Mortificatio
Chapter 1
(Elissa)
A swirl of orange and black was all I could see for several moments. The colors danced together, slowly taking shape, until dimension gave focus to what I recognized as my own small belly. I wore some sort of tiger stripe-printed fabric… a costume. In all directions, there was darkness, and the only noise to be heard was some muted clatter that sounded as if it had traveled down a long hallway and reverberated off itself repeatedly without end. My vision shifted upward as three shadowy figures came into view. They did not fully solidify but remained smoke and mist as they faced me, the ghastly figures floating side by side, looking almost identical but for the looks on their faces. Maybe ‘looks’ and ‘faces’ weren't the right words… All that could be seen in terms of features were a mouth and two slits for eyes, all aglow with red. Each figure’s expression differed slightly, and somehow they felt familiar. There was no fear in my tiny four-year-old body at the sight of the three menacing shadows before me, only recognition.
Taking in a deep inhale, I pause and look up from my sketch at the pile of colored pencils before me, recalling with great detail the curious dream from which my artwork is sourced. Hand hovering over the multicolor collection, I decide to exchange my current black pencil for a shade of burnt orange. The pencil scratches excitedly in hand as I add color to the tiger costume my child-self had been wearing, then brighten one of the shadow’s ‘eyes.’
“Ooo, what happened in your dreamscapes this time, Elissa?” Danny muses from the kitchen, gingerly blowing out air over his hot cup of tea. He glides over to me, robe billowing, to get a closer look. Putting a hand over his teacup to block the fumes, he leans down next to me, face now parallel with my own, as I return to the solid black pencil.
“Nothing much, just a dream,” I answer absentmindedly, tilting my head away slightly, ensuring one of the shadows is sufficiently darkened.
“Looks more like a nightmare to me.” I can hear the frown in his voice. His one-sided earring, the shape of a dagger, glints in the morning light as it dangles in my peripheral vision. He straightens and turns away to take a drink.
His comment makes me grin, and I shrug. “Doesn’t really matter whether it’s considered a dream or a nightmare – both are just our brains’ way of processing emotional backlog,” I state matter-of-factly.
“Mhm,” Danny hums playfully, “whatever helps you sleep at night, sweetie.” I stop sketching and cock my head to give him a serious look, which he trades for a doubtful grimace. We both burst into laughter at the exchange.
“Everyone knows dreams are our connection to other realms,” a smooth, enchanting voice rings out as it descends the stairs and glides into the room. The voice belongs to Sasha, our resident ‘witch’ and self-proclaimed ‘astral projector.’ She practically floats as she moves about the old house, tassels of her violet fringed kimono swaying softly with each step. Sasha and I are about the same age and height, with matching black hair. But where the length of my hair hangs down in long, heavy strands, her mane is a short, wavy bob with bangs. The only makeup she ever wears is mascara to accentuate her already long lashes, and somehow, no matter what time of day I see her, she seems to always have on a full lip of dark crimson. How infuriatingly perfect.
The remnants of my smile fade and I roll my eyes at Sasha’s comment, returning to my sketchbook. It’s not so much the stance she takes on things, but the air in which she takes them.
“That’s one perspective,” I mutter from my corner of the room, scratching a particularly large stroke of pencil onto the paper.
Sasha’s back is turned to me as she opens one of the kitchen cupboards to grab a flowery teacup matching Danny’s, filling it from the warm pot of chamomile still on the stove.
“Don’t you agree, Danny?” Sasha asks innocently, though with an underlying lace of venom, completely ignoring my statement. Her head leans back just a little, as if she were about to peer over her shoulder to Danny for an answer. He and I both know she isn’t really looking for one. Ever the performer, I seethe internally.
“Good morning to you too, Sasha,” Danny greets in a trying voice. He and Sasha get along well, but he’s also acutely aware of the tension between us.
He glances back in my direction, and the death grip I have on my pencil, and raises a brow. I don’t notice him inch away as my eyes practically bore holes into Sasha’s back. Impervious to my glare, the teaspoon between her fingers clinks softly as she stirs honey into the delicate teacup, bright red nails set against fair skin, visible from a mile away. From just a few feet out of vision, a louder clinking sound tells me Danny is placing his cup and saucer in the sink and about to high-tail it out of here.
“Wait, Danny, where–” I start, but he’s already retreating away from the kitchen.
“Nope, I’m not doing this,” he points at each of us in a criss-cross motion, “this morning.” And then, “Unlike you two princesses, this one has a job.” With that, he brisks out of the kitchen, up the stairs toward his room. Already at the second-floor landing, he shuts his bedroom door with finality before either of us can say another word.
I shake my head. This is becoming a pattern. I assert an opinion, Sasha comes out of the woodwork touting some alternative perspective – just for the sake of being edgy, probably – I get pissed off, Danny escapes, and I’m left alone with Ms. Wicca herself.
Sasha comes to sit across from me at the dining room table. It’s a modest piece that came with the converted apartment we were renting, an all-white iron round table set with just three chairs, looking better suited for some outdoor patio. But here it sits in the old kitchen, in front of the stained glass window. The sunlight coming through the window in all manner of colors seems to give life to the ornate iron table, casting warm rainbows on its surface, and we’ve all grown fond of it, even the ridiculous noise the chairs make as the bottoms of the legs thud against tile.
Looking down at my hands, I notice I’m about to snap the pencil in two, so I force myself to relax. I can’t let her get to me like this – I’ve been trying to be better about dealing with my feelings. Even Danny’s levity could not quell my loathing. I close my eyes and draw in a breath, wanting a moment to myself. What is here? I ask internally. Jealousy, a voice calls back softly, from underneath the surface. Surprised and further irritated, I file the answer away to look into later.
My eyes open to find Sasha looking directly at me, as she raises the gilded rim of china to her lips. Quietly, she sips from it and stares, as if waiting for me to come back to the room we’re in.
“Good morning, Sasha,” I sigh. “We already know we have different points of view on the topic of dreams. Can we please table that for today, and just agree to disagree?”
“Very well,” she purrs, taking another delicate sip. The scent of chamomile is more suffocating coming from her teacup than it had been from Danny’s. They were both avid chamomile drinkers, but I’ve always hated the scent.
Well, not always. Although the memories are milder after several years, the scent still brings to mind the ex-boyfriend who used to drink it exclusively. The same ex-boyfriend who cheated on me—twice. Fucker, I curse internally. I can feel my resentment boiling to the surface as I remember our last encounter. I had entered his apartment early one morning – on his birthday, no less – intending to surprise him with breakfast in bed, only to find a surprise of my own.
Funny, the little details that stick. In my mind’s eye, clear as day, I can see an omelette, a twisted orange slice and neatly cut strawberry garnished on the side of the plate. And– most importantly– a fresh, piping hot pour of chamomile tea. I see myself smiling like an idiot as I loaded the tray and tiptoed toward his room, placing it down briefly on the credenza to open the door. I opted to serve just the tea first. Quietly, ear of mug in one hand and door handle in the other, I was about to turn the knob when I heard a light yawn and a giggle—a female voice. Frozen in place outside the door, I listened for half a second before hearing a male response.
I stood there in shock, blood running cold as tendrils of chamomile fumes invaded my nostrils and embedded themselves into my memory. At some point—minutes or seconds later, I couldn’t tell—the door swung open from inside. The suddenness of the door handle opening launched the mug from my fingers, sending it flying, hot liquid spraying skin and ceramic crashing to its death on the floor. Shards lodged themselves into bare soles as I took a step backward, small trickles of blood painting them as I stared at the equally shocked male in briefs before me, then the small blonde who let out a squeak behind him as she brought covers up to hide herself. She had peaked out, her golden hands clutching the comforter I had bought for us, bright red nails standing out against the dark blue.
The image of the harlot’s nails is what brings me back to the present, blinking as the memory drifts from view, replaced by Sasha’s dainty hands across from me. Ah. Well, it’s no wonder I’m extra triggered by her this morning.
I set down my pencil and sketchbook to gulp my own green tea. As if replacing the aroma could replace my past along with it. I don’t like to remember the person I was back then. Tender, doting – always ready to please. I gaze down into the cup of sencha I’m holding to find that I much preferred what lies therein—bitterness. I chuckle internally. Bitterness gets a bad rap. It's comforting, really. It won’t let you down or harm you– because it holds no expectation. No expectations, no disappointment. It’s always the same outcome– people excel at disappointing one another. So, I just get ahead of them by expecting the worst. Looking up, my thoughts are invaded by a cacophony of sickly sweet floral notes that waft over to me from Sasha’s cup. Smells like… lies and empty promises.
As for Sasha, I’m fairly certain she remembers my distaste for the herbal tea, having been present one morning when Danny had the unfortunate mishap of spilling his cup of chamomile all over my dress, me promptly vomiting on myself. What followed was an animated conversation after the clean up, me apologizing all over the place to Danny, and Danny echoing apologies back after hearing my story. Sasha had only sat idly by in amusement of the chaos. At this point, it has to be that Sasha simply revels in pissing me off. I gag.
“That being said,” Sasha continues, eyeing my obvious discomfort, “may I ask what your dream was about?” Her eyebrows raise in inquiry as she nods her head toward my sketch. She, like Danny, is used to me being in the kitchen in the early hours of the morning, taking my dreams to paper.
Not really wanting to share, but too tired to find a good excuse not to, I offer the information plainly: “It’s about the people who raised me. I appeared as a little girl in a tiger costume – I remember wearing it when I was like, four, or something. The three shadows represent some darker traits my family passed down to me.”
“I see,” came Sasha’s smooth reply. “May I?” She stretches out an elegant upturned palm in request, and I offer up the sketchbook to her. She received the image with both hands, letting her eyes roam over it for a moment before widening.
“And,” she starts slowly, “are you aware of what each shadow represents?”
I gawk, taken aback by her frank question. I never thought she would care to know. Any time I opened up about myself to Danny in her presence, she remained quiet. I answer her cautiously, not sure how much I want to divulge to the housemate I’ve secretly loathed for two years now. Okay, maybe it’s not so secret.
“I… think so. I haven’t quite flushed out the details yet, but, I have an inkling.”
She nods, gingerly returning the picture. Both hands now free, her delicate frame leans across the table to place both hands atop one of my own, bright red nail beds gleaming, giving me a serious look.
Surprise flickers across my face at the gesture, but she maintains a gentle while firm grip on me before I can pull away. “Elissa,” she starts, actually seeming at a loss for words. “Be… careful with this one.”
I open my mouth to speak, but no words come. Sasha is not usually one to express genuine concern. It’s all pomp and circumstance in the way she typically carries herself. The Sasha sitting across the table from me now, eyebrows knitted, is one I haven’t seen before– nor know how to deal with.
“Uh, thanks.” I mumble. She continues to stare at me with lit amber eyes. It’s a hard stare, unrelenting. The kind that reminds me how rarely I look into the eyes of other people anymore. In fact, I couldn’t actually recall the last time I made intentional eye contact like that, really seeing another person. It occurs to me that I used to, but had stopped. Why? I wonder to myself. Maybe there’s something you don’t want them to see, suggests a soft internal voice, dawning on me uncomfortably.
Sasha withdraws her hands and gaze, and the spell breaks. She shifts to look out the stained glass window, and seems content to do so without further conversation. A slender hand fiddles with the amulet that hangs on a golden chain around her neck, bright nails flashing as she turns it over and over. Though she has the outward appearance of being rather at ease, I can’t shake the feeling she’s contemplating something that unnerves her. Is it just me, or is there a slight tremble to her fingers?
We both sit there, me somewhat awkwardly, a strange energy falling over the room. I consider her words. ‘Be careful,’ she had cautioned. Of what? I know Sasha practices witchcraft, but to what extent, I’m not sure. What does it even mean to be a witch in the modern world? Can she see the future? Is there dead animals in glass jars in her room? The three of us have an understanding that none would enter the other’s rooms uninvited. We all were happy to agree to the boundary, but come to think of it, Sasha had proposed the idea. And she has never invited either of us into her room. Danny’s, I had seen—it’s all Troye Sivan posters and memoirs from his travels. But what about Sasha’s—what could she be hiding in there? It’s no secret the two of us don’t always see eye to eye, but is she someone to be feared?
My runaway thoughts are interrupted by a low, faint whispering drifting into my eardrum, barely audible, coming from the direction of the table. I lower my gaze, but just then Danny comes bounding down the stairs, banishing any aurals of the mind which are instantly forgotten.
He hollers salutations as he flies out the door. “Have a good day, everyone! Stay beautiful!” is his signature morning goodbye. Sasha and I holler similar salutations back as the bell on the door jingle-jangles with his departure. We all love the shopkeeper’s bell. We were told this structure had originally been a store. It was converted into an apartment by the previous owners, the bell kept out of novelty. They thought it would draw people in with its historical charm—and they were right. It was one of the things that drew me to the apartment in the first place. Inside is all white-painted wood, a blank canvas, with small influences of Greco-Roman architecture, and an indoor balcony as the second floor. Simple, charming. On the walls now hangs a curated gallery of three different tastes, and along with the nostalgic bell and hallowed stained glass window, it makes the place feel homey. If only Sasha did too. Silence falls once more as the last reverberations of the bell fade.
“Well, off I go,” Sasha sighs. “Apparently Dr. Maxwell has an esteemed colleague who has been ‘dying’ to meet me–” she pauses, looking over at me with a tight smile. “His words, not mine. Wouldn’t say who though, it’s all very mysterious.” Her eyebrows quirk up at the last word to feign intrigue, as she rose to discard her dishes and head upstairs. I only nod, saying nothing, watching the woman glide up the stairs to her room as effortlessly as she had descended, until at last, I was alone.
Chapter 2
(Elissa)
Today is my day to clean up the kitchen, and as I stand at the sink, suds gliding over the delicate ware, I wished I had an advisor as interested in my work as Sasha’s. She and I are both Ph.D students at the local university, and she often has meetings with her faculty advisor before classes. Of course, she would get along with her advisor. I bet she slept with him. I pause, frowning, alarmed at how easily the vile thought comes to mind, then I continue on, burying the discomfort. It isn’t fair that my advisor, Dr. Lockheed, seems to dislike me no matter what I do. Our last heated discussion comes to mind, and I grip the dishes a little tighter. I’ve never met anyone with such complete disinterest in my work. Why did I have to get stuck with him as my advisor? The bumbling old fool told me I don’t take my work seriously. I’ve always considered myself a serious worker. In high school I graduated with honors, serving as valedictorian of my class, and graduated Summa Cum Laude for my bachelor’s, making mom and dad proud. They were ecstatic when I entered into the dual master’s and Ph.D program for Applied Mineral Physics. They practically drooled over my master’s degree when I presented it to them. I could just see them now, having friends over and gushing over my wall of achievements and my Ph.D track. It’s always felt like it wasn’t really me they love though, so much as that damn wall. If only they looked at me with a fraction of the love I saw in their eyes when they gazed at those pieces of paper behind glass.
Most days I’d have been at the university hours ago, and would’ve spent all day to evening there, not arriving home until after everyone else was in bed. Again and again, I’ve tried to prove myself to Dr. Lockheed. Not today, though. After several months without a day off, exhaustion is an understatement.
I retrieve my artwork and supplies from the dining table and make my way through the archway leading to my bedroom. Mine is the only one on the first floor—the other bedrooms are upstairs. Once there, I head to the stack of clear bins, where my art supplies are neatly organized by medium, and place the colored pencils back in their assigned drawer. Then I set the drawing on top of my wooden dresser, leaning against the mirror. Soon it’ll join my other dreams on the wall.
I look around at my other works—some black and white sketches, others full paintings with vibrant color. All are somewhat surreal, a mix of recognizable images amidst bizarre settings. The wall by my bed showcases my earlier works. They’re all calming blue hues, water and land, inanimate objects. One that looks like a floating glass elevator rising over a desert. I remember painting that one right before my master’s program began. The far wall has my more recent work. A plate with a single tooth atop it, hands on either side of the plate holding a fork and knife in a ready-to-eat position, against a backdrop of quite a violent shade of green. The one beside it shows an earthquake– a jagged split in the earth, a floating head nestled in between the chasm. Yikes. My recent dreams practically scream “stress”. But I don’t think I could survive this program without the creative outlet. As dumb as it sounds, I’ve hid it from my parents for years. One day my parents caught me with paints, brushes and a canvas gifted to me by a teacher, and they promptly tossed it all in the trash, telling me it was a waste of time. I was seven.
Since then I’ve been painting in secret, and although I’ve been told by friends and colleagues that my art could fetch a fair price if sold, I don’t do it to gain money or recognition. My creations are my own. Each is a puzzle piece that makes up my being, and to part with one would render me incomplete.
I hear Sasha’s salutation, bell jingling as she heads out the door. Now I was truly alone. I hope to have a productive day of doing nothing, just to spite Dr. Lockwood,. With a “hmpf”, I gather up a fresh towel and head to my adjoining bathroom to get ready.
Stepping into the shower, I immediately have the uncanny feeling of being watched. My skin prickles involuntarily. The hairs on the back of my neck slowly begin to rise, even as they dampen from warm water pouring overhead. Shampooing my scalp, the eeriness intensifies, becoming a growing presence behind me, flooding the bathroom with malice. Moments before it can make itself known, I wipe suds from my eyes and jerk back the curtain to face an unseen enemy. Nothing. I roll my eyes at myself, trying to ignore my quickening pulse.
Just now though, I could have sworn I heard whispers. I glide my loofah down one arm, telling myself what I’m hearing is positively not real – merely an influence from the cryptic message my witch of a housemate left with my imagination. Too spooked to yank back the curtain a second time, I peek out meekly from behind its flimsy illusion of safety. Again, nothing.
Jeez, get it together, Elissa. It’s the middle of the morning and you’re freaking out. I berate myself and shake my head, letting out a sigh. But my quickening heartbeat won’t relent. I rinse swiftly and without further incident. Grabbing my towel and exiting the shower, I dry my wet skin and wrap my body in terrycloth. Leaning over the drain, I twist my hair loosely and gently press the excess water from it. Whatever malicious presence I felt has now dissipated. I turn to the vanity, hesitating, wiping down steamy glass to reveal only my reflection. I grumble at it, not having paid much attention to my own image as of late. My eyebrows are getting a bit bushy, and I have bags under my eyes. Actual bags.
I bet Sasha never looks like this, I begrudge. Hastily, I grab my bottle of moisturizer, depositing an extra-large gloop in hand, and begin to rub it between my fingers, warming the substance. I apply the moisturizer to my dry skin in heavy-handed circles, paying extra attention to my neck and jawline, my under eyes, and the semi-permanent frown between my brows.
I open the bathroom door and walk back into my bedroom, hot steam following behind me. Towel still wrapped tightly around my body and wet hair at my back, I sit down at the edge of my bed across from the dresser and mirror.
Bone broth. I note flatly to myself as I finish rubbing in the moisturizer. I need to consume more bone broth, or take collagen supplements. I wonder how Sasha gets her collagen. Isn’t she vegetarian? If I had glowing skin like that, I would probably get more attention, too. What does everyone see in her, anyway? Charm? Grace? Can’t they all see she’s fake? A wolf in sheep’s clothing? I bet she slept her way through her academic program. She tricks everyone into thinking she’s so wonderful just because she’s pretty. Why doesn’t anyone else see her as the lecherous snake she is?
Suddenly, my body takes in a desperately sharp inhale, as if it had forgotten to breathe whilst my mind wandered. As it does, a wave passes through me like I’ve just woken up from a deep sleep. The sun even looks to be in a different part of the room, as if the morning had come and gone. But… How could that be? Could I really have spaced out that long?
Turning, holding my towel in place, I lift my knee on the bed to peer out the window. Sure enough, the light of the sun feels like afternoon rays. Something is off about the walls, too, my peripherals tell me. I pause, thundering heartbeat returning, before dragging my eyes from the window with great effort. In growing horror, I absorb the fact that all of my artwork—every single painting and sketch—is missing. Well, not missing entirely. The frames are still there, as well as the canvases beneath them, but every single piece has been drained completely of color or substance, utterly blank.
I regard the empty frames. Though it’s silent, blood roars loudly through veins behind eardrums and my stomach drops, fear and confusion threatening to take over. Was someone here? Aware of the now-familiar feeling of eyes on my back, I clutch my towel to my chest and whip my head back to the dresser, breath shallow.
There, propped up against the mirror just as I left it, is my most recent sketch: The Three Shadows, I’ve decided to call it—its ghostly figures intact. They seem to sway and swirl, as if animated by some online application that makes art come to life. I squint at the piece. It feels strange, almost as if the red eyes are staring right at me.
I consider the possibility that someone has drugged my tea. A microdose of mushrooms, maybe? But neither Danny nor Sasha have mentioned taking any recreationally, and I doubt either of them are capable of going that far. Who knows? My negative, accusing thoughts resurface. Everyone loves Sasha so much; who can say what she’s really capable of? At the thought, the shadow seems to shift inside the sketch, and I flinch in response. I shut my eyes, rubbing them, willing the strange hallucinations to vanish. To my relief, when I open them again, the sketch is static.
I loosen a breath, which comes out shuddering and visible before me. All at once, I’m aware that I’m cold. Actually, I’m freezing. I rub my hands over bare arms as I survey the walls of my room again, my artwork still absent. My brows furrow as concerned thoughts turn over in my mind, clinging desperately to mundane rationale. Maybe I have a fever and I’m delusional? I haven’t been getting much sleep–my immune system is definitely compromised. Ugh, I bet Sasha never has to deal with this.
My attention returns to the sketch, which now seems to be leaking a dark aura. I squint again, hands rubbing arms feverishly now, as I incline my head to get a closer look. Yep, definitely leaking. I did use wax pencils – maybe the canvas has become heated and started melting, and… smoking? That makes no sense when it’s so cold in here, my thoughts point out.
Still shivering, I pick up the sketch. I expect my hands to come away with waxy residue, but no – just more biting coldness. One hand holds the sketch as the other rubs fingers together quizzically. My eyes find my dry, ridged nails, and instantly a flash of Sasha’s smooth red comes to mind. I blanch involuntarily, disgusted, as the image of perfection taunts my insecurity. I can’t help the single, ugly word that escapes my lips:
“Whore,” I whisper.
As soon as I bring my other hand back to the sketch, the impossible happens: two dark ethereal limbs suddenly shoot out from the canvas, grabbing me by both arms. I shriek in terror, heart thundering ever harder against my ribs, the poor organ trying desperately to escape my chest. Adrenaline surging, I chuck the sketchbook against the mirror, sending shattered glass everywhere. I flail, trying to launch myself back onto the bed and out of the grip of, of… I look down at my left arm, where a smoky outline of fingers curls around my bicep. My eyes grow wide as I let out a scream. The kind of scream that only comes from digging down deep into the bowels of true fear. The smoke-filled hand feels icy, yet sizzles on my wet skin, as if burning me. I feel a tugging sensation from each shadow limb and realize I’m being dragged. This sends me into a blind panic, kicking and thrashing wildly against the cold vise. It pulls me closer to the picture, and closer, feet smearing blood across tile as they’re sliced open by fragments of broken mirror.
“No, NO!” a desperate demand, unheeded. I scream vengeful words at each limb, knowing full well I would not get away. I was a prey animal being caught by some human entrapment it could not comprehend. Wet hair whips around me and my towel falls to the floor. Utterly naked and vulnerable, I scream again, my own fear positively hollowing me. My fingers are now at the paper’s edge, and I watch in horror as they disappear beneath black wax. It’s so cold, like submerging into frigid ocean waters. My hands follow, then my arms. I lean back as far as I can, futile as it is. Then I close my eyes and take a breath, bracing myself for the dark, as first my head, then my entire body, collapses into the sketch.
Chapter 3
(Sasha)
I sing under my breath, keys jangling as I sashay down the street away from our apartment in the direction of my parked car. I smirk a little to myself, lips lifting slightly, as I recall the look on Elissa’s face when I had placed a hand upon hers.
Perhaps I’ve been tormenting her too much as of late, if it’s now to the point where genuine concern cannot be trusted. I allow the smirk to fade, mouth falling into a thoughtful line. If Elissa feels overly oppressed by my presence, that won’t help things. I had been drawn to Elissa the moment we met because of what stood behind her when we first laid eyes on each other. I recall the night vividly: Danny and I competing for the bartender’s attention, finding out he was a mutual acquaintance, the two of us striking up a deep yet spirited conversation as full-bodied and dynamic as the craft cocktails served, Danny beckoning me to come meet a friend, the two of us squeezing through the thick, crowded space laced with vintage tunes and warm, ambient lighting. Then there she was: a small, sun-kissed figure with jet hair down to the small of her back, and three, ghostly black entities hovering over her. They were barely a discernible outline, but to my witch’s eye. It wasn’t my first time seeing such things. I had been brought up seeing shadows and monsters, the whole world was full of them if one looked close enough. My parents, both witches themselves, had taught me how to deal with them, fight them.
I smiled coyly at Elissa, who shifted uncomfortably in her seat. I couldn’t help it, there was something about the woman I couldn’t put my finger on. Maybe it was the way she had returned my look then, with her reluctant smile and critical dark eyes. As if she was aware of her own demons, familiar with them even, and hid her real self out of fear that one day someone might look too closely. Perhaps she was even aware I could see them. I felt a small pull to find out what exactly those haunts were, but told myself I shouldn’t. Aunt Marie made me promise to stop fighting other people’s demons for them. Plus, I thought, I can’t lose anyone else.
Then Danny had bluntly proposed that they needed another roommate– desperately needed one, he had tipsily added– and I had raised an eyebrow, looking to Elissa, who nodded in timid agreement. It just so happened I was in the market for a new place, since my roommate moved and I couldn’t afford the place on my own, a new opportunity falling into my lap. I wasn’t surprised, I’ve always been lucky that way. My eyes flicked back up to the three shadows behind Elissa, who seemed to darken at my presence. What if, instead of fighting someone’s demons for them, my presence simply, brought them to the surface? Yes— a great idea. I could play the villain for the sake of someone’s personal development. I smiled at them both deviously as I accepted their offer. You’re welcome, Elissa, I had thought to myself.
That was about two years ago. Around two years of trying and failing to crack Elissa wide open. She seemed determined to stay in her shadows. All I wanted was to show her she didn’t have to be afraid of who she was underneath, Danny and I could and would accept those ugly parts of her. We already knew they were there– it was plain as day whenever she got upset, her self sacrifice and people pleasing tendencies knowing no bounds. Not with me though. And that, I told myself, was a win. If she had just one person she could show her true, ugly feelings to, we were on the right track. She just needed to accept the unloved parts of herself. That was the only way one could truly defeat their shadows and take back their power. To acknowledge their shadows exist, and face them. Ignoring them only made them more dangerous.
A passing car horn brings me back to the present, the stranger whistling at me, slowing the vehicle down as he drives by. I smile at him, and he speeds off happily, waving. Nice to know people can appreciate beauty. At last I reach my own car, stepping off the curb into the street, my bangs fluttering in the morning air. Unlocking it and sliding into the driver’s seat, warmed from the morning sun, I glance up at the rear view mirror just as a ripple appears to roam over the glass. Stilling, the key in my frozen hand hovers at the entrance of the ignition. I narrow my eyes, waiting for confirmation. But the mirrored glass is determined to remain static, so I let out the breath I’ve been holding and start the car, tucking away the golden amulet around my neck.
As I drive towards the university, thoughts drawn to my upcoming meeting with Dr. Maxwell and the mysterious academic, a feeling gnaws at me I can’t quite place. Apparently this important figure had reached out to Dr. Maxwell after my presentation at the American Folklore Society annual meeting in Chicago last month. I was surprised to hear that the person didn’t just approach me at the conference directly, or send me an email. That was how my network typically grew.
My eyes flit to the rear view mirror more often than necessary, thoughts oscillating between the upcoming meeting and the omen I thought I saw for the briefest moment upon entering the car. But I could feel there was something else, something physical that seemed off. Hands on the wheel, eyes forward, I internally scan my body to see what I could identify. I start at the top of my crown, relax my face muscles, unclench my jaw, roll back my stiff neck and shoulders, follow down my collarbone and sternum, and finally down to my abdomen. I intentionally send breath to each section of my body as I go, though I couldn’t quite quell the churning in my belly, a clear confirmation something was amiss. I would find it. I continue the scan down my pelvic bowl, the tops of my thighs, then my knees— knees. What was that? Something’s missing, something important. Calm and collected, I remove my right hand from the wheel and cautiously slide it down my right thigh to my knee. Everything is… intact, at least. My hand stops, something is missing though. Even with my hand there, I can’t feel my keys. That’s odd. In the past year and a half I’ve had the same car, same set of keys, and it always seemed to dangle so low from the ignition that brass brushed the top of my right knee. Now, nothing. I glance down at the keys dangling from the ignition. My eyes widen slightly at the realization: the key to the research lab. I pull over immediately, cutting someone off in the process. An angry driver flies past me, flipping the bird, but I don’t give notice. I turn the car off and now double check my keys to confirm the suspicion. Sure enough, the research lab key is gone. My breathing quickens as I stare at my keyring. I never forget keys. I never took them off the key ring, never lent them to anyone. There was only one reason that this key in particular would be gone. The spell. When I first moved in with Danny and Elissa, I had placed a spell on the key to my research lab specifically to be left at home if it ever sensed Elissa to be in danger. That way, since I drove to campus seven days a week, I would be notified immediately.
This means that the ripple in the mirror was not a figment of my imagination, but an omen. And the fact that Elissa had seen her real tormentors in her dreams last night… it was very possible she was meeting them in person at this very moment. Internally I chastise myself for allowing the meeting to distract me from my goal of protecting Elissa. I draw in a deep breath and let it out slowly, collecting my thoughts. Just as I was about to plunge the key back into the ignition, my phone lights up as it rings: Dr. Maxwell. I answer quickly.
“Sasha, are you on your way over? I’m excited for you to meet our honored guest today.” Dr. Maxwell greeted in a sing-songy voice. He didn’t typically call prior to our meetings, this “guest” must be really important to him.
“I’m very sorry Dr. Maxwell, I can’t make it today. Something came up.”
“Sasha…” The sing-song voice is still there, though strained. I estimate that this “honored guest” is probably nearby, and Dr. Maxwell isn’t wanting to let on about his disappointment. I’ve known Dr. Maxwell a good while now, and I’m grateful to have the respectful professional relationship that we do. But I also know he’s not a patient man when displeased. It’s understandable. This impacts his reputation as well as mine, and it’s the first time to date I’ve been unable to deliver. As much as I can honor his disappointment, I know where my values lie.
“Our guest came a long way, this isn’t something we can afford to pass up,” his lowered voice whispers into the phone, sounding like a warning. He must be speaking through gritted teeth. “This very esteemed colleague has the power to tarnish reputations”
“I understand. May I ask who it is?” I keep my tone neutral with a hint of apology. Though reputations in academia are everything, the thought of Elissa being in trouble is gnawing at me.
“Dr. Averno,” Dr. Maxwell whispers quietly.
Averno, Averno… where had I heard that name? It dripped with familiarity. I shape the name on my lips without sound as Dr. Maxwell drones on.
“As I mentioned, he’s very excited to meet you,” he entreats. “He heard your paper on “Embodied Fear” at the conference in Chicago and asked specifically to meet with you in person— though— he was hoping it would be a surprise.”
I imagine him giving an apologetic side look to this doctor “Averno.”
“Please give him my deepest apologies, Dr. Maxwell,” I say, unable to match a body of work with the name in my mind. “You know I would be there if I could. These truly are extenuating circumstances. I’m afraid I can’t make it today.”
“Right,” Dr. Maxwell stated vacantly. “Well, if it’s extenuating circumstances, I will give him your regards.” Before continuing, he lowers his voice once again, so only I could hear.
“But Sasha, we will need to discuss this upon your return. Say, tomorrow morning? The usual time?”
“Of course, Dr. Maxwell,” I soothe, as he tries to collect himself. It’s a genuine confirmation. The work I’m doing isn’t just for my career. People’s lives are at stake, and they don’t even know it— or at least, that’s my theory. That’s why the work is so important. I need to find out before it’s too late. And right now, Elissa is an important part of that work.
After I hang up, my face draws into a calm yet determined slab of stone as I peel out of the parking spot I had created for myself, tires squealing as I make an illegal u-turn and gain more flipping birds. “Hang on Elissa,” I whisper to no one, a promise as the engine revs and I speed through traffic, “I’m coming.”
Chapter 4
(Elissa)
I awoke to a malefic darkness as if underwater, a faint pressure all around me, though my skin was dry. The air no longer felt cold. It felt like… nothing at all. I tried lowering my head to see my feet, finding my movements slower than expected. I saw that I was still naked, but as I slowly inspected my feet, I could see no cuts or bleeding gashes. Am I in a dream? Or was I dreaming… before? A distant noise began to make itself known – that same horrible clattering from the original dream. It sounded more real now – sharper, louder, still echoing and reverberating, and I could not get away from it. It’s as though the realm I had seen while sleeping was like looking at this place from outside a window, and now in my waking life, I was on the inside. Inside of what? My subconscious? Before I could come up with an answer, I felt them arrive.
Reluctantly, and achingly slow, my head rose and my eyes regarded what appeared in front of me: there, off in the distance in corporeal form (or as corporeal as one could be in whatever the hell place this was), loomed my three shadows. Pure dread welled within me as they moved in my direction. I couldn’t look away. I stood transfixed as the three entities approached, and I could feel an energy emanating from them as they did. My insides twisted this way and that, and every fiber of my being begged me to run, but I couldn’t. Where would I run, anyway? I was encased in an otherwise blank void.
They halted several yards away, and their sheer presence was overwhelming. I felt as though I might faint, or cease to exist entirely. I struggled to understand why. They were so much more formidable than in my dream, now a fully fledged nightmare come-to-life. Blazing red eyes bore into me, each expression full of nuanced hatred. Fear pulsed from them, but not because they were afraid. It was like the sun giving off warmth – providing it to entire worlds. Fear radiated from them in the same way. Each of their names seemed to call out to me, a whispering voice in my head as I gazed at them from left to right – Envy, Egotism, Judgment. Envy’s eyes tilted down into a frown – just how I had sketched it. Its mouth was upturned, though, in a smile that was all wrong, an expression that seemed to revel in its own resentment. Egotism shared Envy’s upturned smile, but only slightly, and its eyes stared straight ahead, as if seeing through me, uninterested in anyone else but its own self-importance. Judgment’s mouth was downturned, eyes also frowned down to create a look of disgust, as if nothing one did could ever dream of being good enough.
From the left, Envy hovered silently forward, closer than the others. It was an effort not to vomit, although I wasn’t even sure I could here. I trembled, and even my convulsions seemed to be slowed by this place. As the horrible sight encroached upon me, I swore I heard a faint ring of a bell. I thought I had only imagined it, except Envy actually stopped and turned its head in the direction of the sound. We both looked but saw nothing.
Then I heard it – a name. Wait, my name. It was soft – so soft, and distant– but someone was calling my name. Who? And where were they? My mind felt fuzzy here, and I was beginning to have trouble remembering what I was doing in this dark place, what this dark place was, or even who I was. All I know is that I needed to be saved. Please save me.
Envy returned its gaze to me and seemed perturbed by the interruption. It started to move with more haste, sauntering forward and reaching limbs of churning smoke out toward me. Suddenly, I remembered those horrible, cold limbs touching me, burning me, and pulling me down to this cursed place. My mind wanted to turn and run, but my body would have none of it – my movements were too slow. Despite my best efforts to back away, my feet were heavy and unyielding – as if they were stuck in some sticky bog. As the terrifying figure neared, I heard it – a loud voice ringing clear as a bell in my mind.
“Elissa—it’s Sasha. I’m here to help, but I need you to let me IN!” The voice shouted.
My eyes widened at the sound of Sasha’s voice. Of course, Sasha was a witch. Maybe she had the power to save me. The shadow creature came more swiftly now, part of it unraveling into pure smoke and crossing the distance between us more quickly. The shadow was right in front of me before I could move. Internally, I struggled to escape my impending doom. I gathered all my strength to summon my voice, fearing I may only get one chance at using it.
“COME IN, SASHA! HELP ME!”
I managed to get out the words, but then a rushing sound, and my mouth was forced open wide – cold smoke entering my body without permission. Blood seemed to drain from me, extremities beginning to numb. Skin, bone, and muscle each felt as though they wanted to tear away from each other, only a shred of fine mist—or whatever the soul was made out of—left exposed. My head swam as if I would lose consciousness at any moment. Every cell in my body cried out for escape, but I was frozen as the horrific force invaded me. My thoughts went to my roommate, the only lifeline within this nightmare. Maybe she was out there somewhere – maybe she could help. But wasn’t it already too late? What if whoever she sees outside this realm isn’t me anymore, but that monster infiltrating me?
No, I already knew the answer. This shadow monster, I admitted, wasn’t something from the outside. Not truly. It had come from within, the monster’s birth and existence tangled with my own. Envy was an undeniably horrible part of me I had never acknowledged. Tears sprang from my eyes in futile waterfalls and I began to drift further and further away from thoughts of Sasha, away from myself. The darkness outlining my vision was welcomed—anything that would take me away from this horror. Finally, my mind went blank, and I was no more.
Chapter 5
(Sasha)
The smell of sulfur filled my lungs as putrid black tar ejected itself from Elissa’s mouth in waves.
“That’s it, let it all out, sweetie,” I soothed, patting Elissa’s back with some force as the last bits of black sludge were coughed up. It had soaked both our clothes, hair, faces.
“Elissa, can you stand?” Her head managed a small nod in my direction. Her tanned skin was covered in dark, oily chunks that dripped from her chin.
“Okay,” I sighed, relieved. Smiling as I cupped Elissa’s face, I said, “Let’s get you cleaned up.”
The use of spellcraft weakened me, but I managed to rally my fatigued muscles into helping Elissa from the bed and across to the shower. I helped her rinse off, towel dry, and step into a fresh set of clothes rather quickly. I then left Elissa sitting back on the bed while I promised to return in a few minutes. I needed to make a tonic. It would help her recover, but also close the energetic door to whatever realm she had unwittingly opened. Elissa’s head had merely bobbed weakly in clumsy affirmation, clearly still in shock.
I ascended the stairs to my bedroom quickly, opening the glass jars to the herbs I needed for the tonic and returning to the kitchen. I was still in a bit of shock myself; aware that it may take a while for the adrenaline coursing through my veins to die down.
Standing at the kitchen counter, I used the mortar and pestle to grind each ingredient together to mix in with tea, recalling the events of the last half hour.
To my relief, the power of my amulet seemed to do the trick. I had worried I was too late. Returning to the apartment after the omen and spell key made themselves known in my car, I had found an alarming orange glow and black aura emitting from behind Elissa’s bedroom door down the hall, prompting me to drop my things and act quickly.
Unfortunately, I hadn’t accounted for the charm I placed on our rooms – not to enter unless invited – to backfire. It was intended to protect my own secrets from Elissa, not block my path to aiding her. To work around the charm, I had to use a spell I hated using—it cut through a person’s psyche in order to communicate with them. The incantation had taken several minutes and copious amounts of energy from me.
Once Elissa had invited me in, the door swung open roughly to reveal an awful sight: wind churning around the room violently, eerily empty frames swaying and bumping against the walls. In the center of the room: Elissa in a towel, sitting still as a statue at the edge of her bed, hair whipping around her wildly, the pupils and whites of her eyes glazed over with a thin film of grey. Shattered glass had covered the floor, a pool of red beginning to form around Elissa’s feet.
Despite the alarming vision before me I collected myself, bringing out the shining gold amulet from under my top and holding it before Elissa’s face, yelling the words mother had taught me to expel any negative entities from a human body. The wind had only blown harder. I repeated the words over and over, never faltering for a moment, confident in my efforts. Finally, all at once, the wind ceased and Elissa's head slumped, the worst of it over.
Now, I notice a slight tremble to my hands, evidence of my drained energy, as I sprinkle the herbs, freshly powdered, into the prepared tea. Elissa needs to drink a healthy amount; otherwise, it won’t work. I bring the tea over to my charge, a blanket now wrapped around Elissa’s shoulders. The expression on her face is unreadable looking up at the steaming mug. It isn’t particularly cold outside, but having just gone through the horror of that realm, I estimate it will probably be a while before Elissa feels truly warm again.
I hand the mug to her gently with a soft order, “Drink this— all of it.” Elissa’s hands absently yet obediently take it, bringing a sip to her lips. She immediately retracts from it, as though burned.
“Sorry sweetie, blow on it first,” I say, forgetting how hot the pot was when I poured it. I’m not thinking straight and it shows. I need to clean myself up as well, before my energy drains completely.
Satisfied my charge will finally be alright, I head back to the cupboard in the hallway for a fresh towel. I catch my reflection in the hallway mirror and see that my crimson lips, along with half of my face and some hair, are stained black. A small smile tugs involuntarily at my lips at the sight of my unkemptness, which I look forward to remedying. I make my way past Elissa with the linens in hand, walking carefully as not to spread the broken glass on the floor further. I make a mental note to inspect her room after the shower for any other unwanted entities, though I don’t suspect any would try anything at this stage, especially with the doorway to the realm closed.
“Hope you don’t mind,” I call out to my catatonic roommate, “I’ll explain everything once I’m out of the shower.”
I scrub my face with a small towel and some exfoliant when a funny thought embeds itself at the back of my mind. As if I had missed something important. I ring out the damp towelette and deposit it on the towel rack, splashing cold water on my face, trying to sift through my mind for whatever caused the niggle. I move to turn on the shower, allowing it to get warm. As I stare at the water and allow my mind to wander as steam begins to rise in small rivulets, I place a hand under the pressured streams to check the temperature. Suddenly, the funny thought at the back of my mind rushes to the fore.
“Chamomile!”
I spring back to the open doorway, about to tell Elissa not to drink the tonic. How could I forget Elissa hates chamomile beyond any hatred anyone has ever had for a type of tea? She certainly complained about it every chance she got. I remembered how once, Elissa had vomited all over herself when Danny spilled some of the floral beverage on her. It had been quite funny to be honest, and also sad, once Elissa had divulged the reason for her knee-jerk reaction to the slightly-sweet scent. Though I don’t mind sipping on my own chamomile in her presence just to get her a little riled up (and maybe face some of those demons instead of surprising them), I couldn’t imagine what kind of hell Elissa would unleash if she was made to drink an entire chamomile tonic.
I halt when I see that, there before me, Elissa sits wrapped in a blanket, chin lifted, eagerly downing the last of the warm liquid. She doesn’t even flinch. My eyebrows quirk at that before I notice the sketch from this morning still leaning upright against the vanity across from Elissa. My eyes narrow. I distinctly recall there being three shadows on the page. Yet now, as though it had been stripped of all color down the left side, only two shadows remained. My stomach dropped.
At that same moment, Elissa’s body slowly raises its head from the mug to meet my gaze. Horrified and completely caught off guard, I let out a small gasp, raising one hand to my mouth, the other holding onto the door frame for support. Where Elissa’s body had been, now houses some hybrid creature with eyes glazed over in hazy gray, flashing a sharp-toothed grin. The blanket gently slumps off as it rises to its feet, elongating more than any human body should, making the throw look like a hand towel as it falls. The creature takes up way too much of the room and the air along with it. As it stalks towards me, stringy black strands of hair hanging off the sides of its too-wide head, I catch a better glimpse of those eyes, the color of filmy ash. I see no remnant of my housemate behind them now, and even if I did, I know I wouldn’t be able to get to her. The tonic had made sure of that. I stagger back on the sticky tile bathroom floor. Its jaw doesn’t move as it speaks. The open maw just hangs there, teeth sharp as needles, saliva secreting down both sides of its unnatural mouth. The disembodied voice floats from the creature – deep, layered, guttural. It intones, “Thanks for the help, Sasha. You’re such a good friend.”
To be continued…
