"We found an altar in the woods," said Billy.

"Uh huh," said Susan, cleaning the oven.

"Yeah. The Ouija board kept giving strings of numbers. But Paul figured it was GPS coordinates."

"That's nice."

"So we tracked it on Google and found the intersection, and we hiked out there and found the altar."

Susan looked out the oven at her son. "I don't think I like where this is headed."

"We just want to camp out by the altar. See what shows up."

"No."

"Aw mom! Why not?"

"You tell me."

Billy bit his lip. Susan held him by the arms. "Say it."

Billy blurted, "Because I'm birthsworn."

"That's right. Your soul is already sealed. And lesser pacts would just complicate things. You don't have to worry about most humans interferring with that, but entities will be a problem. " She frowned. "But you'd better avoid Paul for a week."

"Aw mom!"

"Don't sulk, it isn't dignified.  It's for your friends sake too. I better do a warding. Go trance for a while."

"I don't want to!"

"Go on Billy!" Susan watched him stomp off. What a mess. Half her chores undone and a night of sorcery ahead.  The boy was growing up too fast.  Well, that was in the Book too.

Susan shrugged. He wasn't her flesh and blood, just the subject of her indenture. It made discipline easier. She began to prepare for magic.

The Ghost 

The dim lantern light of discretion shadowed the hallway with the veneer of privacy. Behind the numerous closed doors sin was the practice of the lodge, nestled on the outskirts in the darkest stretch of town. Here’s where hoodlums and bums fed off the less cautious of society, — those foolish enough to venture the dangerous streets in want of heart. A place where the practice of indulgence was the norm and a house of less than respectable purpose could make a killing.

Imported-paper decorated the walls of the corridor. Beautiful wool rugs cushioned the footfalls of many a patron. The oldest profession had a facade of respectability. Music and talk issued up the stairway from the first floor. Below —— liquor, dance, and gambling: the pretense of why men ventured the storm outside to pass the evening in company,— Shanty‘s Well was a blight to the local religious thumpers; but the winds and rain from the pulpit on Sunday did little to curb the number of cliental visiting the establishment every night. 

Tonight,— though,— was different. The weather pounding the dirt roads and flooding the alleys — had reaped its toll on many of the regulars:— unwilling to brave nature’s reprisals,—— accomplishing what the church could not.

Giggling,— a scantily clad woman stepped from behind an unlocked door into the hall.

“Get back here Rosy.”

“I’ll be right back,” she whispered seductively pulling the knob closed. Shivering the woman looked down the corridor as a draft ruffled the thin veneer trappings hanging from her shoulders, concealing little to nothing. 

 The window at the end of the breezeway flew up with a bang as the wind and rain ripped through the opening, tossing the curtains into a billowing rage.

“What the hell?” —— Rosy crossed her arms to her...

Awakening in the dead of the night, Florence could hear the footsteps.

The pale, dying-ember orange of her lit candle washed across the polished wooden floorboards and smooth oak walls that winded through her cabin’s dark hallways. Florence watched where the candlelight strayed into the darkness.

Her eyes were pure-black pools of night, that you could swim down within for hours and never reach the bottom. They searched the room’s pitch-black corners with ease, which was their gift, as they couldn’t see at all in daylight. On a shelf, there was a large, glass container, that had many butterflies resting within it, wings closed.

Florence heard the footsteps getting louder, and she became unsure to whether the sound was coming from inside or out. Some of the toys on her table began to shake slightly and Florence began to shake with them, involuntarily. She knew their arrival was imminent.

Her fingers brushed to her necklace, which was made up of many deadly nightshade berries on a string. Onto her chest. Oddly, no heartbeat.

Something slammed on the door. Whatever was on the other side of the door pounded heavier than any knock that could’ve been made by a human, and with the knocks came the sound of the door’s hinges snapping, the wood splintering slightly.

The shadows collected into the figure of a dark creature, the candlelight materializing into its eyes, which were bright and vibrant against its pitch-black fur. Its tongue lolled out of its open mouth, baring dove-white teeth that jutted from every corner like a thicket of thorns. It stared at her. There was a single nightshade flower on its chest, its pale green vine snaking up its legs, that looked to be an emblem of some sorts, like one a knight may wear into battle. 

    Today I will surely die. Death is whispering betwixt the cracks and crevices of this old drafty home; watching me as I sleep. My concern was solely fixed on the hour and manner of my death. “There are so many ways to die” , I thought , as my hair stood stiff on end. Nay, I must keep my wits about me this foul day! I swallowed away my evil pondering with a generous dose of Tennessee bourbon.

    Then, at once, there was a thundering on the oak frame of my front door. Who could it be at such an hour? ;and with such an odd cadence that sends my spine into shivers? I slowly crept towards the thudding in hopes my unexpected guest would not be alerted of my presence. I gathered enough courage to attempt a glance through the peephole, amongst the persistent horrific banging. Then something curious happened. There was nothing. There was nothing, but an awful silence. An eerie, cryptic, deafening silence.

    I gingerly snuck my eye to the eye-piece affixed to the wooden door frame to take a look. My left eye, half shut, twitched as my pupil dilated to survey the grounds. Who is THIS looking back at me?! An anvil dropped into my stomach as I scurried away from the rotten cause of my despair. Another glass of bourbon fueled my hatred of myself and how pathetic a man I was showing myself to be. 

    I took my hand from the bottle and thrust open the door howling, “Who are you?! What do you want of me?!! ; but the only thing left was the sound of my falling echo and a letter lying on my doorstep, addressed to me, Mister Winston Blackwell.