THUD … What the hell was that noise… My eyes were still heavy with sleep but my heart was pounding from being yanked from my otherwise undisturbed dreams. THUD … there it was again, someone was in my den. I hope it’s not… ahhh shit, I need to get up and check. I gently pulled the sheets back trying not to disturb Clara who was still deeply asleep. Good, I think, as I didn’t want to have to explain what might be in my office that late at night. I needed to take care of the source of the disturbance before her sleep was unduly interrupted. My feet found the ice-cold floor to my dismay, the farmhouse wood flooring did nothing to hold in the heat–it was January in Alaska after all, once the fire in the wood-stove died down the heat sapped out of the cracks of our home quickly; I slid into my woolen slippers and pulled my Remington out from between to my side of the bed and my side-table. It seemed as if the entirety of this old house was composed of creaking floors and dry whining hinges, but after so many late-night trips back to bed after getting sidetracked in my den, I felt as if I were able to expertly navigate through without causing too much of a fuss. Even though I had memorized my path through this dark and groaning structure, I breathed easier knowing that the bedroom door was already open.
When I crossed the kitchen, I saw the flickering light that filtered out from underneath the door to my office door—someone was in there, I was sure now—that wasn’t good. I pumped a round into the chamber as quietly as I was able, took a deep breath and eased open the door. An awful, high pitched cry wailed from the cold metal hinges as they rotated against the door-pin. I heard a small yelp, my heartbeat caught in my throat and I quickly realized that the supposed intruder was my sweet, curious, and precocious eight-year-old daughter, Anna, sitting at the bottom of the stairs that led up to my loft.
“Anna!” I felt her name burst forth in a stern whisper and I dropped the shotgun safely to my side.
“Yeah, Da’?” her reply embodied her youthful timid guilt.
“What are you doing in my den at, what time is it—” my eyes shifted to the antique grandfather clock in the corner of my den, “—3 am?”
“I couldn’t sleep,” she looked down at the fraying old tome that weighed down her petite arms, “I wanted to read one of your cool old books.”
“Anna, my lamb, I told you those books are not for children. I believe I have also told you on more than one occasion that some books in particular, need to be cared for and studied before they can be read—and that furthermore, some are simply too dangerous to read at all.” I wanted to be angry that she had gone through my cabinets—my locked cabinets—that lined the walls of my study. I felt my mouth fall slack, “how did ye’ even get the lock open on that cabinet?”
“—but Da’ it’s just a book,” she ignored my question and proceeded to whine, “can’t I just read a bit of this one?” She struggled to hold the worn leather book up to show me until my eyes focused on the faded lettering, The Book of the Sacred Magic of Abramelin the Mage, I had been simply disconcerted—but when I saw the title I promptly snatched the book from her innocent little hands.
“Anna, this is no regular book, this one can be incredibly harmful to you, me, and mum, don’t you understand?” My little red-headed child crumpled into a ball on the floor after she relented the book, “now back to bed ye’ wee scamp,” then I saw her face scrunch into a grimace. I had been calling her that her entire life, but recently it seemed as if she no longer found it amusing. I knew I would have to tell her the truth eventually, her curiosity could lead her to nose into things that would get her into serious danger, but … not tonight. Until I could be certain that I would no longer be able to keep them safe, I would much prefer that they remain blissfully ignorant to the world that lurked behind the cryptic, evil words that the books held hostage—a world where they as of yet, were not experienced.
Anna scurried back to her room, scorned and annoyed; I wished for a moment that I could help her to understand why, but it was for her own good. I stopped at the wood-stove and opened it to find that the last log was near to embers and wave of immense heat escaped, to my delight, in waves over my chilled bones. I tossed a few logs into the iron belly of the stove and poked at the red-hot coals until a flame overtook the dried birch logs then, at last, I returned to bed where Clara was still sound asleep. I sat down, deep in contemplation, where I returned the shotgun to its resting spot next to me; I knew I would need to have a long chat with Anna soon, it was something that I deeply feared, but her future would be precarious if she were not prepared for this ever-expanding supernatural plot that lay before my family.
Tritone’s love of horror and mystery began at a young age. Growing up in the 80’s he got to see some of the greatest horror movies play out in the best of venues, the drive-in theater. That’s when his obsession with the genre really began—but it wasn’t just the movies, it was the games, the books, the comics, and the lore behind it all that really ignited his obsession. Tritone is a published author and continues to write and write about horror whenever possible.
