《The Haunting of Emma May》 CH 1: Afraid of Grandmother Emma May isn¡¯t scared of anything, but she¡¯s scared of Grandmother Orwell. It isn¡¯t just because Emma is only twelve years old. Grandmother¡¯s neighbor is scared of her too. So is the postman ¡ª Emma watched him tiptoe up to the door and gently rest a package once, slinking beneath the window pane back to his truck on the street, like a spy behind enemy lines. It¡¯s very likely the Mayor, and even the President, would be scared of Grandmother too, if only they were alone together for a moment. It was the way she looked at you. Not at your clothes, or your face, or your skin and bones; Grandmother looked at you. There was nothing all the world could keep secret from her. On the rare occasions the parched land of her old face cracked into smile, Emma thought Grandmother looked like a fox watching a chicken getting dressed in the morning. The only person in the world who didn¡¯t seem afraid was Emma¡¯s mother, Bella. She and grandmother would get into famous shouting matches, yelling about everything except exactly what they were fighting about. They were at it again now ¡ª Emma could hear them from the living room where she watched TV. Some cartoon was playing which must either involve time travel or bad writing, Emma couldn¡¯t tell, as she was trying to listen to the argument. They¡¯d only been visiting for about fifteen minutes before it broke out this time, but loud and clear rang the voices from the kitchen. ¡°¡­ and If I could go back and do it again, I wouldn¡¯t change a thing. Except for not telling you about it.¡± That was mother. Her voice had a strained tone of exasperation, as though she were about to either break into laughter or tears, but hadn¡¯t committed to one or the other. ¡°You don¡¯t need to tell me your mistakes, dear. A mother knows.¡± That was Grandmother. Her voice was far too sweet for the old prune, another dangerous sign. Emma turned down the volume on the TV, swinging her legs below grandmother¡¯s padded rocking chair where she sat. It was rather nice not being the one in trouble for once. ¡°And you must be the perfect parent, right? Except for raising me, what went wrong there?¡± mother trilled. ¡°I can only show the way, not walk it for you,¡± Grandmother replied curtly. ¡°All talk and no walk, what a great example.¡± ¡°Emma will stay with me for the weekend. It sounds like you¡¯re working too hard and need a break.¡± ¡°Need a break¡ª ooooh.¡± Mother was fuming now. The voices were getting closer ¡ª they were coming back from the kitchen. Emma turned up the volume on the TV again, looking straight ahead at the old fashioned monstrous box which loomed in the corner of the cramped room. Emma asked once why her TV had such a big container, and Grandmother told her it needed room for the demon who lived inside and drew the pictures. Emma wouldn¡¯t have believed anyone else who said that, but with Grandmother Orwell, she wasn¡¯t so sure. The idea of being trapped here for a weekend was abominable. ¡°Do we have to leave already?¡± Emma asked innocently as her mother stormed into the room. Emma¡¯s mother looked like nervous bird. Thin and anxious, with constant small fluttering movements and hand symbols like she was about to take flight. Her long beak poked out from disorderly black bangs which concealed most of her face. Mother smiled tensely as she noticed Emma. Without a word, she pivoted on her heel to face Grandmother once more. ¡°You know what? A break would be lovely, actually. Emma will be happy to help you with your chores, I¡¯ll have time to catch up on mine, and we will be a normal, functioning, happy family. That¡¯s what we are, right? Normal and happy.¡± ¡°Did you say I¡¯ll be happy to?¡± Emma asked meekly, hoping she put enough inflection at the end of the sentence to not be mistaken for consent. ¡°You¡¯ll be happy, whether you like it or not.¡± Grandmother Orwell turned the corner from the kitchen and entered the living room. She was dressed all in black, pressed skirt and blouse with another shade of black for the floral patterns, and big round buttons that looked like bone. Emma thought she was a witch, without their sense of humor. Before Emma could obtain her constitutionally protected right to legal defense, the front door had slammed shut, her mother gone. Emma smiled defiantly into the black hole of Grandmother¡¯s scowl, hesitantly swinging her legs once more. Surely she could survive anything for a weekend. No doubt the proud last words of many a heroine. ¡°What are you watching TV for?¡± Grandmother snapped. It wasn¡¯t the kind of question looking for an answer. ¡°Nobody else was doing it, and I felt qualified,¡± Emma replied anyway. ¡°What were you and mother fighting about this time?¡± ¡°Some day when you¡¯re older and have a child of your own, I hope they treat you exactly the way you treat your mother.¡± Grandmother said it like a curse. ¡°Thank you,¡± Emma said. Grandmother the fox grinned craftily, her eyes glittering diamonds, searching, probing, turning over the rocks to look underneath what lay hidden in Emma¡¯s mind. ¡°What does your mother say about me?¡± ¡°She means much better than she says.¡± Grandmother nearly cackled, but caught herself in time to turn it into a hacking cough, her scowl quickly returning. ¡°I didn¡¯t really think she¡¯d leave you here,¡± Grandmother admitted. ¡°What am I to do with you?¡± ¡°You don¡¯t have to do anything with me,¡± Emma assured her. ¡°I like doing things with myself.¡± ¡°Do you like chickens?¡± Grandmother asked sternly, peering close to Emma¡¯s face as though looking down a dark well. ¡°I¡¯m not hungry, thank you.¡± ¡°I have six chickens out back,¡± Grandmother said in delighted animation. ¡°Little girls love chickens, don¡¯t they?¡± This narrative has been purloined without the author''s approval. Report any appearances on Amazon. ¡°It has been a long time since you were a little girl, hasn¡¯t it Grandmother?¡± But Grandmother Orwell was insistent. Taking Emma by the hand, the old women led her granddaughter through her house. Dark narrow hallways, with faded wallpaper covered in strange abstract designs, like ancient runes. There was a clock mounted on a wall, and another there above a door, and another on the side of the stair. Each of the clocks displayed a different time. Emma checked her phone to confirm it was almost 4 o¡¯ clock, and that every one of the clocks was incorrect in their own unique way. Most of Grandmother¡¯s cramped house was occupied by fearsome black and white portraits of dignified men and women, most of whom were surely dead, or at least appeared to wish they were. Some paintings, others old photographs, others still surreal and strange with facial features all jumbled and mixed up, or running down their face like liquid. ¡°You¡¯ll be helping me with chores for as long as you¡¯re here.¡± Being here is a chore already, Emma thought silently. ¡°I¡¯m happy to help, Grandma.¡± ¡°Make your bed in the morning. Wash the dishes after I cook. Collect the eggs, and feed the chickens.¡± Grandmother opened the back door of her house, leading Emma under duress into her large fenced yard. A magnificent old oak tree was growing in the corner, and a once lavish garden now ran wild and strange. A faded red barn leaned heavily against the wall, threatening collapse and a feathery explosion at any moment. Shifting aside the wooden bar which locked the door, Grandmother unleashes a wave of musty straw and soft rustling. Emma stared frozen, unable to quite understand what she was seeing. The afternoon light faltered abruptly at the entrance to the chicken coop. The little barn wasn¡¯t nearly big enough to house such deep shadows. Just like the clocks, it went from afternoon to midnight in only a few steps. Something stirred within the darkness, taking a long time for the immense form to pass across the doorway. Emma thought she saw light glinting off black scales like a giant serpent, but shook the impossible thought away. Grandmother leaned against the side of the red barn, grinning as she waited for Emma to enter. ¡°I made my share of mistakes raising your mother, truth be told,¡± she said. ¡°I was too easy on the girl. I thought she was anxious, and weak, and silly, and so I spared showing her everything she needed to learn until it was too late for her to accept it. I don¡¯t want her to make the same mistake with you. Is that cruel?¡± ¡°Cruel for school, but not cruel for family,¡± Emma said encouragingly. ¡°There were so many things about the world I wanted her to understand, but every time I started to show her, she would have a fit and run away. But you aren¡¯t running away, are you Emma?¡± ¡°I didn¡¯t know that was an option,¡± the girl replied, truthfully considering it now. ¡°There are some things which must be experienced to be understood. But you¡¯ll be a child forever like your mother if you never look at things which seem ugly to you. Some people never stop hiding from their own ugly thoughts, and what remains of them is of no use to anyone. If you want to help me, like I want to help you, then go on. Step inside the chicken coop. They don¡¯t bite.¡± Six chickens. And an overactive imagination. Emma hated how dark it was, but hated even more the thought of Grandmother thinking she was weak and silly. Emma liked the idea of being braver than her mother, who she had her own fair share of disagreements with. Brushing off the imaginary dust from her jeans and t-shirt, she stepped inside. Six pairs of eyes, staring back at her. Yellow eyes, almost gold, a baleful glow like they were electric. Living her whole life in the city, Emma did not have any experience with chickens before, but she was quite sure something else was staring back at her, tracking her every movement. ¡°This is some kind of test,¡± Emma said uncertainly. ¡°Will there be a prize?¡± ¡°Yes of course, my dear. I¡¯ll let you take an egg home with you.¡± ¡°What kind of prize is a chicken egg? At least make it a chocolate one.¡± ¡°A clever girl like you must know by now that they aren¡¯t chickens.¡± With that Grandmother Orwell closes the door behind Emma, pitching her into utter darkness except a small outline of light which used to be the door. Darkness except for the glowing eyes, leering at her from all around. The air became much thicker and heavier. The soft rustle of movement, and there light glimmered off black scales again. Thick rough black scales, with serrated spines bristling along the arched back, like the warning of a cat. ¡°There are three steps to taking care of my pets,¡± Grandmother Orwell called through the door. ¡°First you must fill both troughs. You¡¯ll find a bucket of feed hanging by the door, and a large metal scooper.¡± Trying not to scream was occupying the entirety of Emma¡¯s attention. She pressed her back against the door, but it must be barred again; it didn¡¯t budge. ¡°Second you must check their water trough. Make sure it¡¯s clean, and fill it up from the hose.¡± ¡°Please let the light in, and I will do it,¡± Emma says as bravely as she can. ¡°They hate the light, and I promise you, your job much harder with it,¡± Grandmother chided. ¡°And third you must lift them and take their eggs. When you have collected an egg from each of them, I will open this door.¡± ¡°What do you mean they hate the light? What are they?¡± Emma asked desperately. ¡°You¡¯re starting to sound shrill like your mother. Why must everything have a name, which you wouldn¡¯t recognize or understand anyway?¡± The eyes were getting closer. A sharp inhale ¡ª something was sniffing her. Emma held out the back of her hand gingerly as if to a dog, but recoiled at once as something damp rubbed against her skin. ¡°Food. Water. Eggs. Go on, girl.¡± Emma was trembling as she felt her way along the wall. She scraped her hand painfully against a rough wooden bucket. Her eyes were beginning to adjust to the darkness, but the shapes around her seemed to be made of the darkness itself, the darkness was the fabric of their skin as well as their cloaks. She decided it was best to get this over with as quickly as possible, and not even look at the eyes which looked at her. Bucket. Scoop, fill, scoop, fill, scoop, full. It wasn¡¯t corn seed. The food wriggled as Emma scooped it, like a bucket of worms. Water. Emma tripped over the hose, and soon traced it back to the outlet to turn it on. The cold water splashed over her as her fingers shook. She wouldn¡¯t turn, but knew all six of the creatures had left their beds and were sniffing around her feet and ankles. They must not be much larger than chickens after all. Either that, or they were only pressed against the ground, sneaking toward her as they prepared to spring. ¡°It¡¯s quiet in there. How are you doing?¡± Grandmother asked impatiently. Emma closed her eyes tightly and reached her hand into the darkness. ¡°Excuse me, but I know you¡¯re not chickens. I¡¯m not going to take your eggs from you, because I think that would be wrong. But I know you¡¯re not evil things, because Grandmother wouldn¡¯t love an evil thing, and she takes care of you. So please give me your eggs because she asked for them.¡± A rustle, a scrape, a stolen breath, frozen in time not to melt with the years. Emma felt a sharp prick in her hands as though a pinecone dropped into them. She didn¡¯t open her eyes, but felt the gentle weight of one egg at a time roll into her outstretched hands. She could barely hold all six, but felt each individually and knew they were there. Then rustling again, she could feel their presence slide away to melt into the deeper shadows of their straw beds against the wall. ¡°You can open the door now, Grandmother,¡± she said breathlessly. The door opened, and Emma was free. Being back in the afternoon sun, Emma felt her skin drink in the light and warmth as though gasping in air after drowning. ¡°You¡¯re already older than your mother.¡± Grandmother Orwell smiled as she carefully plucked the eggs one by one from Emma¡¯s hands. Now in the light, the eggs were like black polished opal stones, except for their gracefully curved spines which covered the things like an undersea urchin. When only a single egg remained in Emma¡¯s still trembling fingers, Grandmother took Emma¡¯s hand and closed it around the prize. ¡°The two of us will have great fun this weekend while your mother is away. I sense in you someone who is not afraid to explore the dark wonders I have gathered in this house over the years. I want you to take that egg home with you to remember the night you were more than afraid, and still didn¡¯t turn back.¡± Emma didn¡¯t think she would need anything to remember this night. CH 2: Daemon Eggs Emma May stayed two nights at grandmother Orwell''s house. She decided she enjoyed feeding the chickens, which were in fact not chickens at all. There might be more to grandmother''s house than all the world outside it, and more to grandmother than all the people Emma had ever met. Such was the girl''s fascination that she unleashed a bombardment of questions, severe enough to cause the old women seek shelter in the kitchen. "We will keep these secrets from your mother, won''t we?" grandmother Orwell said as she lay plates upon the table. "She wouldn''t understand, or want you to visit again if she knew that you''ve been feeding my daemons." "Your what now?" Emma soon sat at the table with the daemon egg beside her plate. She rolled it carefully back and forth over the oak, watching the spines bend gracefully without breaking. Old bony fingers like claws wrapped around Emma''s shoulder as grandmother hovered behind her chair. "Why are you afraid of me?" the old woman whispered hoarsely into Emma''s ear. Emma jumped so badly that she pricked herself upon the egg. She marveled at her fingers, feeling instead of pain, a relaxing intoxication radiating from the small hole in her hand. Her finger bled gently, but felt like warm underwear fresh out of the dryer. "I''m not afraid of you, grandmother. I like things I don''t understand." "You do?" Grandmother''s wrinkles stretched, animating in excitement. She placed a plate of roast potatoes and garlic that smelled better than home. "I enjoy a mystery like I enjoy looking at food before I eat it," Emma said, flexing her little fingers in anticipation. "I know I''ll understand soon enough, and I know I¡¯ll enjoy understanding it when I do." "There are some mysteries which will never be understood. Will you enjoy those too?" "I don''t believe those exist," Emma said primly. "And even if they did, you couldn''t prove it couldn''t be understood tomorrow after a full night''s sleep." "People are afraid of me," grandmother sighed. Next she brought links of thick sausages and sauerkraut, steaming the air with rich invitation. "I don''t explain myself because I wouldn''t be understood even if I did. That makes me mysterious, fine so be it. And that makes them afraid; why should I care? I think the postman ¡ª the nice Asian man with the goatee ¡ª he seems to think I''m a witch. Can you imagine?" "Quite easily," Emma said truthfully. "You do wear an awful lot of black. And you did say you had, daemons, is that right? Fire and brimstone, sort of thing?" "You have one too now, so be careful with that egg. And that doesn''t make you a witch either. Anyone can have a daemon," grandmother huffed. Emma considered this, and found it reasonable. "You don''t, um," Emma began, faltering. She poked the sausage with an adventurous fork. "I do not eat the daemons, no," grandmother said patiently. "There are wishes inside the eggs. If you raise them carefully and let them hatch, then the daemon inside will grant your wish from gratitude at being let into the world. It''s a sort of summoning, you see. I¡¯ve wished for all sorts of things over the years. Got me out of my second marriage, a daemon egg. Of course they do have a wicked sense of humor, so you have to be very careful you are wishing for exactly what you want." "I don''t think I could do that without telling mom.¡± Grandmother allowed her wrinkled face to melt into her hands. She let out a long sigh. "You''re right. Of course, you¡¯re right. I don¡¯t know what I was thinking. What could a little girl possibly want with a miraculous wish. Not when you could get in trouble with your mother. I would hate for the chance to discover the hidden magic of the world to interfere with your education, or your chores. Speaking of which, don¡¯t forget that while you are here you will also be doing the dishes. And if you don¡¯t like my daemons, then I am sure I can find lots of less mysterious everyday chores that need doing as well.¡± ¡°I do like them though!¡± Emma insisted. ¡°I¡¯ve never liked anything so much which might want to eat me, ever since I saw the tigers at the zoo. But like the tigers, maybe a daemon is better to visit than to have as a pet.¡± Grandmother was furious and wouldn¡¯t speak for the rest of the evening. She went to bed early and left Emma to do all the dishes by herself. Emma didn¡¯t complain, although she was more hurt than she admitted. She liked the idea of Grandmother thinking she was special. She wanted to do things that her mother wouldn¡¯t have done, to be braver than her she ever was. And one day when she had a daughter, no doubt named Esmeralda or something equally curious, then she hoped her daughter would learn to be braver than her. But not too brave, Emma decided thoughtfully, as people who are too brave get eaten first. Lying awake that night on the hard, narrow, guest bed, Emma looked up at the wooden rafters and wondered if she made a mistake. What would she even wish for, if she got the chance? If it wasn¡¯t from a daemon, then she might have wished for a new friend at school. But what sort of friend would a daemon give her? Not a very nice one, she decided, which was good because nice friends were so boring. Anyway, if they were so great at granting wishes, then why did grandmother seem so miserable all the time? Maybe grandmother really was a witch. It wasn¡¯t right for children to visit witches alone, but then again it must be right to visit your own grandmother. Ensure your favorite authors get the support they deserve. Read this novel on Royal Road. There was another clock hanging in the guest bedroom. Emma watched it by the moonlight, staring absentmindedly for several minutes before realizing there were no hands on the face at all. She drew the blankets up to her chin and shivered slightly in the warm summer night. Whatever she decided about the egg, Emma knew there were too many important mysteries here to leave them buried. She would make an effort to play along better and humor grandmother tomorrow so she wouldn¡¯t be offended again. She would learn everything she could, and pretend to believe even when she didn¡¯t, and pretend to agree even when she thought grandmother was out of her mind. She would ask about the clocks, and what she kept in the other rooms, where the demons came from, and why they wanted to be here, and how grandmother met them, and what she had wished for, and¡­ And a thousand other dreams which never came to be. Emma must have fallen asleep, because she was woken not long after by the sound of a shrill bird flying into the sun and bursting into flames. Sitting up in bed and listening, Emma realized groggily that her mother must have returned early. Still in her pajamas, the girl opened her door a crack and peaked through to hear what the fuss was about. ¡°Your mother changed her mind. Flighty bird.¡± Grandmother stood nearby in the hall. She was in her nightgown as well: the first black nightgown Emma had ever seen, although very tasteful in black lace trim. Mother was as Emma saw her last, except for the maniacal energy which possessed her, pacing back and forth down the hall. She lit up at once upon seeing her daughter. ¡°Don¡¯t you want me to visit grandmother anymore?¡± Emma asked passively. ¡°I¡¯m sorry, Emma,¡± her mother replied in agitation. ¡°Of course you can visit, whenever you like. Only we should have done a better job planning. I forgot about your school project that you need to finish this weekend with the paper-mache. You¡¯ve got all your supplies at home. And your dad¡¯s conference is next week, and he wants to spend time with you before he leaves, and of course I have a million things to do, but I know you¡¯ll help¡­ and¡­¡± ¡°If your mother really wanted you to stay with me, you would have done it before now,¡± grandmother interrupted gruffly. ¡°Get your things, Emma, it¡¯s a long drive. All of your things, mind you.¡± She put a particular emphasis on this last part. Emma stared into her eyes ¡ª almost invisible and black buried deep within the folds of her face. There was still so much she wanted to ask, but now there was no chance. Grandmother¡¯s face softened, as if in understanding. ¡°For a girl who loves mysteries, you will have to discover the joy of the questions with no answers, or be driven mad by them,¡± grandmother added enigmatically. ¡°I will find an answer to everything, and shall go mad anyway,¡± Emma declared cheerfully. ¡°This. This is exactly the sort of nonsense I was talking about when ¡ª ugh.¡± Emma¡¯s mother ran her fingers through her black hair which looked like a stampede of elephants had already passed through. ¡°I¡¯m sorry, it¡¯s late, we need to go. Hurry Emma, get dressed. I¡¯ll be waiting for you in the car.¡± Emma was fully dressed, standing in her room, staring at the egg. It sat on her bedside table, promising everything but answers. Emma could still feel the warmth in her hand where the spine had pricked her. If it was poison, then it was already in her veins, no doubt in her heart, working its magic on her in peculiar ways. What if she needed an antidote? What if she didn¡¯t want to become like her mother, always fretting over normal life and having no room left for the hidden magic of the world? In that moment, Emma was sure she would regret not having the egg more than she would regret keeping it. After all, she could always destroy it and throw it away before it hatched if it ever came to that. The car parked outside began to honk. Emma took a deep breath. She tried to put the egg into the front pocket of her hoodie, but the spines caught on the fabric and wouldn¡¯t go in all the way. Taking care not to prick herself again, Emma took off her sweatshirt and wrapped the egg in it, hurrying into the night after her mother. In the backseat of the car, hoodie on her lap, Emma looked out the window to see grandmother Orwell standing on her front steps. She didn¡¯t have the porch light on, but Emma thought she could see something with black scales wrapped around her neck like a scarf. Sinuously twisting, not around but inside out and back again, turning over through and glistening beneath the moon. Then they were gone, driving down the dirt road and back to a world of rules, and books, and real and make believe, with a hard line drawn between. Emma felt like she wanted to cry without fully knowing why, ashamed and proud of the secret she kept from her mother, wrapped snuggly in her hoodie. When Emma got home, she put the egg into a shoe box in her closet and hid it beneath a pile of old sweat pants. She resolved not to take care of it or let it hatch, but just to keep an eye on it, and study it. Next time she saw grandmother again, she¡¯d be able to prove that she could keep a secret, and that would be enough for the witch (who was not a witch) to tell everything she wanted to know about the chickens (which were not chickens). Exactly three days later, mother received a phone call which reduced her to a nervous fit. She sat on the floor of the kitchen with her back against the stove, crying for almost ten minutes before Emma could get a word out of her. She¡¯d tried to call her father for help, but he was on his trip, and wasn¡¯t answering. Grandmother Orwell was dead. The doctor said she had a stroke, caused by a blood clot in an artery which led to her brain. There was a high dosage of a substance in her blood which the doctor had yet to identify, but he said it was likely due to an unusual reaction from her combination of medications. Emma said nothing with her lips. She said nothing with her eyes. And she wished her heart said nothing too, but could not make the wild thing be silent. It was grandmother¡¯s heart which beat within her chest, dancing to music only she could hear, whispering secrets only she knew. Now Emma had a secret of her own: one she would jealously guard against all the world who would dare to tell her magic was not real. CH 3: Emmas Plan Emma May didn''t cry when grandmother died. She wasn''t the kind of girl to cry when she was sad. She would only cry during movies, usually when it seemed like the character should cry, but they weren''t because they were trying to be strong for someone else. Emma didn''t smile when other people were around either. She hasn''t smiled since grandmother Orwell died last night. Her mother can¡¯t tell whether that''s unusual or not. Emma found it embarrassing to wear her heart on her sleeve like that. Her heart was a precious thing, a fragile thing, which feels too deep to risk it being seen feeling anything at all. Emma turned the daemon egg over in her lap. The brush of their spines sent a warm shiver; electricity through her spine. She felt a guilty pleasure at the idea of finding any happiness in grandmother''s death, but truthfully she didn''t know the woman well enough to love her. Her mother had always been distant with her own mother, and there was no denying the woman had a frightful presence. When she scowled at you, it felt like an avalanche was coming down on your head. Emma would like to do that. Emma would like to be terrifying. And she always fancied grandmother''s black lace gowns with their bone buttons. They would be too large for her, but she she could hem them using grandmother¡¯s sewing machine. So no, Emma decided, she was not sad. She felt sorry for her mother, and even a little embarrassed for her emotional waterfall, if she was being honest. And yes, Emma decided, she would be happy if she had a black lace gown, which would fit her as perfectly as a porcelain doll. She would wear her hair back this year, and the pale skin of her neck will contrast wonderfully with the black lace. Her hair won¡¯t cover her face like it used to, because now she had something to hide for real. Everyone knows you don''t try to look like you have something to hide when you really do. Emma tied her hair back in a ponytail, watching her silhouette in the dark mirror on the little wooden desk in her bedroom. The lights were off. The shades were drawn. The door was locked. "Does the light still bother you before you''re hatched?" Emma asked the strange scaled egg. "I won''t tell mother. Can you imagine? She''d have such a nervous fit," Emma cooed. "She''d smash you up with a hammer and pretend you never existed at all. I thought about doing that too, but I think it''s very important that you hatch and that I get my wish. I haven''t decided what it will be yet, but I think grandmother knew she was going to die, and she needed me to have you first." The egg said nothing and listened. Ideal traits in a friend, Emma thought. "I hate asking this question, but I haven¡¯t found a better way of doing it yet. Would you like to be my friend? ... you would ... oh that''s wonderful! We¡¯re going to have such a nice time together," Emma said to her egg, pausing throughout to give it chances not to reply. "Of course, there is still the matter of the daemons locked up in grandmother''s chicken coop." Emma sighed and sprawled back onto her narrow bed. She looked up at the glow in the dark stickers pasted on the ceiling. The lights would probably be off already, even if she didn''t have a daemon egg to take care of. How much of a burden could it be to take care of an egg? What does one even do? She wasn''t going to sit on it. There wasn''t a wish in the world worth the risk of being seen sitting on an egg. She¡¯d rather be eaten by daemons than give the world that much ammunition to shoot her with. "I could go back and free the other daemons." It sounded like a bad idea, even as she said it. "But then of course, I would sort of be responsible for the trouble they get into, wouldn''t I? That''s not really fair, since I would only be doing the right thing. Daemons are known for getting into trouble though, so letting them go would be a sort of malicious negligence like letting your dog drive, wouldn''t it?" The egg seemed to bristle for a moment, but perhaps that was only her imagination. She rolled it back and forth on the bed, her hands never straying far from the warm sensation of its needles. "Of course, I couldn''t just leave them there locked up in the chicken coop to starve either. Knowing they''re hungry in there and not telling anyone, well that would be my fault too? How is everything my fault? I haven''t even done anything yet!" Emma sighed dramatically. She lay her thin arm across her face to watch the lace curtain close over her eyes. "I will have to go and feed them. But it''s two hours away, mother will never take me often enough. That means I''ll really have to stay there and take care of them, won''t I? Mother would never allow it." The egg silently disagreed with her. "What are you not saying to me?" Emma interrogated her mute victim. "It''s true, mother was happy to have me out of the house for the weekend. She tried to drop me off at grandmother''s, after all. And it''s true, that no one else will be staying there, now that grandmother¡¯s gone. And still the truth, dear egg, that I could volunteer to feed her ¡°chickens¡±, and stay there on my own until school begins again. A house full of daemons, and secrets, all alone to explore. How do you speak so much truth without a word?¡±If you encounter this story on Amazon, note that it''s taken without permission from the author. Report it. Emma put the egg carefully beneath her pillow before leaping to the door. She was about to rush and tell her mother about her idea, before pausing to reflect: Was it really the wisest decision to stay alone in a house full of daemons? Was the postman perhaps so afraid of grandmother because he fell into one of her traps? Emma wouldn¡¯t put it past the old woman to put trip wires in the bushes for intruders, and who knows what other curse may conceal her darker secrets? But of course, the darker secrets were the only ones that were interesting. What in Emma was drawn to the darkness? The same pull that draws one to any secrets: so that she may be the light to reveal them. ¡°I won¡¯t be alone,¡± Emma reassured herself. ¡°I¡¯ll have you with me, little egg. I¡¯ll have the daemons to keep me company. They did seem to like me. Anyway, I don¡¯t know how I¡¯m supposed to make you hatch without their help, so that¡¯s the end of it. I¡¯ve got two weeks for the other daemons to hatch you before school, and if something goes wrong, mother is only a two hour drive away.¡± Emma found her mother sitting in the kitchen with an open magazine in front of her. She wasn¡¯t reading it though, preferring to stare out the window at the rain streaking down the glass. ¡°How are you doing?¡± Emma asked. She hurriedly built an emotional wall within herself, ready to withstand whatever flood might pour forth. ¡°I¡¯m still here, aren¡¯t I?¡± Her mother smiled at her, a rare peace upon her face. Perhaps this sea has already drained itself dry. ¡°Will you miss her?¡± Emma asked, curiosity getting the better of her. Mother threw up her hands in exasperation. ¡°Of course I should. I mean, I will, once I get over the shock. You know we didn¡¯t agree on everything all the time.¡± ¡°You don¡¯t say?¡± Emma said mildly. She sat down at the kitchen counter. Plain white tile, so much less interesting than the bricks and gnarled wood at grandmother¡¯s. ¡°Who is going to live at her house now?¡± Emma began cautiously. ¡°Live there? No one is going to live there. We¡¯re going to fix the place up and it¡¯s going to be sold.¡± ¡°Who is going to feed her chickens until then?¡± ¡°What chickens? She doesn¡¯t have any chickens.¡± ¡°Yes she does,¡± Emma insisted earnestly. ¡°She had six chickens in a coop in the back yard.¡± Emma then brightened, a sly smile spreading across her face. ¡°We¡¯re going to have to take care of the chickens here at home.¡± No dark secret or portal to hell could elicit such a face from mother as the ghastly horror which possessed her. ¡°We don¡¯t have a yard. There is no space for chickens here,¡± she said, her tone hushed and urgent as though afraid the chickens would hear and grow furious. ¡°We can¡¯t just let them starve,¡± Emma said patiently, a hawk circling her prey. ¡°We¡¯ll have to keep them inside. But don¡¯t worry, after staying there I know all about chickens. They can stay in the living room, and I¡¯ll build a house for them out of the sofa cushions. You¡¯ll hardly notice them, except for when they start crowing at the break of dawn. Of course there¡¯s nothing you can do about the smell, and we can only hope they don¡¯t attract some other animal, like a coyote, which might try to break a window and ¡ª¡± ¡°No! Please stop!¡± Emma¡¯s mother begged. ¡°No chickens in the house! I don¡¯t care if I have to break their necks myself!¡± ¡°Mother!¡± Emma reprimanded sternly. ¡°I¡¯m sorry, but it¡¯s true.¡± ¡°I won¡¯t have it,¡± Emma insisted. ¡°Too much about death already. I have another idea.¡± And so Emma told mother her plan, swooping in to save her from the problem she didn¡¯t know existed a moment before. ¡°Two weeks is too long to spend on your own. You¡¯re only twelve years old, Emma.¡± ¡°I¡¯m much older than my age, you know that.¡± Her mother laughed, wiping her tired eyes with the back of her hand. ¡°You¡¯ll starve and have to eat the chickens yourself then. You can take care of them for one week, but after that I¡¯m going to come visit you. I¡¯ll bring you fresh food, and then I¡¯ll be ready to do something about the chickens.¡± One week would be enough to explore the mysteries of the house. Emma congratulated herself on the compromise, as though she was acting older and wiser simply by reducing the duration of her stay. If worse came to worse, and that worse was only limited by the bottomless pit of Emma¡¯s imagination, then three seconds would be too long to bear the anguish, let alone a week. If the daemons got out and all went wrong, what was one week less in hell? Nevertheless, Emma had made up her mind, and her mother knew she could only surrender before such indomitable stubbornness. Emma raced upstairs to pack her suitcase, two steps at a time, a dark energy already giving spring to her step. A backpack ¡ª not big enough ¡ª there the rolling suitcase. Socks, jeans, sneakers, she didn¡¯t really care. She would be wearing grandmother¡¯s things anyway. And who was going to see her out there in the middle of nowhere? It was a long drive to make again so soon, but Emma was eager, and mother seemed just as ready to have some time alone. They listened to music on the way, each lost in their own thoughts until mother¡¯s cellphone rang. Emma fished it out of mother¡¯s purse, and put it on speaker phone while she drove. ¡°Hello? Mrs. May?¡± ¡°Speaking.¡± ¡°My name is Doctor Almer, we spoke earlier. I just wanted to let you know we did get that last lab test back regarding your mother.¡± ¡°You mean the strange substance in her blood?¡± ¡°Yes ¡ª and you¡¯ll never guess. Oh, I¡¯m sorry, not that you should have to. But it was ink. Black ink, like you¡¯d write with a quill. And not a trace of any kind of puncture or wound to let the damn stuff in. Anyway, we¡¯re all having quite a puzzle about it here, so do let us know if you can think of anything which might have caused this.¡± ¡°The crazy bat must have been drinking it. Probably thought it was a potion of some sort, the poor old thing,¡± Emma¡¯s mother said. ¡°Well no, that wouldn¡¯t be sufficient for it to enter the bloodstream ¡ª¡± Just then a car honked from behind. Mother jumped and nearly squealed before making her turn. ¡°I¡¯m sorry, I¡¯m driving. I can¡¯t talk now. I will call again next week when I have more time.¡± Ink? Emma puzzled. What could grandmother have gotten herself into? What was she getting herself into now? CH 4: The Escape Grandmother Orwell''s house used to be a shed, before it was a ranch, before it was a barn, before it was a farmhouse, before being briefly renovated into the state governors mansion, before being given back to grandmother in an unusual circumstance. Emma had never heard the full story, and now she never will. It was likely however, she thought, that one of the daemon eggs hatched and granted grandmother a wish to fix up her house. The house was like no other, rebuild and expanded over the years. Parts stitched together from different times, some wood, some brick, some rock, giving it the appearance of Frankenstein''s monster. The most striking feature was the round white stone tower, three stories tall, one higher than the rest of the house. It was an addition made during the governor''s occupation, with great Victorian windows which seemed completely out of place above the humble farmhouse below. The house stood alone on a hill, with two old beach trees shading the chicken coop in the back yard. The closest neighbor was less than a block away. After that it was a few blocks, and then a mile or two. If something unexpected happened -- and Emma surely wished that it would, although not the nasty kind -- then it would take time for her to get help. "Are you sure you''re old enough to stay here on your own?" her mother asked. She was wringing her hands uneasily. She unlocked the front door, but seemed reluctant to step inside. If Emma wasn''t sure, she''d never admit it. She did wish they had been able to get an earlier start in the day though. The shadows were already lengthening, decorated with the black scales which haunted Emma''s imagination. "I can take care of myself. I''m not eleven anymore," said the twelve year old girl as she dragged her overstuffed backpack along the ground. She loved the house again as soon as she saw it. In some way, she knew the house was hers. Of course no one else was aware of this, or would agree had they known. Her mother shivered, nodding vigorously, as though to convince herself. "Everyone has their own process. How you handle things, like grief -- you''re more like my mother than you are like me. I''m sorry that we couldn''t have ended on better terms. I''m sorry about a lot of things." Her mother sighed, rubbing her tired eyes with the backs of her hands. "Thanks for bringing me here." Her mother nodded again, more sure this time. "I just want you to know that I understand we aren''t quite the same, and that''s okay, we don''t have to be. If you think having some time alone and staying at your grandmother''s house is going to bring you closer to her, and give you peace about what happened... well it''s not how I would handle it, but I respect it''s how you want to, and I want you to have that experience." "I just wanted to feed the chickens," Emma offered meekly. "Right. Of course. The chickens." Mother smiled tensely. "Give me a hand with the groceries then. You''re sure you want to be eating hot dogs every day?" "Chickens eat hot dogs, right?" "Of course, dear, everything eats hot dogs," her mother said, distracted. She was pulling brown paper bags of food from the trunk of the car and laying them on the cobblestone path leading up to the door. "That''s what I was thinking too," Emma said, content. "Anyway I have a few books left on my summer reading list, and this will give me a chance. Are you sure you''re going to have enough to do without me around?" Mother laughed, then caught herself. "I can never tell when you''re being serious or not. And you don''t think you''re going to be lonely here for a week?" "I am quite sure you aren''t serious." Soon after Emma stood on the cobblestones and waved. Her mother waved back, blew a kiss, honked the car horn twice, and she was gone. Emma flinched at the sound, but smiled until the car was out of sight. Then she strained her ear, listening for any reaction to their sound. "I''m sorry about the noise!" Emma shouted, flinching again at the realization of hypocrisy. First Emma walked through the house slowly, turning on the lights one by one. The kitchen lights, the hall lights, the stair lights, the bedroom lights, the porch lights... until there wasn''t a dark corner left for a daemon to hide in. Emma left her backpack in the guest bedroom she stayed before. Then she went to the backyard, turning on those lights as well. Then hesitating on the porch, she turned off those lights again. "I know you don''t like the lights, chickens. And I don''t know how you feel about noise, but I promise I make very little." Emma pulled out her phone to use as a flashlight instead. She walked carefully through grandmothers garden to stand before the slouching red chicken coop. She wooden bar locked the door. Distinct rustling from inside. Emma gave a deep breath of relief. They were still there. But even without opening the door, she could feel something was different than when she visited with grandmother. Instead of the soft sounds of stretching across the hay, there was the scraping of claws against the wood. Angry sounds, wild sounds, daemons dashing back and forth across the room.The narrative has been taken without permission. Report any sightings. "Easy, easy," Emma cooed. "Do you know what happened to grandmother?" BOOM BOOM. Two heavy thuds in quick succession. The boards of the chicken coop trembled. BOOM BOOM. The daemons were hurling themselves against the walls. They were mad. They wanted out. "I know you''re upset. I''m upset too, but I''m sorry I have to ask: did you have anything to do with grandmother''s death? Why was there ink found in her blood?" Scratch scratch scratch against the walls. Then silence. "That''s better," Emma said. "I''m going to be taking care of you now, alright? You''re not going to give me a hard time when I try to feed you." Silence. Not a rustle, not a stir. Emma waited patiently for about ten seconds before beginning to worry. What if they had torn a hole in the back fence? What if they had already escaped? "Chickens?" Emma called. In that moment, she wanted them to be chickens so much more, she would prefer to call them that so not to be afraid. "Chickens are you there? Do you want me to feed you, or not?" The silence was a cruel master, and Emma was unwilling to serve. Unable to bear it any longer, she lifted the wooden bar and opened the door. Brandishing her phone''s flashlight like a sword, she swung it back and forth to ward them away as she entered the coop. A terrible hiss surrounded her, and the beating of black wings like a swarm of bats streaming toward her. Emma screamed. She swung the phone around trying to shield her face. The air was thick with them, half flying, half crawling over the walls on clawed wings. They were larger than chickens, more like a monkey really. Emma didn''t get a good look before she covered her face, only enough to see the black scales, the shining claws, the leathery wings. But strangest were the misaligned eyes: never appearing in pairs, numerous and usual in their size and color and expression. Human eyes, tiger eyes, runny eyes dripping with wax, eyes like twinkling stars, or serpent eyes, hypnotic and hungry. "Come back here this instant!" Emma shouted helplessly. It was too late. The daemons had escaped. All six of them, bounding and leaping and flapping and hurling themselves to vanish over the neighbor''s fence. "You can''t!" Emma cried in exasperation. "Grandmother took care of you! You ungrateful... chickens come back! Who is going to feed you now?" Emma wanted to cry. For the first time since grandmother died. She''d told herself she wasn''t a little girl anymore, and didn''t know the woman well, and a lot of other sensible things which she couldn''t remember right now. Emma thought she was like grandmother, and could do anything she could do, and now she''d made a mess of it already. She was more like her mother after all, emotional and out of control. Emma raced back inside to check her backpack. The black daemon egg she brought was still there, safely padded with her t-shirts. Emma ran back to the fence, checking the coop in case the chickens listened to her and came back, full of sorrow and regret for how they behaved. The coop was empty. There weren''t even any eggs left inside. Just matted straw, with little pools of what looked like melted candle wax here and there. She shined the light down into the food trough, and saw it squirming and teaming and shying away from her light. She''d been feeding them worms and maggots of all shapes and sizes and colors, all jumbled together like forbidden candy. Numb and shaken, Emma walked outside again and stared at the fence where the daemons disappeared. She jumped in alarm to see the face of a boy about her own age staring back at her from over the top. "Did you lose something?" the boy asked innocently. He looked like someone you''d find on an advertisement saying ''boy golly gee would I ever like one of those.'' He wore a pressed buttoned shirt like he was in church. A little too clean and neat and swell for Emma''s mood. "Yes I lost my chickens! They''ve escaped and I think they went --" "Your chickens?" he interrupted. He cocked his head to the side, not comprehending but intending to, like a golden retriever. "How long have you been watching?" "I know chickens, missy. Those weren''t chickens." Damn it. Emma stomped her foot. She scrunched her face in frustration. There was a small yellow dandelion growing beneath a crack in the stone nearby. It looked as though it had a hard life, but nothing could have prepared it for Emma ripping it from its roots and stuffing the entire thing into her mouth. She chomped angrily on it, then spat it out on the ground. She didn''t know why she did that, but she felt a little better afterward. She was waiting for the neighbor boy to explode with questions and accusations. Maybe he''d call the police. It wasn''t a crime to let daemons loose, right? Emma would rather be found in hell than jail, with her mother having to pick her up. She''d never hear the end of it. The boy didn''t say anything though. He only watched, his head resting on the wooden board, no concern or curiosity to what''s around or behind him. "Did you know grandmother Orwell?" Emma asked at last. "Sure did," he replied. "She let me take care of her chickens sometimes when she went away." "Oh wow, okay. So you know they''re daemons." Emma put her hands on her head and took in a deep breath. It was a relief not to be the only one carrying this secret. But at the same time, she was a little disappointed, having thought she was the only one Grandmother trusted. "Where are they going?" he asked, leaning his head back the other way. "I don''t know. You don''t seem very alarmed though. They must get out all the time." "Nope," the boy said. "My name is Charlie. Would you like me to help you find your daemons, missy?" "Yes please." The words were so quiet, a whisper beneath a whisper, that surely no one could have heard a few inches away. Charlie couldn''t have heard either, but in a moment he was swinging his legs over the fence and dropping onto her side. "Sorry about your grandmother," Charlie said. "I''m happy to help though. She''s done a lot for me and my family over the years." "Does everyone here know she has daemons?" Emma asked incredulously. "Had daemons," she corrected. It would explain a lot about the postman, certainly. "Just me, and a few of the boys that I told, but I don''t think they ever believed me. Come on, I''ll show you where old Orwell kept her hunting rifle." Emma wrung her hands, catching herself. It was so like her mother to be afraid of something like a gun. But Emma wasn''t like her mother. She wasn''t afraid of anything. "I want to hold the rifle," Emma said emphatically, following Charlie up the porch steps. CH 5: Privacy of the Dead ¡°You aren¡¯t going to tell anyone about this, are you Charlie?¡± Emma would have preferred to have been holding the rifle to his chest as she said this. But she was worried, and it had to be said. Emma stood on the back porch in front of the door. She spread her arms to grip the door frame, a last protection for grandmother¡¯s privacy. ¡°I probably will tell,¡± Charlie said. He scratched his head and grinned sheepishly. ¡°Well you aren¡¯t allowed. You are sworn to secrecy. Or I won¡¯t let you inside.¡± Charlie screwed up his face, wrinkling his nose. ¡°What¡¯s there to be ashamed of? Orwell¡¯s daemons are the coolest thing I¡¯ve ever seen.¡± ¡°It¡¯s not about that.¡± The daemons were her secret. They were what made Emma different from the rest of the world. She wouldn¡¯t give them up that easily, so hatched an idea. She relaxed her arms to her side, and said with a sly smile: ¡°It¡¯s in their contract,¡± Emma lied. ¡°When grandmother summoned them, they put it in their contract to not be talked about. And if that¡¯s broken, then they will burn down the town.¡± Charlie¡¯s eyes stretched and quivered. He seemed genuinely terrified. He glanced over his shoulder, over the fence where the daemons escaped. There had been no sign or sound of them since. Emma patiently continued: ¡°So you¡¯ll stay quiet about them. We¡¯ll find them tonight, get them back in their home before morning, and no one will ever know. And your home won¡¯t burn down, with all your lovely family and pets.¡± ¡°You got it, missy. I won¡¯t say a thing. Not to anybody.¡± Emma opened the door and led Charlie into the house. She turned on all the porch lights, and the entry way lights, and left them on as they passed. She wound smother every shadow a daemon could hide. ¡°Where does grandmother keep the gun?¡± ¡°In the library. The tower part, up the stairs.¡± Emma led up the spiral stairs of the tower to where she¡¯d never been before. She was more comfortable that way. She turned on the stair lights, and up the worn stone steps. There were grooves in the stone as though they had been walked for a thousand years. Emma¡¯s feet fit perfectly into the grooves. She felt like grandmother was walking with her. ¡°We aren¡¯t going to shoot the daemons, understand. The gun is only for just in case,¡± Emma said sternly. ¡°They are my friends. They are only misbehaving because they are upset about grandmother. Once they¡¯re back home, they won¡¯t cause trouble for anyone but me.¡± ¡°Do you know how to shoot a rifle?¡± Charlie asked. ¡°No. But I know how to threaten someone with it, so I will hold it,¡± Emma said firmly. Along the stair hung rows of old photographs in simple wooden frames. ¡°Who are all those people?¡± Charlie asked. Emma didn¡¯t recognize any. They were dressed as regular people might, the men in gray suits, the ladies in dresses and hats. Strangers from another era. Grandmother¡¯s life was as much a mystery to her as any stranger. Emma shrugged. ¡°Was Orwell a witch?¡± Charlie asked. Emma glared at the boy. He didn¡¯t shrink and wither into a toad like she intended. She shrugged. ¡°I reckon so.¡± At the top of the stairs, a small circular library unfurled itself. Emma turned on the lights, and was delighted to see a chandelier above their heads burst to life. Real sparks and flame spluttered up from the twisted black iron holdings to warm the room. But so too the light cast long shadows along the perimeter. There were no windows here. From the dark shelves, to the over stuffed chairs, to the great wooden writing desk, there was cover for all manner of daemons to lurk unseen. ¡°Other than your grandmother, I¡¯ve never asked if anyone was a witch,¡± Charlie said. ¡°I¡¯m not offended.¡± Emma walked over to the writing desk. She tried not to think about the ink in grandmother¡¯s blood. This means she thought about it, while thinking about what not to think about, and thought about it again. On top of the desk were neat stacks of blank paper. In a little holder rested a white bone writing quill like a mountain shrine. It was luxuriously carved with intricate patterns and signs, surely too minute for any hand. There wasn¡¯t any ink, although that could be inside. Within the desk were rows of little storage doors with brass knobs. It was funny to think of grandmother needing privacy now. Emma felt grandmother still kept many secrets though. They weren¡¯t meant for Emma, and it wasn¡¯t any of her business to be here, and grandmother would be so angry if she knew. And that made Emma know this is where she wanted to be. She tried to open the little doors, only to find them locked.If you discover this tale on Amazon, be aware that it has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road. Please report it. ¡°Here we go.¡± Charlie had the rifle out. Emma didn¡¯t know anything about guns, but it seems like the sort of thing you would shoot a duck with. The gun had been in a long box on the floor, beside the poofy blue lace chair. Emma rattled the brass knob of the drawers again. ¡°She locks her desk, but not her gun? Give it to me.¡± ¡°The safety is on.¡± ¡°We¡¯re going to leave it on,¡± Emma said. ¡°It¡¯s a gun for threatening.¡± Charlie hesitated a moment, but Emma was indomitable in her glare. She imagined herself as grandmother scolding a child, who just happened to be taller than her. Charlie nodded and gave it to her. ¡°I guess it belongs to you and your family now. Is this your house?¡± ¡°Yes,¡± Emma said defiantly. ¡°You¡¯re lucky. I wish I had my own house. My place is noisy all the time. I¡¯ve got two brothers and two sisters, and I love all of them, but not all the time. It was a real treat when your grandmother would invite me over. I wouldn¡¯t say her daemons were friends though. They never got closer than sniffing me. And I never saw them in the light.¡± Emma was snooping through the shelves now. Great leather bound volumes. Many had ornate patterns of gilded gold. She pulled one out, only to find it was in a language she didn¡¯t recognize. The very alphabet was strange, with twisting curly bits like electricity running through them. Her heart skipped when she saw something like a body on the floor. In the shadows, against the wall. But no, it was only the padding for a bed and the rumpled blankets. Is this where grandmother slept, on the floor of the library? Or did she have other visitors and pets beyond the daemons Emma had already lost? ¡°If you were a daemon, where would you go?¡± Emma asked absentmindedly. ¡°I thought you were the one who knew. You were telling me about their contracts earlier.¡± ¡°Right. That. I can only say for sure what I remember from stories. But if we¡¯re living in a story of our own now, then perhaps that is the most reliable guide. In the stories I know, daemons want to enter the world. They promise us gifts in exchange. If we take their gift and let them in, then we¡¯re responsible for all the trouble they cause if they escape.¡± Emma headed back down stairs as she talked. She turned off the chandelier, wary of the real flames that sparked here. ¡°What kind of gifts?¡± Charlie asked. Emma felt powerful with the rifle. She marched instead of walking, her finger stroking at the trigger. The courage lasted until she set foot on the porch once more, and looked at an dark empty sky. The sun had fully set now. She had no idea where the daemons had gone. And while it was only a hotheaded threat about the daemons burning down the town, the possibility seemed very real to her now. She took a deep breath, before turning back into the house. ¡°Hey, where are you going? The daemons aren¡¯t in there.¡± Emma went through the house again and turned off all the lights. A minute later she was back on the porch, and turned that light off too. ¡°They don¡¯t like the light,¡± Emma said sternly. ¡°Anyway, we need to let our eyes adjust to the darkness.¡± ¡°If I was a daemon, I would go to church. Smash things up a bit, just to rub it in their faces.¡± ¡°They¡¯re angry about grandmother. Did she spend much time in the church?¡± ¡°Never. Part of why I thought she might be a witch.¡± ¡°Is there somewhere you think might have been special to grandmother? Somewhere she might have taken them, perhaps?¡± Charlie shook his head, glumly. ¡°You didn¡¯t know her very well at all, did you?¡± Emma asked. ¡°She¡¯s your grandmother.¡± ¡°I tried to make her my grandmother! It wasn¡¯t my fault! I would have liked to know her better. And I feel like I do already.¡± ¡°She wasn¡¯t part of anyone¡¯s life but her own, as much as I liked the lady.¡± ¡°How did she help your family?¡± Charlie sat down on the edge of the porch. He started picking at the peeling rubber of his worn sneakers. ¡°Got my parents back together,¡± Charlie said. ¡°Don¡¯t know how she did it. The pastor couldn¡¯t do it. But your grandmother got them in her kitchen and gave them a talking to. I¡¯ve been grateful to her every since. ¡°Did she put a spell on them?¡± ¡°I thought she might have.¡± Emma wouldn¡¯t sit. She felt her way through the dark garden toward the silhouette of the oak tree. If she could stand on top of the chicken coop, she might be able to reach the lower branch. Then she could swing her way up to that higher one, no problem. That would be the best view she could get, since there weren¡¯t any windows in the tower library. Charlie followed her from the porch. Emma set the gun down to rest against the trunk of the tree. ¡°Don¡¯t you touch it,¡± Emma said. ¡°I¡¯ll be watching you, even when I¡¯m not.¡± Then she scrambled on top of the red barn. The slouching angle made it much easier to climb. Using the fence with cross bars as leverage, she soon found her footing. Then she was up, swinging into the branch, wrapping her legs to secure her grip. She cackled slightly in triumph, although cut herself short when she realized it sounded a little too witchy. ¡°Where did grandmother go?¡± Emma called down. ¡°When she traveled and left you with her chickens?¡± She mustn¡¯t forget. They aren¡¯t daemons. They¡¯re only lost chickens, and there was nothing to worry about. ¡°To visit her sisters,¡± Charlie called from the ground. ¡°Are you okay up there?¡± ¡°She doesn¡¯t have any sisters.¡± A mutual silence of shared understanding. ¡°Her witch sisters.¡± Charlie said first. ¡°Her witch sisters.¡± Emma giggled. ¡°It¡¯s wonderful isn¡¯t it?¡± She reached for the higher branches. ¡°I don¡¯t think my pastor would agree, missy.¡± ¡°I mean wonderful that there¡¯s still magic in the world. There are days where it¡¯s easier to believe than others. I think I would have had a much harder time losing grandmother, if I didn¡¯t already know about the magic she had. I know she was part of something bigger though, and that thing is still there with her in it, even if I won¡¯t see her anymore.¡± ¡°I never doubted there was magic in the world.¡± ¡°What? Not even once?¡± Cora hung upside down briefly, looking at Charlie from underneath a branch. Charlie shook his head, barely visible in the dark. ¡°Never.¡± He said the word with such deliberate solemness that Emma couldn¡¯t help but believe him. And there was something magical in that alone, to have such an unbreakable belief. A self fulfilling prophecy, a contract he¡¯d signed in blood. Emma perched herself solidly upon the branch. Looking over the fence, she was bathed in the glow of a distant light. Emma stared into it, and felt as though the gates of hell were opening before her. ¡°Do you see anything up there?¡± ¡°Who lives at the tall green house, few blocks away?¡± ¡°It¡¯s a restaurant. Chinese food, the Dim Sum Palace. Are the daemons on the roof?¡± ¡°No. I don¡¯t know. Probably. It is on fire.¡± ¡°It¡¯s what?¡± ¡°On fire. We¡¯ve got to go. Now. Catch me, I¡¯m taking the shortcut down.¡± The daemons had started a fire already, and it was all her fault. Emma leapt from the branch, willing the earth to swallow her up as she fell. CH 6: A shot and a prayer Emma was ready for battle. She carried the hunting rifle like a club in both hands. The safety was on, but the daemons didn''t know that. Her daemon egg was safely stowed in her backpack, in the guest room, where no one would find it. After losing the other daemons, she was terrified of leaving it behind. But eggs have a reputation for not liking dangerous adventures. Emma was determined to have the opposite reputation. Charlie wasn¡¯t as carefree and innocent anymore. He bore a haunted expression, his gaze frantic and uncertain. He kept looking over his shoulder, or peering around corners into shadows. Emma hurried along the sidewalk toward the fire in the distance. It was about the size of a campfire. Maybe the daemons weren¡¯t the cause, but it was the best clue they had for now. "Can I use my flashlight?" Charlie asked, long strides keeping up. "No lights. It''s bad enough all the city lights must be driving them mad, poor things." "We should call the police." "Out of the question." Emma didn''t turn to look at him while she hustled. All she could see was the fire. All she could feel: the strain on her heart. "Whose side are you on, anyway? The innocent people with their business on fire, or the daemons?" "It¡¯s not about sides. It''s illegal to have daemons," Emma lied. "Straight to jail, you and me both. We have to handle this ourselves. What college would want you, seeing you were arrested for arson, and conspiracy with daemons? That¡¯s worse than failing your final exam!" "I''m starting to think you''re making this up. Do you really have a contract with them, so nobody can talk about the daemons? I didn¡¯t break it or say a word, but they''re still in trouble." Emma strategically ignored this question and hurried a little faster. "Anyway, assuming you really do have a contract," Charlie continued, "why didn''t the contract say they weren''t allowed to start fires or escape? That¡¯s the first thing I would put down." The flames were clearer now. It hadn¡¯t spread yet from where it burned on the roof. What were the daemons doing? It wasn''t that late, but the street was deserted. Why wasn''t someone helping? Emma felt herself beginning to panic. "Okay. Fine. I don''t have a contract. I made it up," Emma confessed. "But I definitely plan to make them sign one as soon as I catch them." "Are you sure you want to keep the daemons? Maybe you''re better off not being involved." "Unacceptable," Emma snapped. "They are not just my daemons, they are my grandmother. Everything that¡¯s left of her. They are my spirit; my soul which has drifted out of my body. They are a magic oasis in the desert, and I am dying for thirst. They are me, they are mine, and I want them back." There was no dissuading her from her path. They soon arrive at the parking lot, empty now. The lights were off inside the restaurant. There were plastic sheets over the windows, and a big sticker which read ''Dim Sum Palace: Closed for renovations.'' "Closed." Charlie panted. He stopped beside her, both short of breath. "That''s good. Nobody hurt." "Hey! Chickens!" Emma called cautiously upward, craning her neck. "I forbid you to cause trouble, chickens!" "How are we going to get on the roof?" Emma carefully circled the building, inspecting it from all sides. Plain concrete walls. Nothing to hold onto. The green tiles on top sloped sharply, and would be difficult to walk on. They might call themselves the Dim Sum Palace, but that''s only because the Dim Sum Dump wouldn''t sell. Maybe it wouldn''t be the end of the world if it burned. Although, surely it would be the end of someone''s world. Emma stood back a way to see the fire burning on the roof. Black scales crept along the edge of the light. Yellow eyes leered over the edge of the roof, then scampered away into shadow. "The chickens!" Emma howled with excitement. Charlie would have preferred her being a little less gleeful. "Come down chickens! Good chickens!" "I thought they hated the light. Then why start a fire?" "The more you hate the light, the more you need its warmth," Emma said in a hushed tone. She repeated something she''d heard grandmother say once, although she didn''t quite know what it meant. Emma coughed, consciously readjusting her voice. She didn''t want to sound shrill like her mother. She wanted her voice to be a low, almost seductive, growl: a panther playing with her food. She wanted to sound like grandmother Orwell. Then maybe the daemons would listen. "I said come down this instant, daemons!" Emma repeated sternly, dropping the evasion of calling them chickens. That did nothing but assuage her own fear. Emma decided she would not be afraid anymore. Not because there wasn¡¯t anything to be scared of, because there was. But because grandmother wasn¡¯t afraid, and she was with her. "You might not have a contract with grandmother anymore, but you can have a new one with me. That''s what you need to bind you to this world, isn¡¯t it, daemons?¡±Stolen from its original source, this story is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings. Five yellow eyes peered over the edge this time. Emma wished they came in pairs. Then they were gone again. Emma looked around frantically. Her eyes landing on a dumpster against the wall. Hope never smelled so foul. "I¡¯m going on the roof." "What? No. How?" "If we both get on the dumpster." "You still wont reach." They talked over each other, but Emma had made up her mind, and decided it was a steamroller. "Once we¡¯re both there, you lift me up." "You''re not that tall!" "Quiet, you silly boy. I know exactly what I can climb, how tall I am, and how tall you are. You are tall enough to lift me, but not so tall that you can talk back and not do what i say!" Charlie sighed and suffered under her glare. He soon surrendered as well. It wasn¡¯t just that the girl had a rifle either, since she had to leave that with him if she hoped to climb. Charlie had always been afraid of Mrs. Orwell though, and he saw the old woman when Emma scolded him. So too he felt that dead witch watching them still. and would be terribly upset with him, if he did not help her granddaughter. The task proved easier than expected. There were some old shelves in the dumpster they could stand on, and they soon had these on top of the dumpster and leaning against the wall. "I¡¯ll go first," Emma said. "I¡¯ll hold the gun." "Fine, but you¡¯ll hand it up to me as soon as I¡¯m on top." Charlie agreed. He helped Emma balance on the shelves, holding her legs when she reached the top. Then she was hoisting herself up, a monkey with a purpose. Charlie held the gun to his chest, cradling it like a fragile thing. He remembered more than one night being woken by a gunshot across the fence. Grandmother had this gun for a reason. Protecting the chickens from the coyotes, she always said. But those chickens didn¡¯t need protecting. The gun was protection against them. Emma was fully on the roof now. She kneels and reached down, gesturing for Charlie to pass the rifle up. She didn¡¯t see daemons slither and bound in from either side. "Emma, look out!" Too late! Hands of shadow, claws of ice, breath of fire, the daemons swarmed her. Five of them seizing hold of whatever piece of cloth or hair they could. They dragged her farther up the roof, disappearing from Charlie''s view. Emma let out a bloody scream. "I''m coming, Mrs. Orwell!" Charlie knew exactly who he was talking to. He stuffed the rifle down the back of his shirt the best he could. Then climbing with both hands, he leaps up the bookshelf and pulls himself onto the roof. The source of the flame revealed: a tin trash can stuffed with burning sticks. But filled no longer, one daemon reaches into the flame with clawed mockeries of hands. It flings the burning sticks wildly, but they land perfectly, the start of one touching the end of the next. Swiftly a smoldering circle was forming around Emma. The daemons glimmer. Their misshapen bodies shift and change even without the dancing firelight. Yellow eyes haphazardly scatter like grapeshot through strange and twisted shapes. Charlie had never seen them in such strong light before. He wished he never had. He couldn¡¯t imagine why Emma would want them for pets. "Let go of her!" he yelled. "Grandmother Orwell is not happy!" Emma shouted at them. Struggling for show, but not so much to rip her clothes, or feel the point of those razor claws. The daemons didn¡¯t care. They howled with laughter, an unearthly chittering sound. The circle was almost complete. Charlie''s rifle flew out from his shirt. He pointed at the daemons holding Emma. Too risky. Then at the one building the ring of fire. "Charlie, don¡¯t!" Emma shouted. Something was happening with the burning sticks around Emma. Their flame was growing brighter and bursting upwards to breathe in the night. An unseen fuel nourished the fire, and great plumes of smoke crowded out the sky. Worse still, Charlie could see monstrous forms and ghostly shapes manifesting in the dark clouds. They were growing more real and solid by the moment. Charlie didn¡¯t know a lot about daemons. But he did know they were always trying to get into the world. He knew any moment of weakness could be enough to let them in. This could only be a summoning, he decided at once, his instincts roaring loud. Those monsters might look like they¡¯re made of smoke now, but as soon as that summoning circle was done... it was real claws which pinned Emma now. Whatever came through that smoke would bring hell with it. Why did they have Emma? Charlie could think of only one reason: a sacrifice for their infernal spell. The daemon flinging sticks was alone. A clean shot. Charlie slid the safety switch, cocked the bullet into the chamber. "Charlie!" He flinched. He pointed the gun into the air instead, and fired. The daemons froze. The sound was enough to shatter the night. The flash of the muzzle was painful to them. But so too they seemed to recognize that particular gun, knowing where it came from, and what it could do. The daemons scattered. They dove from the roof in every direction. Emma fell spinning to the roof, where she spread out to get her grip. Charlie nearly toppled over backward on the angled tiles. He swayed dangerously before catching himself and crouching low. Emma collapsed onto her back, laying spread eagle, staring up at the sky. "Are you alright?" Charlie asked, picking his way up the roof toward her. "Charlie charlie charlie... now look what you''ve done." "I saved you from the daemons, that''s what." Charlie stomped on the last smoking embers on the tiles. The burning trash can was subdued. The flames really must have been part of a spell, because they lost all their vitality without the daemons. "What if they never come back?" "So much the better." "They were trying to tell me their secret," Emma growled. "They wanted to show me something in the smoke, only you ruined it. Now they wont ever trust me again!" "Are you sure? How do you know?" Charlie asked sheepishly. Emma stood up to snatch the rifle back. Charlie was quick to get the safety back on before passing it back. "I don¡¯t know, because you ruined it!" Emma snapped, frost and venom. She really was starting to sound like the old witch. "I didn¡¯t understand their language. It¡¯s just like those odd books in their own alphabet that grandmother has in the library. I think I need to find her real contracts, and figure out what they really say." "I¡¯m sorry. I was only trying to help." The stillness of the night returned only briefly before being ruined once more. The hunting wail of a police siren. Flashing lights at the end of the block. Grandmother might be able to fire a gun, but she wasn¡¯t here anymore. "We have to get away," Emma declared. "Quick, climb back down before they catch us! It may not be illegal to own a daemon, but we certainly don¡¯t have a license to hunt them in the city!" CH 7: Grandmothers Key The flames in the chandelier somehow create more shadows than they banish. There are books on the floor which Emma hadn¡¯t remembered being there before. Had the rumpled bedding in the corner moved since they left? ¡°We should turn off all the lights again,¡± Emma said. ¡°If the police knock, then we can pretend no one is home. And it will make it more likely for the daemons to come back.¡± ¡°I don¡¯t want to.¡± Charlie said gruffly. He¡¯d been quiet the whole way back from the Dim Sum Palace. Emma returned grandmother¡¯s gun back to the box beside its stuffed chair. She thinks of everything in the house as belonging to her now, but not the gun. She trusted daemons more than it. Charlie didn¡¯t follow her into the library. He hesitated, half turning in the doorway. ¡°Umm¡­ well I wanted to help, but it¡¯s getting late and all¡­¡± ¡°It¡¯s your fault I have to deal with the police too. The daemons weren¡¯t going to hurt me. I don¡¯t know about the police.¡± ¡°You don¡¯t know that. You don¡¯t know anything about them, do you? You¡¯re just making it up.¡± ¡°Everyone makes up everything, but I happen to be correct,¡± Emma said defiantly. ¡°I bet I know more about daemons than you do. I knew your grandmother better than you did. She probably even loved me more. Admit it.¡± Emma sat down in the over stuffed chair. She daintily crossed her legs. If nothing else, she was looking forward to getting out of these old jeans and into grandmother¡¯s closet. She might even start sewing and hemming her lace gowns with their bone buttons right away. It¡¯s not like she would be sleeping tonight, with the daemons still on the loose. ¡°I do not like your tone,¡± Emma said stiffly. ¡°You are the one who offered to help. If you decide to leave after only making things worse¡­ well, no one is making you stay. But I will remember if you leave, and I will remember if you stay, and witches have long memories.¡± ¡°You are not a witch!¡± Charlie nearly shouted. He clapped his hands over his mouth, alarmed by his own volume. ¡°How do you know?¡± Charlie had no good answer for that. He hung his head and respected the wisdom of silence. ¡°You¡¯re already in trouble, Charlie. It¡¯s just a matter of deciding which kind of trouble you¡¯d rather have. Do you know where my grandmother might keep her keys?¡± Charlie shook her head. ¡°I want to open her desk. I think that¡¯s where she keeps her contracts with the daemons. Will you help me search the house for her keys?¡± Charlie nodded, defeated. ¡°Okay. I¡¯ll stick around. Up to two more hours. But I¡¯ll really be in trouble if I get home after 10.¡± The search of the library was quickly exhausted. Emma tried pulling a few random books from the shelves. No secret door or treasure presented itself. Soon she was wandering down the hall, looking in the bathrooms. Nothing in the porcelain tub with clawed feet. Nothing behind the mirror with its silver frame. Nothing in the mirror ¡ª nothing in the mirror. Not even the bathroom. Not even her. Emma stared into what she thought was a mirror a moment ago. But it was more like a window into someone else¡¯s house. It was a rather cozy looking living room, with wreaths upon the fireplace. And even stranger, it was daytime there, and Emma could see snow on the ground out the window. ¡°Find anything?¡± Charlie called from the kitchen. ¡°A mystery for another time,¡± Emma decides. This house must be filled with hidden wonders. She must focus on getting her daemons back. ¡°You might want to see this,¡± Charlie called. Emma wished there were curtains to close over the bathroom mirror. There were not, so she closed the door instead. Down the hall ¡ª were those the same portraits hanging as last time? She was sure they were black and white before, but they were clearly in color now. She shuddered slightly as she entered the warm light of the kitchen. Charlie knelt on the clay tiles next to the open oven. It was like looking into an open mouth, with teeth several rows deep like a shark. The black metal tray inside moved sluggishly like a tongue. Charlie closed the oven again. It looked perfectly normal from the outside. ¡°The poor thing,¡± Emma said. ¡°It probably needs to be fed too, doesn¡¯t it?¡± ¡°Mrs. Orwell never told me about anything else that needed to be fed, beside the ones that already got away.¡± ¡°Do you think the oven makes her dinner for her?¡± ¡°I wouldn¡¯t eat anything that came out of that.¡± Charlie blanched.Enjoying this book? Seek out the original to ensure the author gets credit. ¡°If I was my grandmother, I would wear my key on a necklace. There¡¯s no reason my desk would ever be opened unless I was there to do it.¡± ¡°Well I¡¯m not going to the morgue, but I¡¯ll keep looking here.¡± Emma stomped to the pantry and flung the wooden doors open. Without even looking properly, she slammed them shut again. She felt frustrated. There were no end to the secrets of grandmother¡¯s house. The daemons could be starting fires again even now. Of course she was afraid when the daemons got hold of her. But she believed what she said: they didn¡¯t mean to hurt her. There was something in the fire, like a window into another world. But not like the world in the mirror, full of light and life. In the fire, Emma felt a terrible will bent toward destruction. In the smoke, twisted daemons rose far more horrifying than her little chickens. If Emma¡¯s egg hatched into one of her chicken daemons, she really would keep it forever. She headed to the guest room to check on her egg, still hidden in her backpack. They were almost cute, the ones who escaped. At least no less cute than a pug. At least if you tell yourself pugs are cute. Sometimes a comical deformation can have its own charm, and these daemons were playful caricatures and mockeries of living things. Emma recovered the black scaled egg and breathed with relief. She still had a magic thing. An unasked wish waiting to be hatched. Her agitation immediately quelled with the warmth which spread from its little spines. This feeling could not be an evil thing. She must trust that. Whatever happens, even if the other daemons never came back, she would always have this. Well, maybe always was too strong a word for an egg. But she would keep it safe until it hatched. Emma looked around the guest room and marveled at the possibilities of a wish. Grandmother never said there were limits. Maybe she had only wished for silly things like a new library because that¡¯s all she wanted. Could Emma even bring grandmother back to life? Would she even want to, now that Emma can become a witch of her own? And that was it! The wish to make all the trouble worthwhile. A sly smile spread over Emma¡¯s lips. She would wish to become a witch for real, like grandmother was. Then the daemons would do what she said. It is better to be feared than loved, she thought, because love doesn¡¯t last. But once you¡¯re a witch and have that power, then people will be afraid of you forever. Even if you live to a hundred years old. As a twelve year old girl who read too many dark stories before living her own, Emma thought that made a lot of sense. She¡¯d never wanted to be in love, but had always wanted to be a witch. ¡°Did you find anything in here?¡± Emma startled. She hadn¡¯t heard Charlie approaching from the kitchen. He was right behind her though, looking at the large scaled egg in her hands. It was too late to hide. ¡°What¡¯s that?¡± he asked. ¡°My last daemon,¡± Emma said sadly. Without asking, Charlie reached for it. He brushed aside her hand, and ran his fingers along the scales. A dopey smile spread on his face. They looked at each other, both knowing the other felt the same warmth. Emma felt herself blush, without quite knowing why. It was embarrassing to share such a secret pleasure with this strange boy. ¡°Excuse you. That isn¡¯t yours.¡± Emma pulled the egg away and put it back into her backpack. ¡°I remember that feeling.¡± Charlie sighed and fell back onto the bed. ¡°You aren¡¯t looking.¡± ¡°Neither are you.¡± Charlie kicked off his shoes and pulled the covers up against the sudden chill. As soon as the warmth of the egg was gone, it became so much colder than it had been before she¡¯d touched it. Emma shivered, but let her anger keep her warm. ¡°You are not going to bed until we find the key,¡± Emma scolded. ¡°Just trying to keep warm. How will you hatch it?¡± ¡°What do you mean? It¡¯s an egg. Egg¡¯s hatch, and a daemon will come out.¡± ¡°You¡¯ve not really spent much time on a farm, have you?¡± Emma scowled. The deathly chill was starting to pass though, and she stood her ground. ¡°Okay fine. How do chicken eggs normally hatch?¡± ¡°With a chicken on top.¡± ¡°So you¡¯re saying my daemon egg will only hatch if¡­¡± ¡°If there¡¯s a daemon on top, would be my guess.¡± ¡°That old bat!¡± Emma nearly shrieked. No, she would not sound that way! She lowered her voice, and growled: ¡°Grandmother knew what would happen all along.¡± ¡°Huh?¡± Charlie was fluffing the pillow and getting comfortable in bed. Emma didn¡¯t care anymore. ¡°When she gave me the daemon egg,¡± Emma said. ¡°She knew the only way I could get my wish was for me to watch after the other daemons. That means she must have known something was going to happen to her before it did.¡± ¡°She knew she was going to die?¡± ¡°If she even did die, and it wasn¡¯t all a trick somehow. I don¡¯t think she planned on the daemons escaping though. She couldn¡¯t have, could she?¡± ¡°Maybe you can hatch the egg in the oven.¡± Charlie yawned. ¡°At least, if the oven doesn¡¯t eat it up.¡± Emma considered, but shook her head. Too risky. She was beginning to pace, as she often did in thought, trying to get her body to keep up with her mind. ¡°I think¡­¡± Emma said carefully. ¡°Until proved otherwise, it will be my assumption that grandmother planned for everything to happen. In which case, it is not such a bad thing the daemons have escaped.¡± ¡°How do you mean?¡± ¡°Think of it this way: if grandmother knew she would die and didn¡¯t stop it, then it can¡¯t have been so bad. She was a powerful witch who could do anything. And if she knew the daemons would escape, that was okay too, because she planned ahead by giving me the egg. That means grandmother wanted me to solve the daemon problem, so she must believe that I was up to solving it. And if grandmother believed in me, so much that she didn¡¯t even leave many clues behind, then I must believe in me too. So there¡¯s really nothing to worry about.¡± ¡°Oh that¡¯s good to hear. I guess you don¡¯t mind if we look again in the morning then,¡± Charlie said. He turned onto his side and rolled away from Emma. ¡°Didn¡¯t you say you had to be home?¡± ¡°I lied. They won¡¯t miss me.¡± ¡°That¡¯s fine. They don¡¯t miss me either. I could tell my mother was relieved to get rid of me for a week. You rest your sleepy head. I won¡¯t make a sound.¡± Emma turned off the bedroom lights. She took the egg and her backpack with her when she softly closed the door. Charlie hadn¡¯t expected to get away that easily. One eye opened, he was half-afraid she was still there in the room with him, hiding in the shadows. He was more frightened of her than he was of the daemons. He really was tired though, and was just drifting off to sleep when ¡ª BLAM. The gun went off upstairs. Charlie was on his feet before he was sure whether or not there was a nightmare. He raced upstairs, tripping and falling through the dark. The black and white portraits leered down at him, though he was sure they were color last time he¡¯d passed. ¡°Emma? Are you alright?¡± The library was the only room which had a light. Emma stood by the desk, her skin flushed with a warm glow beneath the flames of the chandelier. The hunting rifle hung from one hand. She grinned at the large splintered hole where the lock used to be in the desk. ¡°Oh good, you¡¯re up already?¡± Emma asked innocent. ¡°Looks like I found the key.¡± CH 8: The Contracts ¡°A second gunshot! What were you thinking?!¡± ¡°I was thinking I wanted to get into that desk.¡± ¡°What about the police? Two shots tonight now. There will be a full investigation.¡± ¡°I¡¯ve decided not to be afraid of the police,¡± Emma said calmly. She put the hunting rifle back in its case beside the chair. ¡°You decided? You can¡¯t decide something like that!¡± Charlie was frantic. ¡°Grandmother wasn¡¯t afraid of them. She used the rifle when she needed to, right?¡± ¡°That¡¯s different. Everybody knew Mrs. Orwell.¡± ¡°Everyone was afraid of her, you mean. Well then they will learn to be afraid of me too.¡± She was back at the desk now, gingerly, almost reverently, pulling out the broken shelves and drawers. ¡°How old are you?¡± Charlie asked incredulously. ¡°Old enough to be feared,¡± she said, matter-of-factly. She reached inside the desk and pulled out a long, thin, red leather case. It was too skinny to hold glasses. Emma opened it, and saw a little bone knife with a black leather handle. At the tip of the knife, the blade split into a little writing quill. Emma used the light from her phone to scan the rest of the desk¡¯s interior. ¡°There¡¯s no ink. That¡¯s odd, right? How did she get ink in her blood?¡± Emma looked at the knife again. She pulled out a stack of papers, written in red¡­ well it wasn¡¯t ink. It smelled a little, the letters ran red dribbles at the corners. ¡°Excuse me?¡± Charlie asked. He didn¡¯t look like he wanted to sleep anymore. He had the frazzled look of someone who might never sleep again. ¡°They don¡¯t know if the ink was the cause of her death, exactly. But there was ink found mixed in with her blood when grandmother died. A contract gone bad, I suppose.¡± Emma studied the papers. The first pile was written in the same incomprehensible alphabet of the books on the shelves. Her eyes then turned to a second pile. These unfortunately had been a little too close to the lock which now lay in shattered pieces around the room. The corner of the pages was shredded and illegible. She scowled fiercely at this. Charlie stood beside her now. He peered over her shoulder at the first pile of indecipherable text. ¡°It¡¯s written in blood? Whose blood?¡± ¡°Whoever is being a bother, I suppose,¡± Emma said. She stared fixedly at him until he took a step back. "It''s in the same daemonic language though." ¡°What¡¯s it say on the other papers?¡± he asked from a polite distance. Emma turned to look. A slow grin spread across her face. ¡°An extra copy.¡± ¡°Well that¡¯s no good. So you made all that noise and broke in for nothing?¡± ¡°An extra copy in English. She¡¯s got one in the daemon language, and one in English. It¡¯s like the Rosetta stone!¡± ¡°The what?¡± ¡°We can translate now! Not just the contracts¡­¡± Emma turned slowly around the library. Her face in wonder. She bounced from foot to foot, then leaping into the air for joy. She didn¡¯t care whether that was something witches do. It¡¯s what they did now. ¡°It¡¯s a cipher!¡± she squealed. ¡°We can use this to translate any of the books here! Books of spells, I bet. Or stories about the daemon world. And hexes, and curses, and potions! You are so lucky, Charlie, that you decided to help before I learned how put a curse on someone.¡± There were two signatures at the bottom of each page, both English and the daemonic contracts. More than six of them though, it would take some work to figure which belonged to the chicken daemons who escaped. Emma ran her finger along grandmother¡¯s neat, tight, cursive script. How much more she could have said if only she''d had time. And a red smear with a peculiar unique swirl. She stared resentfully again at the charred missing corner of the pages before beginning to read. Charlie paced uneasily around the perimeter of the round tower. ¡°I wish there were windows in here. It seems like there are from the outside, so they must be behind the shelves. For all we know, the police are outside right now.¡± ¡°Mhmm,¡± Emma said, not looking up. ¡°Or the daemons. What if they weren¡¯t just frightened by the gun? What if they¡¯re around us in the dark now, planning their revenge?¡± ¡°What evil fruit grows in darkness?¡± Emma asks. ¡°Huh?¡± Emma clears her throat and reads from the contract. ¡°What evil fruit grows in darkness, rotting before it¡¯s plucked to eat? This seal moves, today we mark this plot to feed the daemon beast.¡± ¡°Maybe you shouldn¡¯t read that. In case it casts a spell or something,¡± Charlie warned.This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report. Emma found the words soothing, and rhythmically chanted on. ¡°Come the doors are open wide, I''ll break the seal our worlds divide. I will not run, I will not hide, I welcome you, your time is mine.¡± Charlie moved toward her, but thought better of interrupting her. He turned and started heaving at one of the bookshelves to try and budge it away from the wall. ¡°As long as there is life in me, you will serve my every need. When I am gone, you will be free, returning home at last to sleep. ¡®Till next your contract binds you here, your quests will come to your disaster. You will not rest, you¡¯ll live in fear, you will call pain your only master.¡± Charlie made a little whimpering sound. Even Emma flinched a little as she finished reading the contract. She half expected a firey portal to appear in the air before her, with some lurking daemon reaching out. She cleared her throat again, hoarse and tired with the aging night. It must be almost midnight by now. ¡°There¡¯s the two signatures at the bottom,¡± Emma said. ¡°So you see, I was right about this part after all. They really do need a new contract with someone to stay in the world. I expect they¡¯ll be coming home to make one with me any time now.¡± They both listened to the quiet night, with no whispers of their prayers. ¡°And if they don¡¯t come back,¡± Emma continued slowly. ¡°Then they will not rest. Then they will be tormented. So really they have no choice.¡± ¡°Except for being tormented. Daemons might even like that sort of thing.¡± ¡°Well, yeah. Of course. Like they were in the chicken coop when they escaped. So really you can''t blame.¡± ¡°Sure I can. And the longer they¡¯re gone, the more tormented we might expect them to be,¡± Charlie considered. ¡°Reasonable enough.¡± ¡°And the more tormented they are, the more mad and wild they will be. The more damage they¡¯ll cause.¡± Emma didn¡¯t like the sound of that, but could find no loose board to derail the train of thought. Even worse, her unspoken fear that the daemons would somehow fall into contract with someone else. Then her daemons would be gone for good, her egg would never hatch, and she would never be a witch at all. Just a sad little girl dressing up in her dead grandmother¡¯s clothes. ¡°I¡¯m going to need some help,¡± Emma said reluctantly. Charlie pulled at his hair with both hands. He puffed out his cheeks, and took a deep breath. ¡°I might be able to ask the pastor at my church¡­¡± ¡°No. Help from you, stupid. The more people who know, the more difficult this will be to contain. It¡¯s going to take me time to try to make sense of any of these books to learn something which can bring the daemons back. While I¡¯m reading, I need you to be out there searching for them.¡± ¡°I¡¯m tired. It¡¯s like when you lose a cat. You can only look so much. Then you have to leave it up to the cat to decide.¡± ¡°Except a cat won¡¯t burn down the town or get into trouble,¡± Emma said. ¡°You never know, with a cat.¡± ¡°I¡¯m tired too. Tomorrow then. I can count on you to come back?¡± ¡°Yeah. I¡¯ll come back. On my own. You won¡¯t have to put a spell on me.¡± ¡°And thank you for not telling anyone. When I become a proper witch, I will give you something precious. Do you think that¡¯s why your parents got back together?¡± ¡°Huh?¡± ¡°When my grandmother helped them. Do you think one of your parents helped her get her lost daemons back? And she helped them find love in return?¡± ¡°I never thought about that. Maybe one of my parents already knows about the daemons too. Maybe I can drop a hint and find out. In case your witch signal in the sky doesn¡¯t work, we should probably take each other¡¯s numbers too.¡± Emma smiled. It wasn¡¯t a sly smile, or a knowing smile, or even a sinister smile, which she had practiced in the mirror. It was warm, and honest, and daring the world to say it shouldn¡¯t be. She was more relieved than she¡¯d realized. It was all too much to handle alone. ¡°Thank you, Charlie. But I will likely have to put a spell on you anyway, just to practice.¡± Emma stayed in the library after Charlie left for the night. She pulled out a few books with interesting pictures of daemons on the cover. She got some paper to start translating a few words right away before she slept. Then she realized there was no ink, and she didn¡¯t want to cut herself with the knife. It could wait until tomorrow. The library would be her home now. She would sleep in the rumpled bedding, which she decided smelled like grandmother after all. Emma found grandmother¡¯s closet, and took a few dresses out to lay on the cracked desk. She wasn¡¯t much shorter than grandmother, but the old woman always seemed much taller because of her rigid posture. Emma straightened her own shoulders, her first attempt to loom. There was a knock on the door downstairs. She was ready. Emma left behind the girl upstairs. She took with her only the witch downstairs. She didn¡¯t even flinch when the gruff voice announced: ¡°Police. Please open the door.¡± She did so, pouting her lower lip and rubbing her eyes. ¡°I was sleeping!¡± There were two officers. One had a mustache, the other was a strong woman, who also had a little mustache. The woman¡¯s arm were crossed. The man¡¯s hand floated by his belt. ¡°I¡¯m sorry, miss. Who else lives at this residence?¡± the man asked. ¡°My grandmother, but she died. I¡¯m just watching the house for my mom.¡± ¡°All on your own? What is your name?¡± ¡°Yes sir. I¡¯m Emma Larson.¡± The officers both looked at each other. The man took a step closer, his hand still hovering by his gun. ¡°Was your Grandmother Mrs. Orwell?¡± ¡°Yes sir.¡± ¡°I¡¯m sorry to hear about that,¡± the woman said. ¡°Your grandmother was dearly loved around here." The other officer rolled his eyes. The woman continued: "Do you need anything? Has something you saw or heard tonight made you feel unsafe here on your own?¡± Emma shook her head. ¡°I didn''t hear a thing. I¡¯ve stayed at grandmother¡¯s house lots of times. I¡¯m perfectly responsible.¡± ¡°I¡¯m sure you are, dear.¡± ¡°You didn''t hear anything? No loud noises?" the male officer asked suspiciously. Emma shook her head. Wide eyed and innocent, she said: ¡°I didn¡¯t hear anything. Is there a monster out there?¡± ¡°There was a report of a ¡ª¡± the man began. The woman took him by the arm and led him away. ¡°There¡¯s nothing to worry about, Emma,¡± she said. ¡°Get back to sleep, and keep your doors locked.¡± ¡°Yes ma¡¯am.¡± Emma closed the door. She locked it immediately. Then put her ear to the crack to listen. ¡°She wasn¡¯t sleeping,¡± the man protested outside in a hoarse whisper. ¡°She was wearing jeans and a hoodie.¡± ¡°So what? You put clothes on when you answer the door.¡± ¡°We should at least tell her there was a gunshot, and to call us if ¡ª¡± ¡°She¡¯s old enough to know how phones work, Dave. That old witch¡¯s granddaughter will know how to handle herself.¡± The voices were getting farther away now. Emma kept listening until she heard their car start, and then drive away. Emma leaned her back against the door, and slid to the floor. Her heart was beating so fast, she thought it might explode. She had always been calculating in her speech, but she¡¯d never been a liar like she has been recently. First to mother, hiding the daemons, then to Charlie, pretending she knew more than she did. Now to the police. It was really getting serious. Good people don¡¯t lie. But good people don¡¯t become witches either, do they? Or at least, not the kind of good like the well behaved domesticated people who follow all the rules. But she was a different kind of good. She was good like her grandmother, the kind of good which gives you what you really need, not what you ask for. It was the kind of good that got Charlie¡¯s parents back together. It was the kind of good the world needed, and what she would give them when she was a proper witch of her own. CH 9: Scheming Daemons Dark the night, cold the wind, low the moaning sound. Then the scratching claws against the door. The lock rattled. A probing shadow bled beneath the wood. It was a nondescript building from the outside. The morgue was just a big concrete block, like a prison for the dead. The shadow grips the door from the bottom and shakes it with increasing urgency. The sun will rise soon, and oh how they hate the light. A heavy blow pounded upon the door. A dog started barking, but the world would not wake. The shadows at the base of the door pooled and grew. As smoke, as oil, floating and distorting in the air. One by one the daemons slipped beneath the door to form inside the concrete hallway. There was no light, but those haphazardly scattered yellow eyes blink and wander every which way. Dropping to all fours, or all sixes, or all eights, the daemons sniffed their way along the walls. They stuck clawed fingers beneath the doors, and sniffed at the cracks. Presently one of them squealed with excitement. The others rushed to share its discovery. Through the door, into a large room dominated by giant metal drawers. On the other side were metal lockers. The daemons began throwing these open at once. Jewelry, clothing, shoes, hurled wildly at one another or thrown into the air. The daemons chittered in their alien tongue as they played. They put on the hats and clothing of the dead. A daemon with a tattered blue dress over its head scampered across the floor to collide with the wall. Another was going through someone¡¯s wallet and eating up all the bills. Other daemons sniffed their way along the large drawers. Opening one, the daemons revealed the hard dead face of a fat old man. The daemon smacked him across his cheeks. The neck was so rigid, it barely registered the blow. The drawer closed again, and the daemon sniffed along. Then one discovered what he was looking for. It squealed with delight. The note was harsh and long, soon joined by the other voices. The grating strain of their voices twisted as it rang. The demented melody began in laughter, but ended in torment. The haunting sound could be heard all around the building. A trembling hand rested on the outside door handle. The elderly janitor double checked the pockets of his overalls. He still had the keys. The door was still locked. The lights were all off. Yet the tormented cry rose baleful from inside. It was still only 4 in the morning. He was never here this early, but he¡¯d wanted to get a head start to catch his flight later that day. Surely this sound couldn¡¯t be normal though. The janitor fumbled with the keys. Then with his phone, thinking to call the police. But his fingers felt numb and clumsy, and he never finished dialing. This was no burglary. He froze and listened to the unearthly chorus. He ran to the windows, peering in. Only darkness. The window panes trembled with the straining heights of their song. No human could produce such a sound, he decided. Someone was playing a trick on him. Someone left a stereo on, playing some Halloween crap. Mr. Therney, the mortician? It seemed to the janitor that he recognized the same chittering squeal repeat, and decided it really was a song on loop. He took a deep sigh and fit the key into the lock. Then opening, he turned on the lights in the hallway. ¡°Mr. Therney? Are you here already, Mr. Therney?¡± he called hesitantly. The haunting chorus stopped at once. That really made the janitor¡¯s blood freeze. He stared down the hallway, looking at the lone door which shouldn¡¯t be open. Slowly a black claw reached around the door and drew it in. The janitor didn¡¯t breathe again until it clicked closed. He could not believe his eyes. And so he didn¡¯t. This was the same hallway he¡¯d been down a thousand times. The doors were all closed, just like they should be. Everything was quiet, everything as it always was, except for that image burned into his memory. But surely he was just tired from being up so early. The inhuman song didn¡¯t seem real anymore. The claw certainly not. The janitor stared, and willed himself not to believe, and so he didn¡¯t. And in case he forgot that he didn¡¯t believe, he reminded himself every step. But if he really didn¡¯t believe, why did his heart protest so violently as he approached the door? Why did his fingers cling onto the handle, holding it shut against his will? The janitor opened the door. His hand immediately shot to the familiar light switch just inside. In a second it was on, and his reality shattered. Scaled in places, with patchy fur. Yellow eyes where they didn¡¯t belong. Gaping maws with black tongues and needle teeth. The daemons huddled around that new lady who Mr. Therney processed the other day: Mrs. Orwell. She lay cold and still on the floor. Shadows with substance traced through her gray hair and along her face. Down her long nose, along her stiff proud lips. The daemons cradled and covered her naked body, now clothed in shifting shadow. ¡°God damnit!¡± The janitor slammed the door shut. He pressed his shoulder against it for support. Just in time before the onslaught began: first the shrieking, the feral rage. This was completely different than the woeful song a moment ago. Sledgehammer blows upon the door. The first one jarred the janitor so badly his shoulder went numb. He pressed his back to the door after that, struggling to find the right key which would lock the hall door. The daemons were only getting louder and more frantic. The light was still on in their room. Powerful rows of overhead florescent lights, bright enough to minutely examine a body. The light flooded every corner of the space, drenching and drowning the daemons. They suffocated and burned in its glare. The shadows of their body dripped and dissolved away. They had to get out. They flopped over one another as they beat their way to the door. They couldn¡¯t take the shape of shadows and escape underneath the door now that the light destroyed their power. If they couldn¡¯t go under, they must go through it. They hurled themselves madly, those torpedoes of rage.This story has been taken without authorization. Report any sightings. The janitor fitted the key at last. He turned it the wrong way in his panic. The door bulged out from its frame. He slammed his numb shoulder to force it closed again, this time locking it. Then scrambling away along the floor, tripping and falling over himself, he dashed away. The terrible wailing from the daemons was met by the screeching sirens of the police outside. The sound had been reported. The officers Dave and Sara were having a most unusual night. They were getting out of their car when the janitor sprinted from the building as if it was on fire. ¡°Is that your alarm? What¡¯s that terrible noise?¡± Dave asked loudly to be heard. ¡°Daemons!¡± he janitor gibbered. He fell to his knees, out of breath. He realized how mad that must make him appear, but was left speechless. The officers looked at one another. ¡°Stay right here, okay? We¡¯re going to check it out.¡± ¡°Daemons. In the morgue, the cold room. The old woman ¡ª God, what were they doing with her body?¡± ¡°Who? Who is the old woman? Is she alright?¡± officer Sara barked urgently. The janitor shook his head frantically. ¡°She¡¯s dead. But it¡¯s a morgue, she¡¯s supposed to be. The daemons had Mrs. Orwell¡¯s body out of the cabinet! Right there on the floor! Such a disgrace.¡± ¡°Mrs. Orwell!¡± Dave cried. ¡°It¡¯s got something to do with Emma Larson! I knew that girl wasn¡¯t being honest with me.¡± The sound inside began to trail off. One by one the daemon voices stopped shrieking, until only a lone melody remained. It went on for several painful seconds before it too fell silent. ¡°You¡¯re alright now. You stay here, officer Dave and I are going to have a look around.¡± ¡°The door is locked. I¡¯ll come with you,¡± the janitor said stubbornly. ¡°I don¡¯t want you to get the wrong idea of me, officers. I work here. I¡¯m supposed to be here. And I¡¯m not mad. I didn¡¯t do anything wrong. It was the daemons who were breaking up the place!¡± ¡°The daemons. Right.¡± Ordinarily, Dave would have dismissed such a thing out of hand. But after hearing that terrible screeching sound, it was hard to think of what else may be. Were people not joking when they called Mrs. Orwell a witch? ¡°So quiet now. I think the light might have done them in,¡± the janitor explained when they stood outside the locked cold room. ¡°They were singing something else until I turned the lights on. I hardly had a chance to get a look before they went mad. Nasty little creatures they were. Like rips in the fabric of reality. Never seen anything like it.¡± The officers exchanged another glance. They read each other well, and moved in unison to flank either side of the door. Handguns at the ready, Dave nodded to the janitor. ¡°Open it.¡± His fingers still shook, even with his escort. The lock clicked. The door gently swung out. The daemons were gone. Discarded clothing and personal items were strewn around the room. Mrs. Orwell lay bare and resolute, alone on the tiled floor. Along the ground were black smudges. Little piles of soot and ash dusted the scene. ¡°They must have gotten out,¡± Dave said. ¡°They must have been pretty stupid daemons not to know how light switches work.¡± ¡°What a mess. It looks like wild animals were here though.¡± Sara prodded a pile of clothing with her boot. ¡°No. No no no¡­¡± the janitor said. He pointed a shaking finger at the mortuary cabinets. ¡°They¡¯re closed now. One of them was open the first time. The one that had Mrs. Orwell in it. I bet it¡¯s real dark in those drawers. I bet they crawled inside to get away from the light.¡± ¡°Not it,¡± Sara said immediately. ¡°Huh?¡± ¡°I¡¯m not opening it. You do it.¡± Dave knelt beside the closed door. He put his ear to the metal. Nothing. He rapped it with his knuckle. Nothing. Nothing. Just his own heart, going so fast. ¡°Good lord,¡± the janitor mumbled, crossing himself. ¡°Should we be handling this?¡± Dave asked. ¡°Maybe it¡¯s more of an animal control kind of thing.¡± ¡°Way to be a man, Dave. Let¡¯s get this over with.¡± Sara pushed her way past Dave. Her drawn gun in a her free hand, she heaved open the metal door. The sound hit them first. The tormented screech as the light flooded into the metal drawer. A dark explosion, like a smoke grenade flooded out. All six of the hiding daemons swarmed at once to wildly fling themselves in all directions. Sara¡¯s gun went off. More light, more noise, more chaos. The daemons rushed straight past the officers though, once more clothing Mrs. Orwell¡¯s body with their shadows. Sara was about to fire her gun again, but Dave had his hand on her arm. The daemons were ignoring them completely. They lifted Mrs. Orwell¡¯s body from the ground and fled through the open door. Dave spotted one of daemons scampering aside to snatch a set of golden keys from the discarded personal items, as well as what might have been an emerald necklace. The officers rushed after the daemons into the hallway. They were moving fast now. Their limbs flowed like liquid as they streamed down the hall. Even carrying Mrs. Orwell, their feral quickness was impossible to match. ¡°Stop, police!¡± Dave shouted vainly. ¡°Sara, get in the car. Follow them!¡± Racing through the parking lot. Guns sheathed, hands on the door handles. Dave and Sara stopped short, both staring at the daemons. They were rising into the air now. Black wings of smoke billowed up to beat the air in slow powerful strokes. Mrs. Orwell¡¯s body lifted off the ground entirely and was being carried away. ¡°Maybe not the car,¡± Sara said. ¡°What the hell? Seriously, what in the nine hells! Is that what a daemon looks like?¡± ¡°What do you think they want her body for?¡± Dave asked. He leaned heavily against the side of the car. ¡°I feel a little sick.¡± ¡°Were those her daemons? Whose are they now?¡± Sara asked. The janitor only shrugged. There was no way he was going to make his flight now. But maybe that was okay, because home seemed unusually appealing. ¡°I don¡¯t know how we¡¯re supposed to phone this in. Should we call it a break in?¡± ¡°I think we need more information first,¡± Dave replied. ¡°Emma Larson has some more explaining to do. But first, maybe a stop at the church to see Father Austin.¡± CH 10: The Gray World Emma waited until she was quite sure she was alone. The police were gone. Charlie was gone. She walked all the way around the outside of the house, calling for the daemons one more time. Then back inside, trying not to look at the portraits on the wall. She left all the lights off, just in case they wanted to come home. She even left the door unlocked, just in case. Then she closed her eyes and screamed. Frustration, anger, sadness, exhaustion, she couldn¡¯t tell. But she was glad she was in the country now, and people had a little more space to scream if they needed to. Emma found grandmother¡¯s clothes in the room at the base of the tower below the library. It used to be her bedroom, but it was refitted into a dense forest of clothing. Too much for the wardrobe in the corner to bear, garments suspended from clothing lines spanned the room. It was chaotically arranged, but thrown together as an artist might throw paint to join colors into something beautiful. Emma¡¯s hand hovered by the light switch. She thought about the teeth in the oven, and how there was no knowing what could be in here. But no, she decided to keep the light off. This was her kingdom now, and a witch would not be afraid. Yet a witch must be prudent too. She compromised by snatching the nearest black dress which hung from a line. She raced upstairs to leave it in the library before going back to the laundry room to retrieve the sewing machine. It was a struggle getting the heavy thing upstairs, but she wanted everything in the library. She conceded at last to turn on the library lights, and hoped this wouldn¡¯t stop the daemons from letting themselves in downstairs. Finally she brought her egg in her backpack to the library and stored it below the desk. She closed the door behind her and let out a long sigh. Emma stared at the real flames guttering up from the iron chandelier and shivered in their warmth. The dress she seized in the dark turned out so perfect it might as well have been handed to her for a present. The black lace curled into delicate little roses along the collars and cuffs. The buttons were shaped like little skulls. No, they WERE skulls: those belonging to some small rat or rodent. They were polished so brightly they appeared more like jewelery. Grandmother had some wonderful necklaces, something Emma would have to search for during the day. Once her sewing machine was set on the desk, Emma turned to the library shelves. It was all so overwhelming, and she didn¡¯t know where to start. She returned to her desk and looked at the contracts. She ran her finger down it, and watched a bit of dried blood flake off the lettering. One of the phrases read: As long as there is life in me, you will serve my every need. When I¡¯m gone, you will be free, returning home at last to sleep. ¡°Returning home to sleep,¡± she repeated thoughtfully. ¡°Well that¡¯s going back to the daemon world. That¡¯s a bit like a banishment, isn¡¯t it Mr. Egg? A very useful thing to know.¡± Emma then matched the phrase to the contract in daemonic. Now she had a starting point, and returned to the shelves to look for something similar. Indeed after a few moments she found a ponderous red leather tome which matched up. She dropped this onto the desk with a loud thud. A nova of dust breathed around her. Next Emma held her black lace dress against her body, and noted the pattern in the fabric where she would begin to hem. Then considering, she moved it up another inch along her pale thigh. Who was going to tell her otherwise? She decided to cut off the arms and make it short sleeved as well. It all seemed a bit too suffocating for her. She turned through the pages of the daemon book while she worked. Not only were there large colored pictures on nearly every page, but occasionally even passages written in English! Emma was so excited she nearly sewed her fingers to the dress. She flipped on until the picture of a large glass window caught her eye. On one side of the window was a cottage wall, and on the other side a vast landscape of barren wasteland. It reminded Emma of the bathroom mirror which looked into another world. A mystery for another time. Below the picture was a block of text in very neat English. It read: The window home spell: What do you do with daemons when you¡¯re done with them? Did they never learn to wipe their feet? Do they leave an awful smell? Have they started fires again? By now you may be tired of your new company. Send them home without a fuss with this simple three step spell. What you will need: Ingredients: Three animal skulls in a line. Step 1: Speak the daemon¡¯s true name. Step 2: Hold evidence of the harm it caused. Step 3: Speak the words, printed below. The genuine version of this novel can be found on another site. Support the author by reading it there.Emma looked at the skull buttons of her lace gown and smiled wickedly. A very practical woman, grandmother was. She looked back to the contract, and found the signatures where the daemons left their true names. All six of them were there, but they were written in the strange daemonic lettering she could not pronounce. And as for evidence of the harm, what could that be? Some charred wood the daemons burned? Who did she have to convince anyway? Was she going to have to prosecute the daemons in court before a judge? She held the dress straight and made sure the little bones were in a line. Then she retrieved the hunting rifle from its case by the chair and lay it on the desk. That¡¯s like evidence, isn¡¯t it? When it fired it almost got her in trouble with the police. Surely that¡¯s proof of harm. Then clearing her throat, she read the spell. Window home, made of bone, dead lords sitting on their thrones. Window home, all alone, gone to gray worlds to atone. The clocks struck midnight. The varied calls and chimes from at least a dozen of them echoed from downstairs. It was a harsh, discordant sound. They all rang together, which was peculiar, because previously the clocks all displayed different times. Emma held her breath for a moment. And puffed out in disappointment. Then she noticed three skulls in her dress had gone dark. It almost looked as though a darkness shone from them, or that they were gobbling up the light around the skulls. They continued to turn blacker before her eyes, until soon they were so engulfed in shadow she could hardly see them right before her. There were only nine skull buttons on the dress. She moved the dress around in the light, but those three skulls stayed engulfed in shadows no matter what. She hated the idea of having wasted them. She plucked at one of the shadow skulls and watched it dissolve into dust. She grasped at the others in frustration, only to watch them vanish before her eyes. The dust stirred and whirled into the air: a little cyclone of its own. But they weren¡¯t lost for nothing. She looked up from the dress straight into one of the rodent skulls floating in the air before her. It was insubstantial and translucent, with a clear view of the bookshelves on the other side. More solid by the second, it was drinking in the swirling the dust to form itself. It was growing too, larger than all three of the little skulls put together now. It was about the size of a sheep skull when the window opened. The top half of the skull dissolved away, and the dust reinforced the rest of the budding structure. Inside the skull was another world. ¡°Gone to gray worlds to atone,¡± Emma repeated the line in a whisper. It wasn¡¯t like an ordinary window, or even like the bathroom mirror, where everything on the other side was the same size. Instead she was looking through gray clouds from a bird¡¯s eye view at a landscape far below. There was a castle made of black obsidian stone. It didn¡¯t look built, but rather carved straight from the sleek mountainside. The dark shape of birds spiraled in the air around treacherously tall towers. Jagged outcroppings of stone along the towers looked like claws raking up at her to snatch her from the sky. The air above was a sickly yellow color, and she thought she could even faintly smell a sulphuric breeze wafting out of the skull. The viewpoint of the window descended toward the obsidian towers. One of the flying things she thought was a bird wheeled away from the others to spiral upward towards her. When she got closer she could tell it was a deamon, with yellow eyes the color of the dying sky. It looked like it would sail straight out of the skull and into the library, but Emma didn¡¯t flinch away. It flew directly before her and paused, beating heavy leather wings to suspend itself in the air. It looked directly at her. The window must go both ways. The daemon then turned and dove back toward the castle. Emma willed herself to follow it, and found her perspective keeping pace. They sailed together straight up to one of the towers where the daemon perched atop the railing of a marble balcony high above the ground. The daemon stood tall and stretched its wide wings before retracting them into its body. The substance of its wings added to its stature, until presently it loomed above Emma. It was much larger than her little chickens, and walked on two feet like a man. It looked back at Emma, and then led her inside an open door into the tower. All of this witnessed within the black animal skull suspended in the air. The dust continued to swirl around, and it was already beginning to disperse. Her image was becoming less opaque. At this rate it would be gone in a minute. ¡°Please hurry!¡± she said urgently to the daemon. It did not turn or make any sign of having heard her. Instead it brought her inside to a chilling chamber. Jagged black obsidian columns held up a high arching chamber. At the far end there was a throne made entirely of bones. Arm bones and leg bones mostly, knitted together like interlocking logs to construct its base. The back of the chair was made of rib bones, with three human skulls along the top. The daemon was walking toward the throne. The shadows around the room sprang to life. A dozen daemons like him now entered from every direction. They were all moving toward the throne. Some of them were carrying something large on their shoulders, but Emma couldn¡¯t see it well on account of how much taller they were. They were blocking her view of the throne where most of the activity seemed to be taking place. It was all completely silent, and getting harder to see by the moment. The whole scene was hardly more solid than smoke now. ¡°Out of the way!¡± Emma pleaded. ¡°What are you up to? What¡¯s going on?¡± The daemon directly before her turned and looked down at her. It unexpectedly bowed graciously low, and backed away to the side. Other daemons now seemed to notice her for the first time. They bowed as well, stepping back into separate aisles to clear her view. ¡°Oh my goodness,¡± Emma said. Shocked, bewildered, and finally terrified at last. Sitting on the throne of bones was perched a dead body. But not just anybody. It was Grandmother Orwell, dressed in white robes like a priest might wear. Her skin was pale and taunt, her stiff head thrown back unnaturally. On either side of her, the daemons knelt to the ground before Grandmother Orwell. It looked like they were praying. And they were gone. Smoke in the air. A hint of lingering sulfur. Three of her nine skulls were gone, although there must be more in the closet somewhere. Emma quietly stood up and turned off the lights. She lay down in the bedding which smelled of grandmother and closed her eyes. She didn¡¯t toss and turn, but simply lay there and didn¡¯t sleep for a long time. Not until it was almost morning, and even then, she did her best not to dream. CH 11: A Lost Soul Charlie didn¡¯t sleep much that night either. He tossed and turned for hours thinking about Emma and the daemons. Charlie wasn¡¯t afraid of what the daemons would do. He was afraid of what they had already done. ¡°I should have just told her,¡± Charlie muttered to himself. ¡°But how could she ever trust me if she knew?¡± Charlie kicked off the blankets in frustration. He checked the clock for at least the tenth time that night. 5 AM. That would have to be good enough. Emma would probably still be sleeping. That will make what he had to do easier. He got up and dressed in the dark. Pajama bottoms, with jeans over the top. Long flannel shirt, with a hoodie over that. It was warm on summer nights like this, and he was overheating by the time he got to the door. He felt a bit more secure for the extra padding as protection though, just in case. On impulse, he stopped by the garage to pickup a heavy wrench as well. Quiet sleeping houses scattered far between. The horizon was beginning to glow with pre-dawn light. No one watched him tuck the wrench into his hoodie so he could climb over the fence. He straddled the fence for a moment, using the height to peer across the neighborhood. No fires, at least. No police. He rolled over the side of the fence and dropped confidentially into Mrs. Orwell¡¯s yard like he¡¯d done so many times before. It would always be Mrs. Orwell¡¯s yard, no matter who lived here, for a hundred years to come. Charlie walked up to the porch. All the lights were off. She might still be awake in the library though, since the shelves were in front of the windows. He tested the door and found it unlocked. He shook his head. He didn¡¯t like this. He was doing something wrong. But he entered anyway. Why should he respect the witch¡¯s property, after what she¡¯d done to his family? Maybe he should have told Emma how wicked her grandmother really was. But he thought she must have loved her grandmother, and he felt pity for her. It¡¯s not like he took care of her grandmother¡¯s daemons out of the goodness of his heart. She¡¯d left him no other choice. No time to waste before Emma might wake. He left all the lights off so not to risk it. That just made him feel more like a criminal sneaking through the house. Charlie headed straight for the kitchen, pausing only a moment to notice all the clocks had synchronized to midnight now. Then shrugging, he went to the oven and pulled it open. The foul breath from the daemon mouth inside almost made him choke. He covered his nose with the sleeve of his hoodie. He¡¯d intended to leave the light off, but he couldn¡¯t bear those jagged teeth leering at him without seeing its expression. Charlie turned on the kitchen lights and closed the door. The oven¡¯s monstrous mouth grinned wickedly. All those needle thin teeth in multiple rows fit together into a perfect mesh. Then opening wide, its black sluggish tongue lolled out toward Charlie to lick the air. ¡°I know, I know. I¡¯m getting it now,¡± Charlie told the mouth. He dodged the probing tongue and reached for the top shelf. He grabbed a ceramic cookie jar shaped like a tiger sitting on its hind legs. But instead of cookies, when he reached inside, he pulled out a handful of little blue mushrooms. The oven daemon became excited. Its black tongue continued to distend, now snaking its way along the ground toward Charlie. ¡°Okay okay, but you have to be quiet. You know what to do.¡± Charlie tossed the mushrooms inside the oven, which gratefully gnashed its teeth. The mushrooms exploded when they were punctured into little clouds of foul yellow gas. Charlie coughed and closed the oven. He counted off ten seconds, and then opened it again. The yellow smoke was still there, but it seemed farther away. Inside the oven, Charlie recognized the yellow sky of the Gray World where the daemons lived. ¡°Hello?¡± he called softly. ¡°Is the Master there?¡± ¡°Always here. Always watching.¡± The voice rolled slow and deep. It wasn¡¯t coming from the oven, which was still chomping on its prize. A cloud of black smoke rose in the yellow sky. It suspended in the air for a moment, warping and changing shape as though something moved within. Then a red eye opened, and another, and a third. Two where they ought to be, one in the forehead of the face which resolved itself from the smoke. ¡°I did what you asked me to do. I followed Emma and confirmed that she is a witch. Just like her Grandmother. Now it¡¯s your turn.¡± ¡°You did more than I asked of you. My daemons would have brought her to me if you hadn¡¯t fired off your gun.¡± Charlie swallowed. He was nervous. He wanted to slam the oven shut and pretend none of it was real. But he knew this daemon called ¡®The Master¡¯ didn¡¯t have a contract to let him enter the world. The Master could not escape from the portal in the oven on his own. So Charlie held his ground and said: ¡°I¡¯m not going to let you have your prize before you give me mine.¡±If you encounter this narrative on Amazon, note that it''s taken without the author''s consent. Report it. ¡°You have nothing to fear. We have a contract. The Master never breaks his word.¡± Charlie nodded. ¡°Let me see my brother.¡± The black smoke cleared, just for a moment, a passing breeze of yellow wind. Charlie glimpsed his brother for a half a second, wide-eyed and terrified. Then the smoke concealed him once more. ¡°Give me my witch.¡± The red eyes in their normal place blinked. One then the other, then the first, never ceasing. The third eye in the forehead never closed. Charlie found himself always staring at this one. ¡°Let me see the contract again,¡± Charlie said uneasily. ¡°I don¡¯t want any loopholes.¡± Laughter like rolling thunder through the cloud. The smoke parted to reveal old parchment, much like the type in Mrs. Orwell¡¯s desk. It was written in blood, and Charlie involuntarily rubbed his left forearm in memory of signing it last week. That was before Mrs. Orwell died, when Charlie still thought he needed protection against her! The deep voice began to solemnly read: ¡°Let this contract bind the souls of Charlie Wendle and the Gray World¡¯s Master. Neither shall know peace until the contract is fulfilled, in living or in dying. An exchange, freely given, so both may prosper with no ill will. The Master invites his friend Emma Larson to live in the Gray World and join her grandmother. Charlie will help her find her way into the portal. In exchange, The Master will release Freddie Wendle from the Gray World and send him back home.¡± The contract was swallowed in smoke once more, and the face returned. The daemon¡¯s voice was kind and patient as he added: ¡°And of course, both of our signatures, at the bottom. You see, there really is no room for funny business or ambiguity. I wish the little witch in my world, and your brother to be in yours. Surely you want the same. After-all, her grandmother did steal little Freddie in the first place, didn¡¯t she? She is no friend of yours.¡± Charlie nodded. It was true. It was Mrs. Orwell¡¯s own daemons who stole his brother in the night. Then frowning, he shook his head. ¡°Mrs. Orwell was still alive when I signed that. I was angry at her. I should have worked that out with her, but I was afraid of her too. I never should have gone to you for help. Now I know Emma better, and I don¡¯t want her to be hurt.¡± ¡°Emma will turn on you. It is the way of witches.¡± The deep voice wasn¡¯t so kind anymore. There was a growl rumbling underneath. ¡°Just as her grandmother did. Remember how much you hated her that night? It was just the three of you, wasn¡¯t it? She showed you and your brother such pretty magic. She promised you a daemon egg, didn¡¯t she?¡± ¡°I said it was a mistake. What more do you want from me?¡± The Master was clearly enjoying himself though. He chuckled as he said: ¡°A daemon egg, to hatch into a wish. You didn¡¯t care about what you were getting your little brother into, did you? All you could see was your own greed. Blinded by such feeble treasure.¡± ¡°I would have helped so many people with the wish! I don¡¯t want any of this anymore!¡± Charlie nearly shouted. He clapped his hands over his mouth, looking nervously to the closed kitchen door. ¡°The Old Witch never gave you that wish, did she? She only took your brother for her spell. You sacrificed him for your own ambition, and betrayed yourself for nothing. Maybe your brother is better off here. I must love him more than you do.¡± Charlie thought he heard a sound upstairs in the library. He held his breath and listened. The face in the smoke cocked its head to the side, listening too. ¡°Is she there with you now? Bring her to me.¡± ¡°I want you to promise you won¡¯t hurt her. What do you want her for anyway?¡± Charlie asked suspiciously. ¡°Do not worry,¡± the darkness cooed. ¡°She is going where hurt is no longer possible. First it was Mrs. Orwell, always in the way. Now I simply wish to pull a weed up by its roots before it spreads.¡± Charlie frowned. ¡°That can¡¯t be right. Mrs. Orwell was still alive when we signed the contract. Does that mean you knew she was going to die? Are you the one who killed her?¡± The Master laughed. ¡°The enemy of my enemy is my friend. Ding dong the wicked witch is gone. You will thank me for sparing the world another one.¡± The smoke parted again to reveal Freddie. This time it stayed clear, and Charlie was able to see where he was. Two years younger than Charlie, with reddish hair and twice the freckles. His face was thinner than last week. His eyes were tired, their expression haunted and hollow. He leaned on a marble balcony with an obsidian tower behind him, seemingly carved straight from the mountainside. ¡°Freddie! Can you hear me!¡± He was looking at something in the distance and did not turn. But he seemed so close ¡ª without thinking, Charlie reached inside the oven to try to get his brother¡¯s attention. The oven door snapped shut as he did so, nearly taking off his hand. Charlie tumbled back just in time to land heavily on the tiled floor. The oven chomped its teeth a few more times, and when they opened again, the smoke was gone. The yellow sky was gone. The Gray world, the Master, his brother, all gone. Just those rows of needle teeth, and the black sluggish tongue jeering at him. The door opened behind Charlie. He nearly screamed, his nerves so frayed. He was still on the floor as he turned, so the first thing he saw was the black lace dress with the animal bone buttons. At once he thought it was Mrs. Orwell, and then he really did scream. It took a few moments for his eyes to focus on Emma. Even realizing his mistake, he thought he could still see the old witch when he looked at her. ¡°Charlie? You¡¯re here early,¡± Emma said in surprise. It took several heaving breaths before Charlie could regain his wits. ¡°You should have knocked.¡± Emma frowned. She looked at the oven door, ajar again. The black tongue was waggling at them. ¡°What are you doing in here?¡± Charlie didn¡¯t say a word. He picked himself off the ground, and reached for the top shelf again. The cookie jar ¡ª the blue mushrooms, now in his hand. There weren¡¯t many left, probably only enough for a few more minutes of the portal. The next time it opened, he would have to make sure Emma was inside before it closed. CH 12: Banishment The morning light brought no comfort to these troubled souls. Charlie apologized for coming so early and letting himself in. Emma didn¡¯t mind though. She was so excited about her discoveries last night. She was eager to open a window to the Gray World and prove once and for all that she really was a witch. She practically bounced between the steps, exploding with energy despite only getting a few hours sleep. Then she looked down at the missing top three buttons of her dress, and she slowed. Only six left ¡ª she couldn¡¯t waste her little animal skulls just by showing off. She would need more. ¡°I like your dress,¡± Charlie said meekly from behind her on the stairs. ¡°Thank you. I think it¡¯s only appropriate.¡± Charlie¡¯s hands were in his pockets, cradling the precious blue mushrooms. He shouldn¡¯t have followed her out of the kitchen. He needed to get this deal over with. But it broke his heart watching Emma so happy and full of life as she skipped up the stairs. If only there was another way. ¡°Did you notice all the clocks are still saying midnight?¡± Charlie asked. ¡°Yes. And I noticed the portraits have gone back to color again. And the daemon in the oven is awake and happy. And the window in the mirror ¡ª that¡¯s not to the Gray World, That¡¯s somewhere else. And I even noticed you wearing an extra layer of clothing this morning, because you¡¯re afraid. And there¡¯s so much more to show you besides. A witch notices most everything, and always more than she says.¡± ¡°You know about the Gray World?¡± Charlie asked, bewildered. ¡°Uh huh. I read about it in a book after you went home.¡± Emma stopped short at the top of the stairs. Charlie nearly ran into her. Her head slowly turned to profile, speaking from the side of her mouth: ¡°But how does Charlie know about the Gray World?¡± ¡°I really did know your grandmother better than you did. The good and the bad.¡± Emma entered the library and summoned the flaming chandelier to life. ¡°What sort of bad?¡± Charlie stood in the doorway and leaned against the frame. ¡°The greedy kind of bad. Mrs. Orwell never had enough power. Think how many people she could have helped. But she lived alone, and didn¡¯t use her magic for you or your family. I wonder what she even wanted her wishes for. But she couldn¡¯t let some mysteries just stay mysteries. I think it drove her crazy in the end.¡± Emma remembered her last conversation with grandmother Orwell. It had been grandmother who said something like: you have to enjoy the questions with no answers, or be driven mad by them. Emma had been the one to say all mysteries can be uncovered. It really did seem like grandmother knew what was going to happen to her before she died. She wanted to warn Emma away from the same fate. Emma studied Charlie again, her face scrunched, her nose wrinkled, in visceral concentration. ¡°What did she do to you, Charlie?¡± Charlie coughed. ¡°What did you want to show me?¡± They were both interrupted by a scratching sound. Charlie looked down at his phone. ¡°It¡¯s almost 6 AM. The sun will be rising soon. I wish there were windows in here.¡± The scratching was getting louder. It sounded like something on the back of the shelves. No, fainter still ¡ª it was coming from outside the library tower. Emma strode cautiously to the bookshelves, running her fingers alone the spines. ¡°Do you hear ¡ª¡± Charlie began. ¡°Of course. It¡¯s getting light outside. The daemons will need a dark place to find shelter. I think they¡¯re finally coming home.¡± The sound completely encompassed them now. There must be several daemons, maybe even all six, each climbing a part of the round tower. Emma considered how sharp their claws must be to dig into the stone and be audible all the way in here. Charlie went for the box with the hunting rifle. ¡°Don¡¯t do that,¡± Emma chided. ¡°Why not? They¡¯ll remember this from last time.¡± ¡°We¡¯ll get in real trouble if it goes off again. I forgot to tell you ¡ª the police also stopped by after you left last night. Officer Dave, I think ¡ª didn¡¯t get the woman¡¯s name. Someone called them about the gunshot. I want you to put that thing away this instant.¡± Charlie lifted the hunting rifle out and closed the case with his foot. ¡°I only managed to stop the daemons taking you last time because of the gun.¡± Emma frowned. It was hard to concentrate with the scratching so close. It seemed like the daemons were clinging to the tower at the right elevation, maneuvering themselves around to try and listen in. She trusted her daemons though, because she trusted her grandmother. And grandmother would not deal with something truly evil. ¡°That business where they grabbed me on the roof was all a misunderstanding! The daemons loved my grandmother deeply. They had an emotional reaction when she died. It is completely understandable. And anyway, what I¡¯ve been trying to show you is that I know a banishment spell now if anything goes wrong. Hey, are you listening? I can get rid of them if we need to, so drop the gun!¡± But Charlie clutched it to his chest. ¡°There¡¯s part of the story with Mrs. Orwell that I haven¡¯t told you. I haven¡¯t been truthful to you at all, and I¡¯m sorry for that.¡±The genuine version of this novel can be found on another site. Support the author by reading it there. The daemons were on the move again. They skittered up the walls outside. The sound vanished for a moment, and then came again from the roof. Emma strained her neck up. ¡°Then hurry up and tell me the truth. But first turn off the library lights. I don¡¯t want them to be afraid.¡± Charlie shook his head. ¡°The gun stays with me. The lights stay on. They don¡¯t mind the firelight so much anyway. You¡¯re going to have to take my lead now, Emma. You¡¯re going to have to still trust me, even after I tell you how I lied before.¡± The sound grew louder, the scratching more urgent. It seemed like they were burrowing straight through the roof. ¡°I will decide whether to trust you after you tell me the truth!¡± Then to the roof, Emma shouted: ¡°Hey daemons! What did I leave the front door open for? Get down from there and come in properly!¡± Emma shouted in agitation. ¡°It was true that your grandmother got my parents back together. But that was only last week. And the reason they¡¯re together again is because of the shared grief from losing my brother Freddie. Mrs. Orwell stole him from us.¡± ¡°She would never.¡± ¡°Your grandmother tricked us. She gave me a daemon egg too, and promised me a wish if Freddie and I came with her into the woods. But her deal wasn¡¯t really with us at all ¡ª it was with the daemon. The one called ¡®The Master¡¯. My brother and I were a sort of gift for him.¡± ¡°Dead lords sitting on their thrones¡­.¡± Emma murmured the words from her spell. She thought about the tall human shaped shadows who bowed before grandmother¡¯s body. ¡°I don¡¯t know how it happened, but my egg wasn¡¯t like yours. Mine hatched right away when the window to the Gray World opened. I was so afraid of that place, Emma. And such claws came through, you can¡¯t imagine. They were dragging me across the ground. But my little daemon hatched from its egg, and something magical was in the air. You know the warm feeling from touching the egg? If that was a candle, then I was inside the sun. Just for a moment ¡ª just long enough to make my wish and escape.¡± Bits of sawdust and plaster were beginning to fall from the ceiling. The daemons would be through any moment. Emma straightened her dress, and made sure the skull buttons were in a line. She closed her eyes and silently recited the banishment spell. ¡°I wasn¡¯t thinking,¡± Charlie continued. ¡°I was so scared. I wish I could go back and wish again, and save my brother instead. But I was only thinking about myself, and now he¡¯s gone. And I was so angry at myself for losing him. I only did what I did to make things right again.¡± ¡°You only did what?¡± Emma asked testily. She didn¡¯t trust a word of it. ¡°I made a deal with The Master. He would give my brother back, and I would give him Mrs. Orwell¡¯s granddaughter.¡± Emma turned away from the ceiling. She stared in horror at Charlie, and the hunting rifle still crossed over his chest. ¡°I didn¡¯t even know you,¡± Charlie stammered. ¡°I just wanted my family to be whole again. And now I think the daemons have come to collect on our contract.¡± ¡°Then why are you telling me all this? Why not just give me to them?¡± ¡°Because I want you to still trust me. I¡¯m going to make things right. I¡¯ll just pretend to be helping the daemons, but I¡¯ll really be with you¡ª¡± It seemed like Charlie wanted to say more. He was interrupted when the hole in the roof finally gave way. In tumbled the familiar chicken daemons. Black bodies writhed and twisted and wriggled over one another to get inside. They dropped into the room like bats, spreading wings of churning smoke to fill the air with ghastly beating. They swirled and chittered around the flames of the chandelier. ¡°Do they really want to take me to the Gray World?¡± Emma asked in disbelief. She knew she should cast her spell already and banish them. But that meant believing what Charlie said about grandmother Orwell, and that couldn¡¯t be true. And that meant losing her daemons. She would never forgive herself for that if she lived to be a hundred and four. Why should she trust any of what Charlie said? They were her daemons! They would serve her! ¡°I¡¯ve got the witch!¡± Charlie called to the circling monsters. ¡°I am giving her to you! Do you understand? My side of the bargain is done.¡± Then turning to Emma, he winked while pointing the hunting rifle directly at her. ¡°I¡¯m so sorry. This isn¡¯t the end. I¡¯m going to get you out again.¡± ¡°No Charlie. I¡¯m the one who is sorry,¡± Emma said softly. ¡°I thought I was a better judge of character than that.¡± Emma was forced to choose who to believe: her eyes and ears, or her heart. Some mysteries were better off left unraveled. Now the answers were clear at last, and Emma wished to still be in the dark. It was better to wonder about grandmother¡¯s mystical life than to know for certain what horrible things she¡¯d done. Emma wished that¡­ she thought of her egg. It was still below the desk, hidden in her backpack. But she didn¡¯t know how Charlie was able to hatch it. There was only one thing left she could do. The daemons of smoke descended upon them. There was no time left to waste. Emma straightened her dress again, then quickly recited the words: ¡°Window home, made of bone, dead lords sitting on their thrones. Window home, all alone, gone to the Gray World to atone.¡± The daemons reared back at once into the library rafters. Three more animal skull buttons on Emma¡¯s dress went dark. Soon the larger skull of smoke formed in the air, with its window opening into the Gray World. ¡°Don¡¯t do that!¡± Charlie shouted. He pointed the gun at the floating skull and fired. The explosive sound was jarring no matter how many times Emma heard. it. The bullet passed through the opening window as if it were made of smoke. ¡°You shouldn¡¯t use their own magic to banish them. You¡¯ll end up as bad as your grandmother!¡± ¡°I made a mistake about you. But I¡¯m not wrong about my pets. They¡¯re not the one¡¯s I¡¯m sending away. You¡¯re the real daemon here. This spell needs proof of my hurt, but I carry it with me in my heart for ever thinking you a friend.¡± ¡°Please stop. I don¡¯t want to go!¡± Dark claws reached from the Gray World through the portal Emma opened. Charlie fired the gun again, and Emma flinched. The bullet passed through the claws, but the claws didn¡¯t pass through Charlie the same way. They seized him around the throat. They lifted him straight from the ground. He clutched at the gnarled black arm with both hands, dropping the rifle to the floor. His hands only passed through the thing which dragged him into the portal. ¡°Be more gentle!¡± Emma scolded. Her pet daemons laughed and chattered as they orbited Emma¡¯s head in a frenzy now. A hurricane of smoky wings fluttered the pages of the books on her desk. ¡°Don¡¯t do this!¡± Charlie begged. ¡°I will never let myself be lied to again,¡± Emma snapped, hearing grandmother speaking through her. ¡°You said horrible things about my grandmother. She would never do something like that to your brother. And even if she did, then he must have deserved it, just like you do now.¡± The dark claw had almost completely pulled Charlie into the window. As he got closer, the more like smoke he appeared to be. His hands and feet were fading and and dissolving before her eyes. Desperately, he dug his hands into his pockets and flung a handful of something small and blue at Emma. ¡°Throw these into the oven! I told the truth, you can see for yourself!¡± And Charlie was gone. The skull closed up again, and then dissolved into the air without a trace of him. Emma knelt to the ground and picked up the little blue mushrooms. She looked up at her pet daemons swirling around her. ¡°Well?¡± Emma shouted at them bitterly. ¡°Would you like to be next? Are you ready to go home to the Gray World? Or are you finally ready to sign new contracts with me?¡± CH 13: The Master Calls A witch will never admit to her mistakes. They don¡¯t even make mistakes. Everything that seems wrong must be part of a greater plan, and only appears evil to those who don¡¯t understand. That¡¯s what Emma told herself when the portal to the Gray World closed with Charlie on the other side. She looked down at the blue mushrooms in her hand. But if that were really true, then why did she not understand what that plan was? Why didn¡¯t grandmother tell her more? What if her grandmother really was an evil sort of witch? What did that make Emma who walked in her footsteps, wearing her dress? The flying daemons must have sensed her distress. They ceased their frantic beating and settled peacefully around the room. One on top of the over stuffed chair. One on the desk, a few more hopping along the tops of the shelves. ¡°Well? Are we to have a deal?¡± Emma snapped bitterly. She stalked across the floor. The daemons scattered out of her way to scuttle around behind. Emma picked up the hunting rifle Charlie dropped. Carefully, almost reverently, she placed it back in the case and closed it. ¡°If I didn¡¯t know my banishment spell, would you have really stolen me?¡± Emma asked. The daemons didn¡¯t answer, but it wasn¡¯t quite like talking with a pet dog. Their endlessly shifting forms were exquisitely expressive. They way they reacted must mean they understood her. ¡°What does The Master want?¡± Emma pressed. The daemons hated that name. They squealed and bucked and threw themselves up and down in a fit. Why was she so attached to these strange creatures? Why was she so attached to her grandmother? What would she do without Charlie? How could she explain to his parents that another one of their sons was gone? What would happen when the police came back? Or even worse, her mother! Emma breathed quickly, starting to gasp. It was all too overwhelming to handle alone. ¡°Daemons! Come with me!¡± she called over her shoulder, racing from the library down the stairs. Before she made a deal with them, she had to know if she made the right choice. The daemons crowded through the door in a rush and all tumbled down the stairs behind her. She remembered when she was a little girl and used to turn off the lights and race to bed, imagining such things in pursuit. But now they were real, and maybe she would be wiser to be more afraid. Emma entered the kitchen and went straight to the oven. She heaved it open and hurled the crumbling blue mushrooms inside. Then she slammed it shut again, so she didn¡¯t have to watch the black tongue licking them up. She turned around and glared at the other six daemons as they crowd into the room around her. ¡°I hope you¡¯re proud of yourselves,¡± she snapped. ¡°If you hadn¡¯t run away, all of this trouble could have been avoided. Where did you go, anyway?¡± The daemons bounced and squeaked and said no more. Emma heaved open the great iron door of the oven again. The teeth were still there on the border, but the inside had all changed. By the first sulphuric wisps of dead yellow sky, she was sure she looked into the Gray World. The viewpoint panned over the barren landscape, drawn inexorably toward the obsidian mountain as though she fell across the land towards it. The fortress of black spires carved from the mountain grew to fill her field of vision. ¡°I¡¯m looking for Charlie and his brother Freddie,¡± Emma said. There was no change in the trajectory of the perspective. Emma felt like she flew straight into the fortress, sailing beneath an open iron portcullis gate with black spikes curling out from its frame. Not the same path she¡¯d taken before through the balcony ¡ª this time she soared through the lower halls. Great lofty ceilings and marble pillars reinforced by bands of iron. It could have been the entryway to a great king meant to humble visitors into submission before the first word. Then her vision turned aside, down a hallway, and round a spiral stair. Emma¡¯s pet daemons leaped and squealed in what could be excitement or fear. They recognized this obsidian stairway, polished to shine with the reflection of torches mounted along the wall. It was unclear how deep into the mountain the stair was carved, but it must have been at least twenty full circles before a hallway opened up again. The room at the base of the mountain was larger than even the great hall. There were narrow walkways which networked over a giant abyss. The columns rising from the pit were pure iron, with endless rows of iron cages below the walkways which disappeared beyond the feeble reach of torches. ¡°Master no!¡± squealed one of the daemons behind Emma. The words were tortured and inhuman, as though mimicked by a parrot. Emma turned between the daemons, but could not tell which of them had spoken. They were all extremely agitated now, flailing themselves with sprouting limbs, or hurling themselves into walls or one another. Emma turned back to the oven and saw the viewpoint continue panning along the iron cells. There were dark shapes inside each, but they were below on either side of the path where the light did not penetrate. The perspective shifted as they seemed to land on one of the iron pathways, turning to the side to walk directly over an iron cage. There were two human shaped forms inside, huddled in the corner. It was still too dark to see who they were, but Emma felt she already knew. You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story. ¡°Charlie? Freddie?¡± Emma asked hesitantly. They didn¡¯t lift their heads or react to her at all. One of the daemons behind Emma squealed. It was the one in the sink, straddling the faucet. He was holding the quill from grandmother¡¯s desk. The daemon pulled its point out of its side and a red trickle of blood blossomed from the dark skin. Another one of the daemons hopped onto the counter beside it and laid out a sheet of paper. The second daemon smoothed and fussed over the paper until the first daemon shoved it aside and began scribbling. The scratching sound reminded Emma of its claws on the stone. The daemons wrestled briefly over the pen and crinkled the paper in their fight. One of them became distressed by this ¡ª it snatched both paper and quill to escape. The daemon scuttled along the counter and leaped on top of the refrigerator where it continued writing in peace. The other daemons gathered around the base of the fridge, bouncing and chittering, perhaps suggesting ideas of what to write. ¡°You are making a contract,¡± Emma guessed. ¡°It will be the same terms you had with my grandmother. Do you understand? You will serve me as long as you want to remain in this world.¡± She looked back into the dark oven. The image swirled and shivered as though it was projected onto smoke. It started to fade. ¡°I also want one of you to go inside the oven.¡± They really threw a fit at this. Emma had to wait a full ten seconds before they quieted down. She patiently continued: ¡°I want you to bring the prisoners back. Both Charlie and his brother Freddie ¡ª I want that in the contract too.¡± The daemon with the pen glared at Emma with all three of its yellow eyes. Emma glared right back, stomping her foot for good measure. ¡°You¡¯ve given me enough trouble already. What would grandmother have thought about the way you¡¯ve been behaving?¡± They were still locking eyes when the daemon ripped its claws down the length of the paper. It shredded into three equal tatters before releasing them into the air. The other daemons bounced and howled in disobedience. They ran wild around the room, knocking over jars, opening and slamming cupboards, and climbing up the walls to leap wildly across the room. Emma stood her ground. ¡°I understand you are afraid of the portal. I don¡¯t think it will last much longer. If you don¡¯t want to get stuck on the other side, you better hurry. Otherwise you¡¯ll have no contract, and have to go back for good.¡± All at once the daemons froze in place. The ones in the air even seemed to linger there a moment. Then they all vanished in an explosion of movement. Dashing inside the drawers and cupboards. One into the dishwasher, one crawling under the fridge, flattening its body into a sheet. Emma congratulated herself on scaring them so badly until she heard a low chuckle from the oven. The iron cages melted and dissolved before her eyes. The smoke swirled into a humanoid face with three red eyes. It was the same type of daemon that bowed before her grandmother¡¯s body on its throne of bones. ¡°Little Emma,¡± purred the deep voice. ¡°I¡¯ve been searching for you.¡± Emma looked helplessly around the empty kitchen. Her daemons had abandoned her. ¡°I haven¡¯t been hiding,¡± Emma said defiantly. There was something very different about this daemon than her pets. Not only the clear speech ¡ª it was a presence about it. In that moment, Emma was irrevocably convinced that her grandmother was a good witch after all. If she was really evil, then Emma would have felt it, like she felt the evil in the thing before her. The aura of this daemon¡¯s presence was suffocating, as though she breathed in the black clouds of its form. Its taste slipped like oil into her lungs and filled her up with a restless energy. Its voice weaseled into her ears and lit her head aflame with a buzzing anger, not toward it, but toward everything and herself. There was nothing so evil as this tangible will toward destruction. ¡°You¡¯ve lost your friend, poor thing. Aren¡¯t you lucky that I am here to help you find him?¡± ¡°Did my grandmother really steal Charlie¡¯s brother?¡± Emma didn¡¯t know why she bothered asking. How could she trust anything from this foul creature?¡± ¡°She stole far more than that. How many of these cells have been filled by the granting of her wishes? She even stole from you, your sweet innocence.¡± The image in the smoke was already getting fainter. ¡°You¡¯re lying,¡± Emma insisted, hoping to convince herself with a conviction she did not feel. ¡°She never told you how a daemon egg is hatched, did she? The witch probably pretended she was giving you a gift. But that is an evil gift indeed, for one soul is sold to the Gray World before ever the egg will hatch.¡± Emma was stunned. How many wishes had grandmother made over the years? There were six daemons in the kitchen with her, so it must be at least that number. Did she really use a wish for each, and give a soul just to expand her library? It was true that Charlie¡¯s egg hatched when his brother¡¯s soul was taken¡­ Emma could only shake her head. But she couldn¡¯t get out that evil feeling which came from the daemon¡¯s laughter. ¡°Your world does not need another witch. But mine does. Won¡¯t you come with me and save these lost souls? Won¡¯t you help me set your friends free, and undo the hurt your grandmother has caused?¡± ¡°Yes, I¡¯ll save them,¡± Emma whispered. The darkness purred. ¡°Into the oven, dear. I will help you.¡± Emma shook her head. ¡°Whatever my grandmother did, she did it for a good reason. And if you don¡¯t like it, then all the better, because I don¡¯t like you. You¡¯re the one who made a deal with Charlie, aren¡¯t you? You¡¯re The Master.¡± ¡°That is what you will call me. We can have a contract too, you and I. And such power I can give you that even your grandmother could only dream of. You could have an army, or conjure such curses to bring the mightiest to their knees and transform the world to your liking.¡± Emma performed an ancient ritual by plugging her nose with her fingers and sticking out her tongue. ¡°Nothing you gave me would ever be mine. Not like my grandmother was. I hope you enjoy being trapped in your oven, Mr. Master. I will bring the lost souls home without you.¡± Emma slammed the oven door shut with her foot. The image was fading fast and probably wouldn¡¯t have lasted long anyway. It was better to end things on her own terms. A cautious cupboard door opened, held by a trembling daemon claw. Emma was sure of one thing: Grandmother Orwell was a good witch. She gave Emma the egg because she trusted Emma to set everything right again. And now that Charlie¡¯s soul had gone to the other side, perhaps the egg really was ready to hatch. It was time for her to have a wish of her own.