‘A song for you, for me.’
April 18th, 2000 — Night
“I’ve heard of bringing stray cats home, but this is definitely a new one.”
Erika waits until I’m finished before making one of her signature snide remarks.
I found a spot near the manor to build a grave, a little grassy patch in a small field of marigolds and lilacs. It might not be the best solution, but I hate unfinished business. I put the collar with the fish
name tag on top of the improvised gravestone and push myself up with the shovel I’ve been using.
“Hey,” I say, taking off my work gloves, “it seemed like a good idea at the time.”
“The same way you built a shrine to a bird you accidentally annihilated during target practice?”
“That... was different.”
That one was my fault directly. Couldn’t help but feel bad for erasing a poor seagull that ran into one of my Gale shots.
Erika just sighs and places a hand on her cheek. “...Jeez. You’re about as sentimental as an old dog.”
“That’s rich, coming from you.”
She shrugs and looks away. I turn and stare at the distant horizon through the trees — moonlight streams in ribbons through gnarled wood, illuminating bands of white mist that saturate this part of the forest. I guess most people would call a sight like this eerie, but it puts me to ease. If I close my eyes and let my mind wander, I can imagine an idyllic world where everything is covered in mist, where no one would ever have to deal with each other where they don’t want to. Graves seen only by loved ones. Suspended memories.
I reach out and place a hand on Erika’s shoulder. She almost looks surprised at my touch — her jade eyes widen, then squint. “I guess we’ve got a lot of work to do from here on out,” I say, entertaining the idea of my mist-world. Seems nice.
Erika rolls her eyes and takes my hand. Her warm fingers wrap around mine, squeezing gently — and then her gentle smile warps into a shit-eating grin. “Gotcha. Melancholy tax.”
“Ah—” I almost forgot about that one — my self imposed tax in order to minimize typical teenage girl moping. “Damn it. Fine.” I force a dose of emotional sobriety down my throat and begrudgingly hand over a five dollar bill on our way back to the manor.
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My tea's gone cold by the time I finish explaining everything that transpired tonight. Expositioning leaves me thirsty — I go through a cup of cold peppermint tea and pour my second as Erika ruminates over the thin white book.
“A clue, huh?” Erika flips through a few pages and sticks out her black tongue with a little ‘bleh.’ “Poetry could use some work. No, a lot of work. This sucks.”
I recline in my favourite spot in the Pisces lounge, a cushy corner for when I need to think extra hard, and look out the window. I can’t see past the gates of the manor; the shadows of clouds have crept in all around the forest, choking the night. Seems like we’re due another day of rain tomorrow.
I’ve spent most of the day pondering how the enchanted book ended up in Pelchat’s hands. He was a relatively normal person, despite his crippling desire to be hip and chill with the youth. I found another book on basic wiccan rituals in his office when I did my last sweep, but it was entirely hogwash. If you want to get high and jump into an orgy, you don’t need to justify it with the occult. Just do it — I’m a witch and I can officially give my blessings: don’t tarnish our art with degeneracy.
There are three theories I’ve come up with regarding Pelchat:
1) He was an innocent who got dragged into this mess, either by being gifted this book or buying it off a random shelf, a ploy by my enemy, and is now in a big sleep.
2) While dabbling in the arcane as an ordinary person for whatever reason, a proper mage tempted him with the offer of that book. Might’ve offered anything — no way of knowing now.
3) Pelchat was already a mage and stumbled upon a trap set by a rival mage; the rival mage incapacitated him and is using him as a magic battery for unknown means.
None of them seem likely, but I do live in the world of the arcane. Depending on the person, 1% may as well be 100%. Hell, just the other night, I managed to tap into a spell through sheer desperation and exhaustion induced insanity. Might as well consider them equally valid possibilities and move on.
I sigh and look towards my companion, who tosses the book onto the coffee table. “He couldn’t have been the only one,” she murmurs, rubbing her hands together.
A good insight. A situation like this couldn’t have been isolated. With a monopoly on mana in the area, an enemy mage would have to find an alternate source. Creating other sources would be one way of breaking our monopoly — I highly doubt the other mage has enough money to just go buy a port’s worth of potions. They could’ve just paid off either the Order or the Syndicate and send a third party our way. “Hm. I’ll look around the town tomorrow for sudden cases of narcolepsy. The mana seemed to be directed — we could always triangulate the destination if we stumble upon another sleeper.”
“I suppose we count.” Erika places a hand to her cheek and nods to herself. “Prevention would be much easier than patching up holes in our barrier, yes.”
“Were there always holes in our barrier?”
“Small ones made by natural reflux. More as of late.”
The start of a battle plan. I can only hope that our forces will be up to par when the time comes to battle. Erika is the only one I can truly rely on — my only real ally. I turn to her and poke her shoulder. “Anything new on your front?”
She shrugs and pours herself another cup of tea. “Nothing of note. Spent the day watching our wards and manually sniffing out the attacker. Seems to be a lull in the attacks — stay on your guard.”
“Gotcha.”
In other words, we’ve entered the cold war phase of our battle with our unknown enemy. A period of reconnaissance, research, and spycraft before the showdown. Now that we’ve personally dealt with their scout, they’re going to be much more careful.
Somewhere to my left, the grandfather clock chimes 10 PM — Erika nearly flinches at the bong. She looks up and frowns at the brass hour hand. “Suppose we might need to make this gathering short. Prichard can only cover so much ground — I’ll make another run around town.”
For some reason, those words trigger a fault in my mind. I feel myself growing unreasonably indignant at the prospect of being abandoned this early in the evening. Somehow, the little black ember residue from that final spell the other night tugs at my emotions — before I realize what’s going on, I’m already playing along with the impulse. “Already? Can’t you stay a bit longer? What am I going to do without you?”
Erika looks at me and raises an inquisitive eyebrow. “Marie? Where’s this coming from?”
I watch my hand sneak around her arm and pull her back to the sofa as she’s trying to get up. My other arm wraps around her soft stomach — warmth pours into me as I rest my head on her shoulder. Her warmth. Mine.
Desires rampage in my body, threatening to overtake my mind. I can see them so clearly as I act unlike myself.
I want to be loved.
To drink deep in whatever I wish, blood or wine.
To live without past or future, only now.
To receive without giving.
To exist, unfettered and free.
They are my own urges. They almost look foreign when laid bare in front of me, maggots writhing in my brain. Erika’s presence merely highlights them, tenderness bruising the already decayed meat. I can barely even comprehend what’s going on as I cling to her, panting heavily — some remaining rational part of my mind realizes this wave of desire as the consequence to my activation of such an unnatural spell the other night.
I look down at my arms and notice my Sigils blazing bright through my clothes. Blue spiderwebs. “W-What’s going on?”
Erika seems to recognize what’s going on. Her argumentative gaze softens and delicately vivesects my flustered body. “I see. Your soul is reaching an awakening. That’s good — don’t fight it.”
I face myself, warped and distorted, wrestling with unfamiliar-yet-familiar desires. Gravity pulls a little tighter on me — it’s been adding up and up, over the years. The feedback from my magic; that little twinge of vertigo has condensed and compressed itself a hyperdense point somewhere inside me. It’s grown enough to emit its own gravitational pull, threatening to cause my mind and body and soul to implode.
My self beats back an onslaught of tar. Erika pulls me in closer and strokes my hair — the brush of her lips against my head erodes me further. I manage to whimper a few words as she cradles my decaying body in her arms. “What’s… awakening...?”
“You’ve activated something powerful enough to reach it. The root of your soul. Your fount, your origin; your source.”
Her touch terrifies me to no end. Lucidity crashes in waves as my mind fades away, droplets of sanity joining an unseen river that flow beyond human comprehension. On a precipice do I stay, balancing between now and then; I don’t know what will happen if I fall. Too sudden — I didn’t expect the consequences of my spell to reach me this early.
Warmth bleeds from my forehead. Through my jittering vision I see Erika placing a long kiss on my forehead — something is flowing into me from her lips. Something cold and thorny and sticky. I can’t stop the violation; she’s wrapped me in an embrace, a prison which I cannot escape from. Impulse.
—I don’t want to die.
Drowning in myself. Lungs of black water. I scream, but all that escapes my lips is a drunken giggle. Unwanted affections sap my will; Erika coaxes something out of me with inhuman touch. My eyelids fall and darkness impales me through the neck.
A full moon stares down, sneering.
Nothing? Nothing.
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Felix tosses and turns for a full hour before abandoning the parody of sleep he performed for the past thirty minutes.
By all means, he should be sleeping soundly tonight. He made a solid chunk of change, a few new friends, and even had a warm glass of milk to wash down a handful of melatonin. But something’s keeping him up, an insistent knocking in the back of his mind. It’s another mystery about himself that he can’t figure out.
To his side, the blue lantern — a key of sorts. His tool to get anywhere in the manor. It rests on a bedside table-crate, a flickering thing of playful azure flames. When he reaches out, the fire responds; it swishes and sways, pressing against the glass. He swears he can almost hear a mirthful laugh in the crackling jar.
Maybe some walking will put his mind to ease. He swings his feet out of bed, puts on some clothes, then grabs the blue lantern.
“Sorry to bother you,” he says, walking towards the door, “but can you walk with me for a spell? I’m a bit listless tonight.”
The lantern emits a little wisp of flame. That's the closest thing to ‘yes’ he’s getting, probably.
Marie had warned him to not go anywhere without the lantern, but didn’t say anything about just wandering around. He figures it might be alright to explore this ancient manor — an opportunity to explore a witch’s haunted house is a thing to be savored. It’s a fantasy connoisseur's wet dream.
Surprisingly, the only thing keeping his dungeon locked is a simple warded lock. It’s a faithful affair, a doom and gloom contraption that barely hangs on the door. While a skeleton key would be nice to rake the thing open, he’s already got something much better.
Felix withdraws a pinch of flame from the lantern and spreads it beside the door. An opposing door-portal appears on the other side. A single step defies the laws of nature and transposes his body through a solid wall of stone.
An invisible wind immediately buffets his body as he enters the corridor, cold and brutal — he immediately regrets stepping outside. He goes back to grab his bomber jacket, suits up, and enters expedition #2.
The hallway outside his cell is an unforgiving wind tunnel. Not enough to blow him off his feet, but enough to whisk away the heat shield around his body and chill him — measly goosebumps grow and rub against the fur coating of his jacket. There must be an open corridor somewhere, a hideaway exposed to the elements. Perhaps a secret underground base. He’s getting giddy just thinking about it.
He wanders for a while, bracing against the wind. His blue lantern provides enough light to get around, but not enough to appreciate the details of dungeon construction. There’s spots of roughly hewn stone among worn black bricks, but they’re far and few between. The place is immaculate by dungeon standards: not a single piece of rubble or debris. Smells nice too; Felix picks up little notes of honey, beer, and lemon.
The other cells have nothing inside them. He ducks in occasionally to hide from the wind, but his investigation yields no meaningful results.
Felix can tell that this place was once used as a prison, but that ‘once’ was a very long time ago. Whoever owned this place was eager to scrub all signs of cruelty, leaving the imagination to fill in the gaps between brick and mortar. He’s only a little disappointed to not see any treasure chests or skeletal minions crawling around.
“...There’s not much down here, is there?” he muses out loud, glancing behind himself. The flames seem to disagree — they point to a door several paces to his left. “Eh? Is something there?”
He follows the flame to a door locked with a padded black lock. Inside gated bars, a bed, electric generator, several oil lanterns—
Wait. That’s not right. That completely violates the mental map he’s been laying out: the string has turned into a mobius loop. He’s only taken three left turns down straight corridors.
This must be one of those non-euclidean maze labyrinths. There might be a destination if he finds the correct combination of twists and turns. Now that’s a proper fantastical element. He’d be extremely disappointed if the arcane realm was as depressing as Marie had described.
“An adventure, then.” Felix takes a deep breath and smiles. His host did complain about his unnatural ability to wake up at daybreak. Why not indulge her request and spelunk deep into the mysteries of the night?
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An iron door catches his attention. An ordinary iron door with absolutely nothing special about it — but that’s what precisely catches his attention. It’s too ordinary. A cross reinforcement with an iron knocker, it’s a kind of door that blends in perfectly with the surrounding dungeon. There has to be something special about it, a door that’s perfect for leading to unknown realms.
“Excuse me,” he announces, taking a hold of the handle. Then he pulls. And on the other side…
The tale has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.
Nothing. Felix pokes his head into a room with only three empty basins and a collection of cracked urns. There’s not even a place where something interesting could be hiding — it’s almost as though somebody purposely removed all the interesting things just in case somebody like Felix came through.
So much for that.
Dejected, Felix continues going around in loops. This is his eighth loop back to his original cell; he hasn’t been able to find the staircase back to the manor itself. That staircase might not even exist. The only thing he’s learned through his exploration is that the wind only blows in a single direction: eastward, respective to his cell. A perfect loop with no breaks. There are several four-way intersections, but they always seem to contort to lead him back to his cell. The arrival at his cell occurs after eight turns, no matter which way he goes.
Doing some basic math, finding the correct solution would require 65,536 permutations. If a run takes around five minutes, that would lead to a total wandering time of approximately 114 days. He does not have the time for that.
But problems can always be framed in a different way. This is no different than a tree of data where each point can be visited once. He could follow an algorithmic approach — postorder, for argument’s sake — and attempt to categorize each route. It would take a while, but since his instincts aren’t acting up, this is the only choice. So he goes, chest puffed out, ready to show the power of math.
His first run is a mad sprint — cuts a few minutes off. His second is a fast jog. After the fifth, he just starts jogging normally. The tenth, he stops counting.
Another run. Cell. Run. Cell. Run. Cell. Run. Cell. Run. Cell. Run. Cell. Run. Cell. Run. Cellrun. Cellrun, cellrun, cellrun, cellruncellruncellruncellruncellrun — Felix refuses to stop moving, even as the walls blur into a black smear. Impossible wind carries him: they fuel his body’s machine. Just foot ahead of the other, again and again. The blue lantern whistles, rattling in his hand.
How many runs was that? Thirty? Fourty? A hundred? He ignores the screaming coming from his calves and stomach as he takes another loop. Hallucinations are starting to take him — spots grow, streaks of blue and red. Bells ring in his ears, trills of distant shores. They call him, beckoning. He can’t tell exactly where he’s running anymore: exertion has ruptured his reason. Where was he again?
As soon as he bothers to think again, his body completely gives out. Awareness cuts his hamstrings and sends him skidding across the ground, unable to breath. He’s forced to wheeze for breath — the ringing in his ears won’t stop. Everything burns; he flops onto his back to recover faster.
A different roof stares back at him. Instead of cracked stone, dark wooden diagonals zigzag and combine into triangular patterns that conceal a pale wooden roof. A different place. But the bells don’t stop.
Felix pushes himself to his knees, glancing around the halls. At some point, they had shifted to a checkerboard flooring and blank ivory wallpaper — he can’t see any obvious transitions between there and here. Brass mirrors reflect light that does not exist. Several portraits break up the monotony; he approaches one of them out of near compulsive curiosity.
A portrait with no face, scrawled out in rusty oil paint. It seems to be of a young man with dashing slicked black hair, but a void sits where his face should be. Nothingness peers back at Felix from what as well might be a hole in the world. Bells toll, calling out. Wind with no origin.
But he just shrugs and moves on. Nothing to be gained, so no reason to linger.
As he walks through this new section of the manor, he begins to hear a light scratching sound. It seems to come from the walls, a million skittering insects — a tide barely held back by a thin layer of wood. Bells, absurd and perverse, blare through his mind, waves of sound that merely carry his mind along their crests. Felix stands there, taking it all in. It almost seems—
“Coco, Coco, how long shall this boy retain his delusion of brilliance?”
“Mimi, Mimi, how long shall this boy remain banal, an insipid existence?”
As Felix is trying to process the situation, two disembodied whispers worm their way into his head, soft-spoken and reserved.
—He isn’t really sure, but it feels like both his character and sensibilities are being insulted. He crosses his arms indignantly and taps his foot, creating his own clicking echo.
“Coco, Coco, is he a dullard? An oaf or a simpleton?”
“Mimi, Mimi, I believe our investigation into the tiresome has just begun.”
The slightly unnerving sounds have faded away, leaving scritching and bell noises in a palpable direction: north. Felix starts walking towards the noise, raising his blue lantern.
“Coco, Coco, should we pity, deride, or should we imbibe a creature such as he?”
“Mimi, Mimi, while, typically, I would say all three, he would only provide as much sustenance as a common house flea.”
Felix feels personally insulted by that last one. He’s not sure why, but he furrows his brow and calls out. “Hey.”
He rounds a corner and stumbles into the sight of two bizarre figures sweeping the floors with straw brooms. They look up at him with the same expression one would afford a particularly nasty wine stain.
On the left, dressed in a snazzy yet frilly butler’s uniform, a stout creature with bestial hands and legs. Were it not for the human face peering out between droopy dog-like ears, Felix would’ve confused it for a werewolf of some sort — a pint-sized pup.
On the right, much of the same. Grey fur, soft orange eyes, a uniform sharp enough to cut steel. The main differentiating factor is their choice of accessories and hairstyle.
“Coco, it appears this human has finally developed object permanence. Shall we rejoice?” The one on the left — presumably ‘Mimi’ — adjusts his (her?) smart rounded glasses, not quite looking at Felix. They have short off-grey hair with long locks that fall to their shoulders.
“Mimi, as most humans develop such an ability at four to seven months of life, I’d rather not — given the choice.” Coco shakes her (his?) head in disapproving, causing their fluffy pony-tail to bounce in the draft.
“I’m right here, you know…” Felix is getting some faint deja vu — there appears to be a concurrent theme of manor residents speaking to each other and refusing to acknowledge his existence. It only hurts a little.
But more than anything, this is way too much insulting. Felix is pretty sure he hasn’t done anything wrong. Almost sure. “Erm, sorry to bother you two, I’ll… go back to my room, I guess.”
When he turns around to where he came, the twinned creatures are already in his way — they look at him directly, hiding their brooms behind their backs. He didn’t notice it until now, but they have poofy tails that sway back and forth. Overall fluff balls.
“Strange as you are, do you really think we can let you walk away?” says Mimi.
“Brazen as you are, do you think you can escape the consequences of your actions?” says Coco.
This situation again. Felix represses a sigh and balls his hands into fists — the lantern’s brass handle presses into his palm. Without Marie or his equipment, he doesn’t stand much of a chance. If they can teleport around, then merely escaping with the lantern won’t do much. He digs deep and realizes this is the part where he should get his last rites over with. No regrets. He straightens his back and steadies his gaze, then delivers his final words:
“Can I pet you two before I die? At the same time?”
The twins freeze up. Slowly, they look at each other, then regard Felix with a complicated, almost amused expression.
“Coco, I believe we’ve found a pervert. A scoundrel. A depraved individual.”
“Mimi, I believe we’ve found a degenerate. A deviant. A debauched individual.”
“Oh.” His shoulders falter. Somehow, being slapped with an ugly labels feels more terrible than an assassination attempt.
“I suppose it falls to us to dole out punishment,” says Mimi.
“Say, quite an opportunity for admonishment!” says Coco.
Both of them break into sinister wolf-like grins and step towards him. Somewhere, another pair of bells ring.
Felix gulps. He doesn’t like that. He doesn’t like that at all.
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A wee platter and cup finds its way in front of Felix. Hesitantly, he picks it up with two fingers and swirls the white fluid inside — seems to be warm milk, sweetened with honey and rosemary.
This has been a very round-about way of going to the kitchen to get a bedtime glass of milk, he realizes.
“While we’d offer you a drink right and proper, we’re in America now — you need to be twenty-one to partake,” Mimi says, sipping from a pungent smelling tankard. It’s oversized in their hands — looks more like a bowl than a cup.
“‘Tis for your own sake,” Coco adds, cradling a glass of wine.
They invited him into a storeroom of sorts. A little cramped by human standards; Felix struggles to fix between all the bookshelves and crates. There’s a fireplace near the round table the group sits at — Coco occasionally tosses charcoal into the greedy flames from an open crate.
“Ummm… thank you. For not eating me, that is.” He sips at his given platter and nods at the pleasant taste. Creamy, potentially whole milk.
“While some beasts gnaw bone for marrow, I’d rather a cup of amaretto,” Mimi mutters.
“I don’t think we’ve eaten anybody since the contract, either,” Coco says, tossing another coal into the fire.
A non-rhyme. That’s surprising. “Do you guys rhyme all the time?”
“Hmm? No, just a force of habit.” Mimi takes off their glasses and polishes them with their wrist fur. “We had a few peculiar masters before the big hound took charge. Not that I minded it — helped both my English and German.”
Felix looks over the two again and rummages around his brain. Marie asked him to look into mythological creatures earlier — these creatures could be the ‘Phantasma’ she mentioned before.
Household duties. Mischievous pranks. A penchant for drink. Marie’s seemingly german ancestry. He clears his throat and proposes his theory: “This might be a bit sudden, but… are you two kobolds?”
Mimi raises an eyebrow and sips again. “Dear me, Coco, it seems like this one might have some ingenuity, after all.”
“No, he might just be well read — a book worm pitfall.”
They share a snicker at his detriment. Coco places down their glass and props up their chin on a raised elbow. “But you’re right. We’re kobolds: the spirits that keep this manor immaculate. Surprised?”
No, not at all. But he figures he should be polite. “A little.”
Coco averts their gaze. “As to be expected. Our current appearance is eccentric, by all conventional standards. It’s a new experience.”
“The frills are growing on me,” Mimi comments, brushing their shoulders.
“I do miss watching humans run away in fear.”
“Times are a changin’, Coco. If she thought it was a good idea, then there might be some merit — she’s as utilitarian as they come.”
‘She’ could refer to either Erika or Marie, unless there’s some other terrifying female within the manor Felix has yet to meet.
“You two are quite… endearing,” Felix mumbles, covering up his embarrassment with a sip of milk.
These two kobolds are several magnitudes more adorable than he anticipated. Just like upon an encounter with a big fluffy dog, some primordial instinct in his head tells him to reach out and pat.
“Part of the new employee policy.” Mimi plays with the curls of their hair, inspecting them occasionally. “She wanted a more… human-friendly approach. So, in case we get caught in the open, being cute and amicable will cause people to not run away, screaming and crying for their lives.”
“But enough about us,” Coco says, placing a finger on her cheek. “We’re here about you.”
The way Coco said ‘you’ almost makes it sound like a slur. Felix cocks his head, unsure what unspoken rule he violated this time. “Did I do something wrong?”
“What colour is the head of this household’s eyes?” Coco asks.
Jade. Emerald. Scintillating verdant. “Green.”
The corner of Coco’s mouth pulls upwards. “...Have you had any uncontrollable impulses that you didn’t understand?”
His watch reads 1:32:29 AM, screamed in neon digits. “Sometimes. I keep this watch around me, for some reason…”
They look at each other. Then, they look at him with grave expressions. Mimi brushes aside one of their floppy ears and clears their throat. “Well, you didn’t do anything wrong, per se. But I’d like to explain with a simple modernized allegory.”
They reach over to the coal pile, pick up a stick-shaped piece, then scrawl a rectangle and a bird beside each other. “So, imagine a bird that has never encountered the human world before. As they’re flying, they see a perfectly rectangular hole. This interests the bird, who flies at it full speed. Then what happens? Blam!” The kobold claps their paws together, eyes widening for emphasis. “Surprise! A window, glass, solidified air — the bird regains its composure and limps away, lesson learned. But an abnormal bird doesn’t do that. It smashes into the window, over and over, never learning.”
While he can see the message, he can’t see how it applies to him. “...Where are you going with this?”
Mimi just looks disappointed. They take a sip of their booze and look away — that seems to be the cue for Coco to take over. “Do you know why humans fear the unknown?”
A loaded question with many answers. Felix replies with the first thing that comes to mind: “I… guess we need information to help our choices and calculations. When we don’t have those variables, that uncertainty seeps in and we’re unable to make decisions.”
“You do understand,” Coco says. They pick up their glass and stare at him as they drink — a single bead of bloody wine drips down the side of their mouth. “Fear of the unknown correlates to a human’s survival instinct. So when a man doesn’t have that instinct, that innately human — no, a living creature’s trait, what does that imply?”
That man would be lacking humanity. Instinct. Life itself. Felix suddenly feels self-conscious — he hunches over and stares at his hands. It’s true that he has a near pathological lack of fear, upon some introspection, that alone cannot put that much distance between him and a normal human.
He feels completely normal and fine. There shouldn’t be anything wrong with him, but then again, both the insane and sane think they are in the right. In a world where magic and other impossibilities are real, can there really be anything truly insane?
He couldn’t have been born this way. Something must have happened — if only he could figure it out on his own. There’s something about this town that ties directly to his fate; rather than fear or anxiety, the acid of frustration courses through his veins. He can’t be insane — there’s a piece of the puzzle that he’s missing. The numbers have to be the key, somewhere, sometime.
“It’s something for you to think about in the morn’, boy,” says Coco. “Interesting way to spend the break, wasn’t it?”
They nudge Mimi, who immediately chugs the rest of their drink. “Bah. Interesting, sure. Entertaining, not really.”
The group sits around in silence. Felix drains the rest of his milk, then casts his gaze towards the fireplace — he didn’t notice the complete lack of fuel until now. A single rune of sorts spews a near continual flame. Magic, through and through.
“My name is Felix,” he says, sensing the conversation is nearing an end. “Nice to meet you two.”
“Oh right, you humans have an obsession with names.” Mimi mutters. “I’m Amelia.”
“My name is Cornelia,” the other kobold says. They both perform small bows and speak at the same time:
“As long as you offer us sacrifices and offerings, you can use whatever name you’d like.”
Coco and Mimi seem to fit their diminutive puppy-like appearances better than their proper names. But with that, the night seems to be at an end. “I’ll make myself scarce, then.” He turns to the doorway and grabs his blue lantern, then hesitates. “Can I come here again?”
Coco and Mimi look at each other, then shrug in resignation at the same time.
“As long as you bring the good booze,” says Mimi.
“We’re running low on imports — sake or scotch would be good news,” says Coco.
Felix did earn quite a bit in tips. He wonders how much booze he would have to offer to be able to pet them — might need to find somebody to buy booze for him. “Well, I’ll be off. Thank you two for everything!”
The twins wave him off, smiling bemusedly to himself as he stumbles out of the cramped dwellings.
“Maybe we’ll have some real fun next time, isn’t that right, sister?”
“Next time will have to wait. Hurry on your way, mister.”
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I come to with a start, with a spasm of both my legs and arms. Something like shadows has coagulated in my throat; I cough up something wet and unapologetically bitter. Something worse than bile.
My eyes struggle to adjust to the dim light; it takes me a long time to realize that I’m in a different room than the lounge I passed out in.
I’m back in my room. My nightgown that I barely wear is on, a snuggly dress of black cotton. Underneath it, my body is sweltering hot, bordering on boiling — the temptation to strip and sleep nude presses against my mind. I would indulge it too, if it were not for the presence seated in my desk’s chair.
Erika. The woman that haunts me, a phantom in black and green. I can barely make out the spine of the book she’s reading today: Animal Farm. A strange choice for a woman who never leaves my side.
She’s always been there for me — that’s the scariest part. She’s always been there for me. No matter what I do or where I go, she haunts me more aggressively than my own shadow.
The teenage girl part of me wants to throw a fit. “Why won’t you leave me alone?” she screams, clutching her hair, tears and snot running down her face. “This world isn’t fair.” “I don’t want to do this.” “I’m so misunderstood, I wish somebody would just listen to me.” I squash all those emotions with a cold hammer of rationality — that dumb teenage girl hits the wall. Her head splits open. I take glee as I watch that hypothetical self bleed out, brains leaking from ears.
I’m not stupid enough to turn and bite the hand that’s fed, clothed, and groomed me. My duties as a witch and inheritor of the arcane come first.
At least, they should.
I don’t know whether that brief slip into delirium was real or not. It might’ve just been a dream.
I don’t feel any different. And frankly, that fact alone scares me quite shitless. I can’t tell if I’m losing my mind. If I woke up with a third eye, a voice crying out for murder in my head, or maybe tentacles sprouting from my back, at least I’d know that something has changed. As my situation is now, I can’t really tell what’s going on in my psyche, a great big black box with traces of magic and insanity inside.
So I blurt out the only question that comes to mind:
“What happened to me?”
Erika glances at me with inquisitive green eyes, taking me apart with her gaze. “You’re finally awake. I’m glad.” She smiles and closes her book — spine snaps shut. “How do you feel, Marie?”
Terrible. Insane. I’m losing it. “No different than usual,” I say.
“That’s good. For once, this is something I can’t see — I’d like to stay by your side and make sure there are no complications.”
“No complications for what?” I repeat, a little more forcefully.
“...Since you’re properly my master now, I’ll tell you in full.” She squares her shoulders and stares straight into me. “The other night, you managed to wield enough magic to break down the barrier between yourself, and your ‘self.’ The source of your existence is now exposed.”
A source. I vaguely remember reading about the concept in the dustier tomes among my grandma’s collection. The root of one’s existence in life — one could possibly conflate the idea of id, instinct, and unconscious drive together into this source. Rampaging desires.
I clutch my head as a migraine clusters and explodes; pieces of my skull fly and hit the wall, landing the corpse of my other self.
I already know what this means. Some truths, once glimpsed, can never be forgotten. I’m lucky enough that I haven’t just gone insane from the revelation, but in the worst case scenario, I’ve allowed myself to be taken over by an entity of unknown origins.
Even now, I can feel its grasp around me. A constant hazy presence, a master tugging on a collar I can’t see. No longer can I be sure if my desires are truly mine. Pain echoes and reverberates a hundred times, melting my brain into paste.
A hand falls on my shoulder and head, patting, gently consoling. I look through my fingers and see my shadow gently stroking my cheek. Erika’s warmth presses against my side, impossibly soft.
“What… am I?”
I force a few words out in an almost pathetic squeak. The horror looms over me in a sudden bout of lucidity — there may be a point in the near future where I am no longer myself. I don’t even know what my source is; I don’t know which way I’ll be warped.
Erika doesn’t have a response to my question. She merely strokes my head, a motion given to a newborn kitten, a final punctuation to our conversation. Although we’re in sync enough to go over most mundane conversations and commands with a mere glance, there are times where she’s a stranger — an impenetrable wall of darkness. Whether she conceals a greater darkness, or poses herself to protect me, I don’t know. I’m not sure if I ever know.
A part of my spirit gives out as I melt into her arms, a nearly broken doll. My headache throbs and throbs, each pulse threatening to knock me into unconsciousness. A giggle escapes from between us — I can’t tell who’s laughing anymore. All I can do is pathetically cling to her, hoping this storm born of my neurochemistry mixing with my destiny will pass.
“Don’t worry. Even death won’t take you away from me, dear,” Erika whispers, holding me against her chest. No heartbeat — a warning, a threat, a promise; all borne out of deranged love.
And as I fade to nothing, I see something across the room. A silhouette of light in an azure dress against the wall, a miniature nebula of stardust and background radiation given form. That shadow that I’ve tried to deny for so long watches me, a promise of things to come.
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