Page 91 of Ominous: Part 1
“There’s food for you in the fridge—”
“We ate,” I call over my shoulder, meeting Mom’s gaze as she shuts and locks the door, but leaves the chain off, because Sebastian isn’t in yet. “Thanks, though. I’ll have it for lunch.”
“You sure?” Mom asks, frowning as I get to my bedroom door, turning to face her. “You should eat—”
“I’m sure.” I try to keep the polite smile on my face and take one step into my bedroom. Then I’m stopping, like I’ve just thought of something when I say, “Oh. Friday is a teacher workday.”
“Yeah, I got an email.” Mom laughs a little as she rakes her fingers through her hair.
“Eli invited me to his house for the day.”And night,but I don’t add that part in. “Do you mind if I go? I’m off work until Sunday.”
Mom studies me a moment. “Are you two… official?” A smile pulls at her lips, but I see the concern in her eyes.
I shake my head, dismissing the idea. “No, just friends.” My cheeks flame and I’m grateful the lights are off. I think it would be impossible for me to bejust friendswith Eli, but I cannot explain that to my mother.
Mom still looks like she knows better, but she shrugs. “I don’t see why not. But bring your phone and call me if you need to come home.”
“I’m driving over,” I correct her, even though Eli and I didn’t discuss it. I want my car there, in case I need to make a quick getaway.
Mom nods once. “Good idea, but still… just be smart.”
I want to tell her it’s probably too late for that, but instead I say, “Thanks, Mom. Love you.”
“Love you, too, Eden. Goodnight.”
After I’ve changedinto my pajamas, brushed my teeth and washed my face—Sebastian still not home—I pull out the notebook I’ve kept hidden from every single person in my life, my family and Amanda included.
It’s black with a glossy cover, dinged and smeared with fingerprints, the pages worn, and back cover creased from hastily stuffing it under a textbook in the spring when Mom unexpectedly walked into my room one night, to talk aboutShoreside.
Pushing those memories aside, I sit cross legged in my bed, the notebook curled open, front cover touching the back. I lean over to my nightstand and pluck out a pen, straightening once more as I squint in the darkness of my room. Only the moonlight trails in from my open blinds, and I can barely see as I begin to write, the side of my palm smearing over the page because I don’t lift my pen. My scrawl is messy, a strange blend of cursive and print I don’t hate, despite the fact it’s nearly illegible. Or perhaps that’s why I like it.
I already looked up Winslet Landers again. Reviewed the facts—vanished from her home—and found a few more. Police have no suspects. There was one article referencing Dominic, a distraught brother, too upset about his sister’s disappearance to grant an interview or respond to reporters.
It seems the family has refused any press at all. It seems, then, the only place I’m getting answers is from Eli, and he needs a little coercion.
My heart beats fast in my chest when I finish writing and sit back, blinking in the dark, trying not to find shadows along the wall in the midst of my anxiety. Taking a breath as I glance at the door—if Mom caught me, she’d probably drag me to church for an anointing—I extract all the repeating letters in my sentence. Then the vowels.
Eli trusts me with his secrets.
The line becomes,LTRSMWHC.
I compile all of those letters into a shape. It looks a little like a tower, clumsy and awkward because drawing is not where my talent lies. There’s an L hooked through the loop of the R. A C capped over the H. S and M are intertwined, all the letters connecting in some form.
My pulse thuds so loud in my ears, I have to close my eyes a second, just breathing. Mom dragged me to church every Sunday on the weekends when I was a kid. Forced me into Sunday school with the same regularity I dove into a pool while she worked during the week.
I loathed every second of it, surrounded by devout Christian kids, screaming and cheering for every popsicle stick activity, every memorized Bible verse we got candy for reciting. I had too many questions. God sent his only begotten son to die for my sins, but I never asked him to. And if he’s so powerful, why notkillSatan? Seems like a more permanent solution.Unless God would lose to Satan, every time.Would be quite the embarrassment.
The more Mom forced me into it, the greater my loathing for religion grew. I wasrepelledto the opposite end of the spectrum. Luckily, she gave up church around the time I went to high school, because Reece didn’t like to go. He always grumbled about it, his dad had schizophrenia and when he was alive, he alternated between dragging his sons to church every time the doors were open and ranting about demons infecting the building. Seb never set foot in a church, and Reece never made him.
It’s been years since I’ve sat in a pew, but even now, as I learn about Satan and Lucifer and mythology from all over the world, a part of me feels the sharp sting of guilt that I’m going to hell for doing this.
Still… it seems like a place full of people I’d have more fun with in eternity anyway.
I drop my pen into the drawer of my nightstand, grab the lime green lighter I’ve had since I stole it from Sebastian purely for the color, and circle my fingers over a fat, white candle in my drawer, too, little more than a stump now. I hold my breath as I light the candle, unable to resist darting glances to the locked door again every step of the way.
I’ve done sigil magic for a couple of years now, since I read about it in a book at the library back in Wilmington that I didn’t dare bring home.
I’ve made sigils for all sorts of things. Money. Getting into Trafalgar. Numerous ones for college and writing and publishing books.
