handle of the door to the surgery and yanked it open. I slammed it shut behind me. I tried to throw the lock, but I wasn’t sure if it clicked into place or not. The thundering of my heart was too loud to pick out anything as subtle as a ‘click’. I hoped it was locked.
But, I wasn’t sticking around to find out.
I bolted towards the barn like any good homing pigeon. It made sense that that was the first place my rattled brain provided. After all, the barn had been my safe refuge through all the hardships and heartaches I’d suffered through all my life.
It could serve as my refuge one more time.
The barn was empty of everything but the ghosts of memories. I ran past the empty stalls, which were already covered with cobwebs, thanks to some particularly industrious spiders. They shifted and waved with the wind of my passage—silent, ghostly banners in the deepening gloom.
I yanked on the line that pulled down the flight of stairs that led to the attic space—more ladder-like than stairs, actually. They came down with a creaking protest. I was sure that anyone for miles would be able to hear the sound.
I bit my lip and peered over my shoulder for any signs of Flint.
There was no hint of him, or his demon, but that didn’t mean that he wasn’t lurking somewhere in the shadows, watching me.
I shivered at the thought.
I climbed up the stairs and pulled them back up—pulling in the chord for good measure, so no one would be able to follow me.
That was the plan, at least.
Unless the demon gave Flint superpowers, he wasn’t going to get up here any time soon.
Not that I was ignoring that possibility.
Still, I crawled behind discarded saddles and brushes, half-opened boxes blossoming with an embarrassment of show ribbons and other memorabilia from my former life. I pushed a large, heavy trunk out of the way and slipped through the small door that my work revealed.
I’d only been in the room one time before. I was surprised that I even remembered that it existed.
I closed the door behind me. This time, I was sure that the lock slid home. It was an ancient lock, made out of wrought iron. The key itself had a knotted pattern reminiscent of Celtic knot work.
The key was cool and heavy in my hand, as I yanked it out of the lock.
The last owner had brought me up here during my tour of the place. She explained that the room I now stood in was, according to local legend, the workshop of an old witch, who had come down from Salem.
I wasn’t sure if she was supposedly one of the Salem witches, or if this had come later. The timeframe hadn’t been important at that moment. Whatever the case, she had set up shop in this tiny, hidden room in the attic of the barn.
The key itself, was supposed to carry a protective charm.
I sure hoped it was working.
The room still smelled like a witch’s workspace, both strange and familiar.
Ancient strands of lavender and other herbs hung from the rafters, sad and faded like the books strewn across the rickety table and thrown willy-nilly onto a leaning, faded bookcase.
There were pots of all sizes, shapes, and colors everywhere, though they were all made of that heavy stoneware that my mother was always paying a fortune for. Some were cracked with age, but others looked like they might be intact and still full of whatever their former mistress had created.
I would have to get a closer look later.
Maybe it was the lavender and mint that calmed the frantic pumping of my heart. I reached up and broke a stem off of one of the herbs I didn’t recognize in the gloomy darkness. The stem snapped, awakening a wave of the heady aroma of rosemary, strong and pungent, even after all this time.
I rubbed the needles between my fingers and held them under my nose, drinking in the piney, herbaceous scent that always carried with it an image of my own favorite witch—my grandmother—baking bread with cheese and rosemary baked into the dough.
It was the scent of home and safety.
The
But, I wasn’t sticking around to find out.
I bolted towards the barn like any good homing pigeon. It made sense that that was the first place my rattled brain provided. After all, the barn had been my safe refuge through all the hardships and heartaches I’d suffered through all my life.
It could serve as my refuge one more time.
The barn was empty of everything but the ghosts of memories. I ran past the empty stalls, which were already covered with cobwebs, thanks to some particularly industrious spiders. They shifted and waved with the wind of my passage—silent, ghostly banners in the deepening gloom.
I yanked on the line that pulled down the flight of stairs that led to the attic space—more ladder-like than stairs, actually. They came down with a creaking protest. I was sure that anyone for miles would be able to hear the sound.
I bit my lip and peered over my shoulder for any signs of Flint.
There was no hint of him, or his demon, but that didn’t mean that he wasn’t lurking somewhere in the shadows, watching me.
I shivered at the thought.
I climbed up the stairs and pulled them back up—pulling in the chord for good measure, so no one would be able to follow me.
That was the plan, at least.
Unless the demon gave Flint superpowers, he wasn’t going to get up here any time soon.
Not that I was ignoring that possibility.
Still, I crawled behind discarded saddles and brushes, half-opened boxes blossoming with an embarrassment of show ribbons and other memorabilia from my former life. I pushed a large, heavy trunk out of the way and slipped through the small door that my work revealed.
I’d only been in the room one time before. I was surprised that I even remembered that it existed.
I closed the door behind me. This time, I was sure that the lock slid home. It was an ancient lock, made out of wrought iron. The key itself had a knotted pattern reminiscent of Celtic knot work.
The key was cool and heavy in my hand, as I yanked it out of the lock.
The last owner had brought me up here during my tour of the place. She explained that the room I now stood in was, according to local legend, the workshop of an old witch, who had come down from Salem.
I wasn’t sure if she was supposedly one of the Salem witches, or if this had come later. The timeframe hadn’t been important at that moment. Whatever the case, she had set up shop in this tiny, hidden room in the attic of the barn.
The key itself, was supposed to carry a protective charm.
I sure hoped it was working.
The room still smelled like a witch’s workspace, both strange and familiar.
Ancient strands of lavender and other herbs hung from the rafters, sad and faded like the books strewn across the rickety table and thrown willy-nilly onto a leaning, faded bookcase.
There were pots of all sizes, shapes, and colors everywhere, though they were all made of that heavy stoneware that my mother was always paying a fortune for. Some were cracked with age, but others looked like they might be intact and still full of whatever their former mistress had created.
I would have to get a closer look later.
Maybe it was the lavender and mint that calmed the frantic pumping of my heart. I reached up and broke a stem off of one of the herbs I didn’t recognize in the gloomy darkness. The stem snapped, awakening a wave of the heady aroma of rosemary, strong and pungent, even after all this time.
I rubbed the needles between my fingers and held them under my nose, drinking in the piney, herbaceous scent that always carried with it an image of my own favorite witch—my grandmother—baking bread with cheese and rosemary baked into the dough.
It was the scent of home and safety.
The
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