[https://i.imgur.com/PNagOYd.jpg]
And so Jacinta returned to the large, lightless home. Doña Francesca, a woman she considered to be like a grandmother, had called on her yet again, asking for help. She strode forward, phone as a flashlight, reaching the woman’s room, the woman herself.
She sat on a wicker chair, humming. Though she was blind, she always knew when others arrived. “Ah, good, Jacinta, child. I need your help.”
Jacinta nodded, exhaling slowly. She’d help her; she’d always help her.
“I would like to die.”
Jacinta frowned. “Wait, what? Doñ—”
“Shh. I am lonely, child—I cannot see. The world is forever in darkness; I have forgotten how the sun appears. I stared into it too long when I was young, you know. I would like to return to the light, to my husband.”
“Death…?”
“You will understand when you are older. Go upstairs, to the forbidden room—through the mirror. Cast a sight spell, the one I taught you. There you will find his glasses. Bring them to me, but do not wear them. They will blind you.”
Jacinta was no child. She was at the end of college, with a job, a cat, an apartment, roommates, a vague, uncertain, unhopeful future like the rest—but she nodded and set off once more, phone held ahead, lighting the way. She knew the path through the labyrinthine, achy walls; years ago, she’d frequented this home every winter for the holidays. The memories shuddered with each step, images of the past: a girl, a woman, magic—lights thrown up, tinsel, jazzy 50's Christmas music, balls of light caught within cheap plastic ornaments. The smell of tamales, the sight of cornhusks floating through the kitchen, folding in on themselves with a wave.
The TV was always on in the spare room—Doña said that ghosts would come and visit; they needed an energy source to latch onto that wasn’t the lightbulbs.
Jacinta paused, stared at the spare room for a moment. Tied along the wall was one of her extra rezobos, a type of shawl—only hers was sewn in with runes, magic; it shimmered softly with enchantments. Safe passage between the spirit world and the physical world, Jacinta imagined.
“Up next, a family of tourists mauled by a giant monster-rat, all caught on camera. Is this the latest work of supernatural terrorists? Find out after the commercial.”
Her gaze snapped to the TV. Local news, reporter—pretty woman, slick blonde hair. An image of the video flashed: a rat, the size of a large dog, jumping after a family. Then an image appeared against the news station's logo:
Strange Magical Occurrences?
Believe you’re the victim of a curse?
Call SEE: 001
Call the Magic HelpLine: 1-(800)-000-001
Jacinta huffed, scowling. “Just say you hate supernaturals and go.”
The attacks weren’t caused by supernaturals. Probably. Something was wrong with the world; magic was becoming unstable. Maybe it was the Earth fighting back against its inevitable death and destruction…or maybe it was a group. But she knew what SEE did: security theater. They planted drugs and illegal magic on supernaturals, sent them away to rot, die. Or they enforced magic so strongly that a supernatural just existing was enough for incrimination.
The giant rats, though…
Well—city rats were already monsters.
Jacinta eyed the rezobo. It flapped softly even without any wind; maybe a ghost was agreeing with her. SEE began as supernatural slave patrols, after all—they weren’t new.
“Whoever you are, thanks.” she mumbled, remembering her goal. The glasses, the door. His room. So Jacinta spun, returned; re-lit the flashlight on her phone, sighed.
The vacuous spaces were open, doors unlocked—save for one.
His room: the forbidden room. Its door was carved, remaining untouched, intact, ageless. Jacinta exhaled, turned the key.
It was strange; the room was a too-small space with only a long mirror facing her. She slowly walked towards it, cast a vision spell—failed first try, succeeded second; she strode into it, and it felt cold, warm, all at once, turning inward—
The room had flipped. She felt as though she was upside-down, walking along a crooked ceiling, but it was still his room. This one was filled: bed, lamp, drawer, desk, walls, rug, gramophone. Ballroom music played, crackling slightly. There was no ceiling—only a distant black pulse, like staring up at a sea made of ink. She felt her heartbeat in her palms.
There, the bed. The glasses.
Jacinta studied them and lifted them up to see through from afar. She saw an echoed dim, a haze. She squinted through Doña’s glasses, world falling to a great haze, then focusing—
On him.
He danced alone, agile, youthful, grinning, before her. No glasses, young, bright. Other family members clapped, watched, from every corner of the room, bodies shimmering, flickering, like static on the television. Skeletal, filled with flesh, skeletal once more. Her bones rattled. The room was larger in this altered vision.
She soon exited, returned, and ran downstairs, glasses in hand, careful not to touch the lenses.
Downstairs, same as always, Doña Francesca sat, humming. The woman’s eyes, swirls of cream and silver, crinkled. Jacinta crept forward—she felt a buzz in her ear. The Atlas—Gregory made it for her just yesterday, when he came over for dinner. Apparently it’d translate anything into some statistics and run off Jacinta’s own magic; she turned it on, curious to see what it’d say. She’d hardly even touched it.
The story has been illicitly taken; should you find it on Amazon, report the infringement.
Doña Francesca [Real Name Unknown]
Strength:
6
Charisma:
16
[Species]
Witch, unspecified
[Appearance]
[[Author's Note: Adding at a later point! Sorry]]
Dexterity:
2
Intelligence:
18
Willpower:
14
Luck:
12
Agility:
3
Wisdom:
19
Health Points:
20/45
Magic Abilities:
General witchcraft; potion-making, spellcasting, divination, ESP — [[specifics unknown]]
Mana Points:
80/80
Notes:
-Santería and folk magic practicioner; story, ritual, and spell catalogue [[here]]
-Recipe catalogue [[here]]
-Health Weaknesses: general weakness, old age, mobility issues, sight loss, slight dementia
The boxes appeared before her eyes, interfering with her vision. She blinked, frowning; they faded once she wanted it off.
She was…confused. Just as she was about to inquire what it meant, if the Atlas could even answer, Doña Francesca’s head spun to stare straight at Jacinta, eyes widening. Her hands opened, long, red-painted nails twisted and curled inward like claws.
“Give them to me.”
Jacinta paused. Waited.
“Why not go naturally?” she asked. “You’re—well. Not too far off.”
Francesca laughed, heartily, meeting Jacinta’s gaze. “You always were an honest girl—just like your mother. It’ll get you killed like her, too. But we all will die...in other ways.”
She ignored the dig at her mother. But the latter comment? Doña was prophetic; she wouldn't say that without meaning it.
"What? What do you mean by that?" Jacinta’s lips curled, fell, returned. Her heart thrummed deep between her ribs. The glasses threatened to slide free from her clammy fingers. She re-adjusted, re-adjusted—cautiously turned them over, folding them like cleaned sheets. “You didn’t answer my question.”
The older woman waited, smiling to herself, humming. Jacinta remained poised.
Air slid through them: thick, inked.
“Will you not give them to me until you get an answer?”
“Yes.”
“Fine, fine. Supernaturals—witches like us…will be hunted.”
“By who? The usual?”
Doña Francesca shook her head, slowly. “It will be different, this time. You will not be yourself. The world will be fractured, shattered—cut apart like an animal for the slaughter. Transfigured, transposed, transfixed, transitioned, transfused, transported, transferred, translated, transcribed, transgressed, transcended, transpierced...” She paused, took a deep breath, eyes swirling furiously, glowing. She then reached up, snatching the glasses from Jacinta’s hands. “You know I will not be far. Only dead.”
“The dead never die.” Jacinta echoed, slightly shaken.
“Good girl—just like I taught you. Take some food on the way out. Cans, alcohol, the fridge. I made you your favorite tamales. Take everything before they get it. Take it all.” She reached up, squeezed Jacinta’s cheeks, kissed her—she smelled of fresh bread—and slid the glasses on. She began to glow with all the power of the light she couldn’t see, blindingly white—and suddenly, without pause, she was gone.
Jacinta squinted, saw the stand-in-grandparents spinning away, upstairs, to the final flutter of ballroom music, swathed in colorful clothes, bodies stripped to washed alabaster bone. Her vision otherwise was hazy, pressure pushed between her temples. Her grandma and grandpa were gone. The house was still.
Just then, the sun began to rise.
“What. The. Fuck.”
A notification appeared in her vision:
500 EXP gained; received passive magical skill:
Minor Night Vision
(Can see up to 5 feet in dim light.)
-Developed slight myopia; seek ophthalmologist when possible.