Page 27 of Summoned
Back then, I made myself a promise: I would never end up on the wrong side of the leash again.Never tuck your tail. Never let your knees tremble. Never again stand like a lamb awaiting slaughter.
The ballerina figurine on my shelf has been moved from its original place. Evidence ofhispresence. I reach for it with hesitant fingers but don’t touch it. It was a gift from my aunt—my mother’s younger sister, who used to be a ballerina. She played the role of Odette inSwan Lakeand was a guest performer at several internationally renowned theaters. But then she met her first husband and abandoned her career for love and family. She gave me the figurine when I was five, with a wish that I’d chase my dreams.
As my fingers hover over the tiny dancer, my mind drifts to my future. A two-story minimalist mansion with a pool and its own forest, where I walk my two Rottweilers. A garage with a sleek sports limousine for summer and a luxury SUV for winter, both in black. An office atop a skyscraper I designed, with a panoramic view of the city and a massive, solid wood desk that commands respect.
Maybe I’ll have a husband who’s wealthy, well-connected, and good-looking. I’m not sure if I want children. Probably yes. I don’t really care. Unlike my aunt, I’m not naïve enough to chase windmills. Once I graduate, I’ll build my life by my own rules, and no one will get to tell me what to do.
That future? It’s what I always envisioned for myself. But daydreams won’t save me now—not with the Black Joker intent on taking my soul.
Pull yourself together, Nicole. You’re no one’s prey.For the first time in hours, my feet are on solid ground. I remind myself who I am. What I promised myself.
With a deep breath, I withdraw my hand from the figurine and open Facebook. I type “Angelina” into the search bar. That’s the name of the girl who gave me the summoning incantation for the Black Joker all those years ago.
We crossed paths at the ballet lessons my mom enrolled me in after I heard my aunt’s story. Angelina’s grandmother was Italian. She moved to Sofia in the ‘80s after falling in love with a Bulgarian doctor she met abroad.
My hope is Angelina knows an incantation tounsummon the Black Joker. I browse through profiles, relying on mutual friends, but find nothing. I don’t remember her last name, and none of the “Angelinas” I come across resemble the girl I knew.
Until I recognize her in a photo. Angelina Karastoyanova. Older, but with the same rounded features, and that small mole at the corner of her lips. Lives in Siena, Italy. She obviously reconnected with her roots.
Her profile picture shows her standing on a terrace, overlooking rolling green hills. There’s a soft smile on her lips, captured in profile by the camera.
I click on her name and wait for the page to load. Even before I begin to scroll, unease coils in my stomach. At the very top appears a post she’s tagged in. A link to an article. The photo is black and white, capturing Angelina in full-length. The headline is in Italian, so I can’t understand a word.
The next post is from another account, also tagging her. A candid shot of two women seated at a café table, mid-laugh. Angelina is on the right. The caption above is long, written in Italian.
I scroll further. Most posts, filled with lengthy texts and links to articles, all in Italian. Below them—broken heart emojis, praying hands, candles.
One photo shows Angelina in a white dress, standing in front of a stone church. And finally, a post in Bulgarian: “Come home, my little baby.”
I don’t need to check the account to know it’s her mother.
My fingers barely hold the phone, but I keep scrolling. More posts. All in the same tone.
I open a link in a new tab and run the article through Google Translate.
“Police in Siena are still searching for twenty-one-year-old Angelina Karastoyanova, who disappeared shortly after her birthday on June 21st. She was last seen near her grandmother’s villa, which, according to her mother, has remained uninhabited since the elderly woman’s death three years ago.”
My legs buckle beneath me.
I sit on the bed, gasping for air.
I can’t breathe. I can’t…
I go back to her profile and translate a few more posts.
“Friend of the missing girl: ‘She’d been saying strange things lately… Said she was seeing shadows. Demons…’”
“Twenty-one-year-old Angelina Karastoyanova, missing for five months, believed she was being followed…”
“Dr. Luigi Benedetti, psychiatrist at Santa Maria della Misericordia Hospital in Siena, said: ‘The girl likely suffered from paranoid schizophrenia, triggered by an acute panic episode. It’s possible she consumed psychoactive substances on her birthday, which may have intensified her hallucinatory symptoms. The mention of a figure called “the Black Joker” is typical of delusional narrative constructs.’”
My fingers freeze on the screen. Please, don’t cry.
I stand on wobbly knees, feeling like the walls themselves are closing in. Still, my heart refuses to fall back into rhythm—each beat sharp and uneven, like a crown slipping off my head.
Am Ireallyabout to disappear in three weeks?
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