Francois is near. I feel his dark, evil essence like a hidden snake slithering under the leaves in the garden.
He’s coming for me. For my soul.
He needs my spirit to be locked in the bottle again. No. I must leave. Get far from the beautiful Ophelia before he harms her. However, the farther from her I get, the harder it is to function.
I’m bound to her, or to the bottle. I do not know which.
A soft sigh draws my attention to her as she settles farther under the covers. Desire flares to life deep inside me—I cannot recall the last time I was aroused. The urge to touch her is too strong to ignore.
Do I dare?
Drifting closer to her, I reach out and touch her, my fingertips grazing her soft skin. She shivers in her sleep and tugs the blanket tighter around her.
Why was it so cold in her room?
Upon waking, she’d peeked outside and noticed a large limb from the old oak tree had fallen. There were a number of smaller branches and leaves scattered around the yard like tossed confetti. The storm had been more powerful than she realized. Then again, she was blissfully asleep, thanks to the sleep aid her doctor prescribed for the times her anxiety kept her up.
After assessing the damage, she went straight to Gramma’s room to check on her. She was still sleeping, so Ophelia took the opportunity to jump in the shower.
She pulled on a pair of blue jeans and thin, long-sleeved, black top, and then made her way to the kitchen to fix Gramma’s oatmeal and fruit. The same breakfast she had eaten for as many years as Ophelia could remember.
Thoughts of their conversation still whirled in Ophelia’s thoughts.
The dark figure had flashed in her mind serval times since waking that morning. It was too real to be her imagination. But ghosts aren’t real. And he was gone a minute later.
Had she imagined the whole thing? Was it real or a product of her overactive brain? With Halloween so close, maybe her mind was starting to believe in ghost stories more than it should.
Once she had everything loaded onto the tray, she carried it to her grandmother’s room. Ophelia forced a wide smile as she entered the bedroom. Gramma was awake and reading.
Suspicion tickled Ophelia’s subconscious. She hadn’t seen a book in Gramma’s room the day before.
“Good morning. Whacha reading?”
Gramma glanced up and returned the smile, a little weaker than the days before. “Just a book about magick, which you don’t believe in.”
Really? She was trying to be sarcastic. “I brought you breakfast.” Ophelia unfolded the legs to the tray and set it over Gramma’s lap. “Some pretty big limbs fell in last night’s storm, so I’m going to check out the attic to make sure there isn’t a hole or a leak.”
“The storm brought in dark energy.” Gramma gripped her hand, forcing their eyes to lock. Her voice never wavered. Fear swirled in her green depths, setting off an uneasy feeling in Ophelia’s soul.
“It was a bad storm. Lots of wind and rain.” Ophelia spread Gramma’s napkin out for her.
Gramma shook her head. “It was not normal. Please, Ophelia, you must believe. Open your mind. Evil is coming to Hemlock Grove and everyone associated with it. I feel it in my bones. We must be prepared.”
Ophelia closed her eyes tightly for a brief moment. When she opened them, her grandmother wasn’t looking at her anymore but over her shoulder. Then she whispered, “Anatoli.”
Jerking around, Ophelia scanned the room. No one was there. Of course not.
What was going on? The name Gramma spoke was the one on the bottle. She must have read the name last night. Concern filled Ophelia. She would call the doctor to come out and check on Gramma because it seemed like dementia was setting in.
Still, Ophelia had to entertain the idea she was buying into the magick talk. Besides the mention of Anatoli had her too curious to dismiss. “Do you know Anatoli?”
Gramma stared into her eyes. “No, we never met.”
Rolling her eyes, Ophelia tucked a stray hair behind her gramma’s ear. “I’ll be back as soon as I check things in the attic out. You eat.”
Gramma nodded. “Be careful. And remember that I love you.”
“I love you too, Gramma.”
This had got to be the oddest trip home. Her chest tightened at the thought it would be her last. Blinking the tears away, she made her way to the end of the hallway. She leaned against the aging wallpaper and breathed deeply, regaining her composure. Gramma was acting weird and soon, she’d be gone. It was going to hurt like hell to not have her around. She opened the door to the stairs that lead to the attic and climbed them.
Dust tickled her nose as she emerged in the damp space. The only light trickled in from the tiny window on the far wall to her left. She hadn’t ever spent much time in the attic. At least, not that she remembered. Gramma used it as her office when she had her gift shop years ago, but Ophelia had always thought the space was creepy. She much preferred to play down by the river or out in the sunny pasture.
When she reached the middle of the attic, she pulled the cord to turn on the overhead light. A gasp escaped her. The room was cluttered with stuff from the gift shop. Everywhere she looked, piles of stuff. Boxes. More boxes.
She scanned the rafters, looking for any sign of a breach. The roof looked intact, as far as she could tell. Still, maybe she should have it checked by professionals.
The boxes formed rows and a narrow walking path through the attic space. No signs of water on the boxes anywhere, so that was a good. Shelves along the walls were filled with books and trinkets. Stones, crystals, and a ton of candlesticks lined one ledge. Bags of what looked to be dried herbs lined another, and small amber apothecary jars crowded onto one shelf.
Dust swirled in the sunlight streaming from the lone window on this side of the attic. The storm had gone, leaving a beautiful day. Ophelia could see the river in the distance, writhing like a blue ribbon through the greenery.
She stopped and ran her finger along the dusty spines of leather bound books and gilded volumes. So many books—why had Gramma stored them in the attic? She had a library in one of the old formal rooms. Some of the titles were in another language.
Latin, maybe.
At least a hundred books sat on the shelves. Most were tomes on rituals, spells, and herbs. Gramma had quite the collection. Ophelia shook her head. How many people’s grandmothers claimed to be witches?
Are witches even a thing anymore?
A slim blue book with golden highlights stood out from the rest, and Ophelia tugged it loose. A History of Duels in Savannah in the 1800s. The title seemed to sparkle in the dim lighting. The title sure felt out of place among all the witchy stuff.
She sneezed. The dust flying loose in the attic was getting to her. She shoved the book into place. No sign of a leak in the roof anywhere. The place was as tight as could be and more than a bit creepy. No time to dilly-dally and snoop around. She needed to check the last eave section and get the heck out. She dusted her hands off and turned toward the last unexplored section. The attic was so full of stuff, it was a good thing it wasn’t damaged.
To the right, a wooden podium stood. Beside it was an antique table with a purple and gold cloth draped over it. A few partially melted candles sat on the table.
What the hell?
Ophelia took a step and kicked something. Glancing down, she jumped sideways. Her heart leapt in her chest while disbelief mixed with all the weird shit that happened in the last twenty-four hours. She stood in the center of large circle with a pentagram in it. Painted directly onto the attic floor, the shapes loomed in her imagination like giant horrors.
What had Gramma been doing up here?
Shaking her head, she continued to back up until she bumped into something hard yet yielding. Invisible hands gripped her waist, freezing her into place. She closed her eyes, hoping it was her imagination playing tricks on her. Her mouth was too dry to scream.
Ophelia.
A voice whispered into her ear, and hot breath tickled the hairs on her neck causing them to stand. The hands tightened on her hips.
She jerked away and whirled around, but no one was there. At least not physically. But a presence filled the space.
Something is here.
It had said her name. Touched her. Something was in the attic and it was something she didn’t want to know any more about. Maybe all Gramma’s tales were getting to her. Witches and warlocks and ghostly happenings—of course, she was on edge. Still, she felt the touch and heard the voice. Time to get the hell out of the attic.
She tugged the string to turn off the light then rushed to the ladder.
Without so much as a backward glance, she fled the attic and swore to never go back again.
Whatever was up there could stay there.