Her usual retinue took a paralytic turn as she gazed into space. Despite her usually apathetic demeanour, Anxiety was becoming a difficult opponent on this last day. She didn't, couldn't, doubt her choice: the voice tormented her otherwise: did she do the ritual right? What if she did it wrong? What if it hurt James? How could you stop or control it?
Hours passed trying to suppress this nervous tension and fight off doubt: First planning, but she knew where all the tools were and could do anything: it took more than that to trick her nerves. Research now was a nonstarter, so she sat and kept trying at the will, to as much success at yesterday. Pen and paper in front of her gave the right prompt, however. Gingerly, she started another volume of stories for cats. At first this was an easy task, but as the hours passed doubt embittered into accusation: how can you write this and then disinter him?
Every doubt and difficulty rose to obstruct and frustrate her in this deadtime before the ritual, and she grew increasingly enraged. At her worst, a part of her became avoidant. Deeply anxious and frustrated with herself, she'd promised herself a final, extensive and mostly pointless read through of her ritual notes at 10:30 P.M. When she opened it, the laptop read 11:20 P.M. In anger at her indiscipline, she kicked something into the wall and slammed the computer shut. She put her head down and collected herself, dejected, until she heard something. She tilted her head to listen
Thump thump thump
Her parents weren't coming, it was late: they were asleep. They'd reach her room by now, why wouldn't it stop
Thump thump thump THUMP
Terrified eyes jumped up: Teddy?
THUMP THUMP THUMP THUMP THUMP Four pitch-black eyes without eyelids stared right at her, a crown of four black gems buried in his forehead: enormous fangs flared in and out, in putrid rhythm with digitless arms shovelling past those fangs into an infernal mouth.
Jessica lost the ability to move
He was eating. He was growing, filling more of her vision. Great front-arms covered in needles drove their ugly nubs into the wall – THUMP – pulling it into the frantic mill of arms and fang before taking another armful. Quailing, she stared into that skittering, buzzing mill as he pulled the white wall into himself, devouring and growing. This foul Prince had caught the whole world in his web, growing faster and bigger as he ate. His man-length front-arms almost reached Jessica: These three pairs of appendages were the gates to Hell. In a millisecond he exposed his enormity and leapt out of view. Jessica remained hexbound, staring at her room corner. It was as normal, except the hole was empty: The curse retreated. Her eyes slid to wall's centre; to return stronger. A man-sized spider was clinging to the wall, directly opposite her, facing the circle.
Jessica's hands shot to her heart, but her eyes were stuck. Her quick, shallow breath and tiny quaking body grew near uncontrollable as she slid one delicate foot around the circle's edge until it reached the point closest to him. The spider was still, aside from his husky deep breaths and heaving chest. She repositioned herself to claim more of the circle. The spider was unmoved, and they stayed like this until eventually Jessica regained enough self-control to leave the room: she stared at the circle as she did so, the spider's unfocused gaze not meeting anything.
Stepping out she retched feeling the carpet under her feet: the weight of her task, however, chased all that away: the bar light read 12:00.
At first with the trowel, but fearing hitting him, she used her hands: the vacant lot next to the garden. Jessica silently, gently pulled away roots and clods of earth, staring, transfixed, nailed to her task, dry dirt moistening as her head hovered over it. Her hands were cut, and her bones felt like they were suffering a fit inside her, but her mind was fixed on one thing.
James
Dirt shifted: Scrunch Scrunch
She didn't care about her own death, or man-sized spiders, or the worlds of the soul, or the world. All of it only had meaning because of James, because of the precious, fragile, years where her life wasn't miserable
Scrunch Scrunch
How they explored together, played together, how she read to him. How they created a world together, a little ball of light in this cold dead earth
Scrunch Scrunch
He died 5 years ago: he was hit by a car while she was at school: the gate was left open, she never knew how so she blamed herself: Her parents took him to the vet and put him down; he was horrifically hurt. They buried him without her and she never got to say goodbye. They knew she would need to see him, and they knew she would collapse, possibly suicidally, if she did. She knew they were right; she was near-catatonic for a year.
Jessica stopped: She felt something solid in the granular soil
Near. She started the garden next day. They were right, James was all she had to live for. She didn't hate them, but she had to be with him, if only to part properly. To make up for the day she missed.
She trembled uncontrollably uncovering him, his hurt body burning into her mind. She fought desperately in her soul to stop it, but she saw his memory, the beautiful, intelligent cat of such grace and love, have his fur fall off and his body break until the two pictures matched. And to have him suffer like that… She'd violated his only rest in this world. The anguish at his pain and defiling of his memory was unbearable. She tried to howl, to physically expel this, but she only pathetically, breathlessly whimpered. She kept digging.
Fully uncovered, she controlled her quivering to gently stroke him, comforting him as she should've 5 years ago. She heard his purr again. She stroked him for a while. His skull was undamaged; she gently plied out the fragile empty shell and held it to her heart, curling around it. Keeping it there, she began the procession. Past midnight on a full moon, Jessica and James walked from the garden to her room. She didn't check his water.
She walked straight in to her room, brought James into the circle, and placed him on top of the bracelet and pile of flowers in a little pyramid facing her as she sat on her feet. The ritual required no incantation, but she brought in and opened the blue folder: she was about to start reading when a hollow knock sounded: James' skull fell flat on the floor, and the bracelet had lined up vertical with it. The mass of flowers and stems beneath him began swirling to some unknown purpose. Invisible strings gently tugged, lifting the bracelet into a deep arch and strained to lift his skull to meet her gaze: empty orbits stared deep into her eyes, and she somehow found the strength to silently weep. The process quickened; stems wrapped and twirled around his arched spine, tensed and pulled themselves into place, trying to mimic missing flesh and bone. Five clusters of stems congealed, spun round each other into tight sinews: one end clusters of cut stem ends forming wiry joints on his spine, the other saw flowers tightly fold in to themselves. James, holding his gaze, tried to put weight on the flowers, rising unsteadily: Jessica put her hands out to hold him up. Whatever power was reforming James kept growing; she felt him take up his own weight, as the stems began to settle into the patchy outline of a cat: flowers and leaves were moulded by gentle, unseen hands to cover as much emptiness as possible, but there wasn't enough to fully form his body, which existed like a patchy cast of his invisible soul. Through his gaping orbits Jessica saw a stem slide up his spine and settle in his jaw. His mouth opened and the stem flared in silence. James was complete. Jessica smiled, and James stared at her for some time.
He advanced towards her and began to clamber up her right leg, though she felt no weight. Her right palm gently went over his back, petting him as she used to, greenery reforming after every pass. Soon he surmounted her legs: his body curled up, as he used to in her lap; the small stem leading to his mouth twitching rapidly at his "throat." Jessica and James enjoyed reunion in silence for as long as they could, all the anxious words and feelings Jessica carried with her were answered. Jessica felt the strain in her body coming in: she tried to fight it for as long as possible, but the pets eventually stopped. Her fists involuntarily balled, but she was happy. It was worth it. She fought to keep a smile, but her jaw locked shut and her lips pressed tight into a frown. She was with James now no matter what. Her whole body violently kicked out from under, and she banged her foot into the wall at an awkward angle, once and then twice as every muscle tensed and every limb shot out to try and keep her soul from leaving. Her small shoulders darted back onto her bed as her thin ankles pressed in to gaze rolled and blurred without her input: she thought she saw James and Teddy with halos. She heard noise in the hall, but it didn't matter now. She stifled her cries behind a deep frown, which came out as pained whimpers, her tiny fists balled hard and white-knuckled as possible. She felt a flower stem rhythmically trace a path over her balled right hand as her body couldn't hold anymore.
With James next to her, she let go
The moon was staring at the three vacant remnants of Teddy, James and Jessica. They were taken together, all as one group, that felt certain to him. His concentration had not lapsed for a minute, he saw all, his beams touched all, and yet had lost all three. They knew a secret. He was furious, his eye would next come bloodshot for rage at losing them
Where? Where!? Where do they go after?
A howl in the night