The warm glow of the lamp cast flickering shadows across the room, making the shelves seem to shift and sway. The air felt thicker the longer Shanane lingered, dense and heavy, pressing against her skin. Each breath felt like she was drawing in something other than air.
But she forced herself to keep moving. She hadn't come this far to stop now. Her grandmother had hidden this room for a reason, locked it away behind walls that shouldn't exist. Secrets upon secrets, buried in a place no one was meant to find.
Her fingers traced the spines of the books as she moved along the first shelf. Most of them were what she expected: herbology, medicinal remedies, the lore of plants and their properties. She recognized the names of plants and flowers she had learned from her grandmother as a child and now at college, pressed and dried in pages like relics of a simpler time.
The books felt safe. Familiar.
But the further she moved along the shelf, the more the atmosphere seemed to change. The air grew warmer, almost stifling, beads of sweat gathering at her hairline. The lamp's flame seemed to tremble, its glow no longer comforting but strained, like it was fighting against something unseen.
Her gaze drifted to a different section of the shelf books that didn't belong. Their covers were worn, some cracked and peeling, the leather flaking away like dead skin. The titles were written in faded, curling script, etched deep into the spines with symbols she didn't recognize. They looked older, much older than anything else in the room. The kind of age that felt unnatural, untouched by time.
Her heart quickened, her eyes unable to look away. A chill swept through her, raising the hairs on her arms not from fear, but from something deeper. A sensation that crawled beneath her skin, twisting and writhing like a presence just out of reach.
Her fingers hovered over the books, hesitant. Part of her wanted to leave them untouched, to turn away, to pretend she had never seen them. But she couldn't.
Her hand reached out slowly, her fingertips brushing the cracked leather of one of the books. The sensation was immediate a heat searing through her skin, sharp and sudden, like a spark from a fire.
Her body jolted, a shiver wracking her spine. Her breath caught in her throat, her fingers twitching against the worn cover. The room seemed to tilt slightly, a dizzying sensation that made her grip the edge of the shelf for balance.
Something deep in her chest burned, a heat that spread through her veins, curling through her limbs. Her hands shook, her pulse hammering in her ears. The lamp's light flickered wildly, casting shadows that danced along the walls, too many shadows.
Her eyes squeezed shut, teeth clenching against the sharp, hot pain radiating through her body.
The heat was fading now, but still present, a pulsing warmth that settled beneath her skin, throbbing with each heartbeat.
Her fingers tightened on the book's cover. Her mind screamed at her to leave it alone, to turn away from whatever this was. But her curiosity was as its peak. She had a desperate, relentless need to understand what's going on.
She opened the book. The pages were old and brittle. The edges crumbled beneath her fingers. The ink was faded in some places, smeared and bleeding in others, but the writing the writing was wrong.
It wasn't just a language she didn't understand. It was a tangled mess of symbols and letters twisting, curling, intersecting lines that looked like they were trying to shape words, but they bent away from comprehension. The letters seemed to writhe and shift beneath her gaze, as if they were alive, resisting her attempt to read them.
Her eyes tried to focus, to pick out patterns, but the more she stared, the more her head throbbed. A dull, persistent ache formed behind her eyes, pressing against her temples. Her breath quickened, frustration rising alongside the burn that still smoldered beneath her skin.
It wasn't just a language barrier. This was something else a writing meant to keep people out, to guard its secrets. A barrier of ink and symbol, a maze she couldn't navigate.
Her fingers trembled as she traced a line of symbols a spiral intersected by jagged lines, crowned with marks that resembled eyes. The instant her skin touched the ink, the heat in her chest flared sharp, consuming, blistering.
Her breath came fast, ragged, her heart racing in panic. She snapped the book shut, her hands trembling, her pulse hammering against her skin. The room felt heavier, the air suffocating, the lamp's light struggling to keep the dark at bay. This book was not meant to be touched.
Her eyes flicked to the rest of the shelf, to the ancient, rotting books lined up like sentinels waiting. Watching. A shiver crawled beneath her skin. She suddenly felt like she wasn't alone in this room, like something had noticed her intrusion.
Her throat was dry, her heartbeat deafening in her ears. She forced herself to breathe, to ground herself. She had come here for answers, but what if the answers were more dangerous than the questions?
The burn beneath her skin had begun to fade, but the unease lingered. The room felt thicker heavier as if the air had been drawn in and held tight, refusing to release. The dim, wavering glow of the lamp cast shifting shadows along the walls, creating shapes that twisted and writhed at the edges of her vision.
Shanane's breath came in shallow, uneven pulls as her eyes swept across the room. She could still feel the echo of that searing heat the way it had rushed through her veins, sharp and consuming when she touched the ink of the strange book.
Her gaze landed on the desk, cluttered and chaotic, its surface layered with scattered pages and open books. Her legs felt weak, her knees trembling, but she forced herself to move forward. She needed answers needed to know what her grandmother had been hiding, what kind of darkness she had lived with for so many years.
The old, wooden chair scraped softly as Shanane pulled it out and sat down. The wood was uneven and worn, as if it had borne the weight of countless hours of research and writing. The papers sprawled across the desk were covered in cramped handwriting her grandmother's, unmistakably: sharp, precise, each stroke of ink deliberate and controlled.
Her fingers hovered over the pages, her heart pounding in her chest. The first few notes were familiar lists of herbs, notes on their properties, remedies for common ailments. The language was clear and careful, the handwriting steady. The beginning was familiar, a reflection of the teachings her grandmother had passed down to her.
But as she flipped through the pages, the notes began to change.
The further she read, the darker the entries became. The words twisted from healing to protection from protection to control. The writing became denser, the ink darker, the symbols tangled among the words more complex. There were diagrams circles lined with runes she couldn't decipher, patterns that looked like they were meant to contain or ward off something unseen.
Her fingers brushed a page where the ink had bled, dark and heavy, the words harsh and urgent:
"Protection requires sacrifice. Blood binds and seals. Without it, the circle is broken."
The hairs on her arms lifted, her skin prickling with unease. The ink of those words was darker, heavier like it had been pressed into the page with trembling, desperate hands.
Shanane turned the page, her breath catching as she saw a series of entries detailing rituals complex instructions layered with warnings. The steps were written in fragmented sentences, scattered thoughts:
"Gather at the hour of the waning moon. Bury the bones at the threshold."
"Speak only what is asked no more, no less."
"If the blood is rejected, the door will open. Do not let it in."
The writing grew sharper, slanting as if written hastily. Her grandmother's voice seemed to echo from the pages fearful, desperate, resolute.
Then, she saw it a name scrawled across the bottom of a page, separate from the others, isolated in a space where the ink seemed to bleed into the parchment like an infection.
"The Master."
Shanane's heart skipped a beat. The words seemed to pulse against her eyes, dark and foreboding. Her fingers trembled as she flipped to the next page, the ink growing bolder, the symbols more complex.
The notes shifted, blending medicinal knowledge with something darker: sacrifices, offerings, invocations. Each page seemed to slip further from the familiar, falling deeper into something ancient, something tangled and unknowable.
Then, buried between scattered notes and fragmented instructions, she found it:
"The Master grants power, but it demands obedience."
"The price is binding. The pact cannot be broken. Do not defy it."
"Trust nothing, not even the reflection in the water."
Her throat tightened, her mind reeling. The words blurred together, the ink bleeding at the edges of the page.
Her grandmother this woman who had raised her, protected her, loved her had been tangled in something far darker than Shanane had ever imagined. A pact, a bond with something beyond this world. A deal with a being that demanded obedience.
A tremor ran through her, cold and relentless. Why? What had driven her grandmother to this? Was it desperation? Knowledge? Power? Fear? The woman she had known the healer, the caretaker had lived her life in a quiet village, tending to those who needed her. And yet, hidden beneath that gentle exterior was a truth so sharp it could cut through her skin.
Her fingers found the final pages entries that became less coherent, the handwriting unsteady, the ink smudged and scattered. The lines broke apart, fragmented, tangled in symbols she couldn't decipher.
But one word stood out.
A word, buried among the chaos. The ink bled, black and deep, as though it had been written with a shaking, desperate hand. She didn't know what it means. But the word seems to call her, like a desperate need to be pronounced.
Shanane's lips parted, the word hanging heavy on her tongue.
__Shanane: "Atheramond."
The moment it left her mouth, the air shifted.
A sudden, suffocating heat filled the air, pressing against her skin. The lamp's flame sputtered, wavering wildly, the shadows along the walls twisting and shivering.
The whispers began: low, relentless, crawling through the corners of the room, curling through the air like smoke. The sound slithered against her ears, tangled and desperate, overlapping voices that spoke in tongues she couldn't understand.
Her heart pounded, the sound of it a frantic drum against her ribs. The room felt wrong alive the walls breathing, the floor creaking beneath her feet. The shadows pulsed, stretching across the shelves, dragging along the spines of the books, spilling across the desk.
The journal pages fluttered as if caught in a gust of wind, yet the air was still and stifling. Books fell from the shelves, slamming against the floor, their pages fanning open to sigils marked in dark, heavy ink symbols that seemed to burn into her eyes, curling at the edges with a heat that wasn't natural.
The whispers grew louder, frenzied and desperate. Her head throbbed, the voices clawing at her mind, demanding to be heard.
She stumbled back, her vision blurring, her limbs heavy and unsteady. The room felt like it was folding in on itself, pulling her deeper, suffocating her beneath its weight.
Something was waking.
A presence immense, ancient, insatiable coiled beneath the walls, beneath the pages, beneath the floorboards. A thing that had waited, dormant and patient, and now knew she was here.
Her mouth felt dry, her skin cold despite the blistering heat. Her gaze darted frantically around the room, the walls warping, the shadows crawling. The word she had spoken "Atheramond" echoed in her skull, a chant she could not escape.