daleketer

[daleketer]

speeding tickets were a bad thing

Who am I?!

slammed her

I don't know how to visualize this, so I'm going to assume this is what they were doing.

ravage

Tentacles Ten tickles, eh?

teeth, tongues, and limbs

tumbleweed

salt

what she needed most, was a taco bowl

Lola reminded herself that speeding tickets were a bad thing, and eased off the accelerator. Her heart thundered a million miles a minute, the rush of adrenaline making her whole body tremble. She needed to expel this heightened amount of energy safely, so hopping curbs and making hairpin turns was definitely not the answer. Sitting at a traffic light, gripping the steering wheel, she laughed. She looked to her broken purse resting on the passenger seat, the corner of Lillian’s grimoire poking out from its hiding place between her notebooks. 

          “I can’t believe I stole from the Northcott Manner House. What have I done? Who am I?!” she declared, delirious with adrenaline. “I’m such a bad girl. Naughty minx,” she chuckled, quoting her fiancé’s favorite term of endearment when he thought her mischievous. Thinking of Raphael, she knew, in that moment, exactly how she needed to expend her energy.

          She thanked her lucky stars when she spotted his car in the driveway. She parked next to him and then grabbed her things, racing to the front door. The keys fumbled in the lock, but eventually, she pushed her way through the threshold, and now stood in the foyer, panting as she secured the deadbolt with a shaky hand.

          Raphael entered the front entryway from the kitchen, holding a bottle of water in one hand and a ham and cheese sandwich in the other. He was also shirtless, having recently come home from training at the stables.

          “Dandelion, hi,” he greeted, taken aback by her sudden appearance. He tilted his head, noting the heavy breathing and feral look to her eyes. “I was on my way to take a shower. Everything okay?”

          “Everything is perfect,” she answered, laying her purse on the sitting bench as she kicked off her shoes. She unbuttoned her top, never breaking eye contact with Raphael. “How was training?”

          “Good,” he replied, fixated on Lola’s movements. He was perplexed, but also didn’t want to interrupt. “How was your lunch?”

          “Good,” she said, tossing aside the fabric of her blouse. “I saved room for dessert.”

          Ham and cheese forgotten, Raphael lunged at Lola the second her fingers worked at the fastener of her jeans. His lips were on hers, his hands lifting her backside so her legs wrapped around his waist. He lost balance, toppling forward, and slammed her up against the front door. He apologized through their passionate kisses, but she didn’t seem to mind, as her thighs squeezed tighter around his middle, her body pressing closer to him.

          She had to come up for air, and he took that opportunity to attack her neck with greedy kisses. Her head fell back, giving him more surface area to lavish and explore, and he deviously lingered on the extra sensitive spots that made her breath hitch and back arch in his hold. Nibbling her collarbone nearly did her in.

          “I need you,” she managed to work out through heated gasps, “to ravage me. Please!”

          He chuckled, sending vibrations through her body as his lips grazed her throat. “I have a needy Dandelion?” he asked. She nodded, voice robbed of her when his lips brushed her ear. “It will be my pleasure,” he purred.

He found her mouth again, and turning her from the door, the two managed somehow, in a tangle of teeth, tongues, and limbs, to tumbleweed themselves upstairs to their bedroom.

*        *        *        *        *

          The two woke up from their power-nap atop their bed stripped of its coverings, still tangled in each other’s arms. Sluggishly, they staggered into the adjoining bathroom, and showered together. Afterwards, Raphael was quick to dress himself, giving his beloved a tender kiss before departing to pick up dinner.

          Lola threw on one of Raphael’s T-shirts and her lounge-wear pants. Taking advantage of having the house to herself, she ventured downstairs to retrieve her purse. Whilst thoroughly lost in the moment with her lover at the time, there remained in the back of her mind a tiny space occupied with the image of a black leather book with shiny slips of paper sticking out of the aged and brittle pages. Now, she hugged her purse to her chest as she climbed up the stairs.

          “Hmm. Do I want to read the grimoire in the bedroom, or maybe in my craft room?”

          Lola stood in the doorway of the primary suite, turning back and forth from her craft room down the hallway to the naked mattress in her bedroom. The bed looked the most inviting. Perhaps the fresh memory of her and Raphael’s intimate romp upon the pillow-top swayed her decision, but with a giddy grin, she frolicked fully into the bedroom. She picked up the crumpled comforter and hastily threw the plush covering over the mattress, then, crawling onto the middle of the bed, sat herself cross-legged with her purse resting before her.

          “I can’t believe I have it,” she announced, pulling free Lillian’s grimoire. “I can’t believe I actually have you!” She held the book out with both hands, admiring the soft leather. “For being so old, you’re in relatively good condition,” she commented. “Now, let’s see what kind of secrets you store.”

          She opened the cover. A breath of air whispered across her face, and invisible fingers combed through her hair. The sensation crawled through the underside of her heavy tresses, starting from the nape of her neck to squiggle up the base of her skull, and she shivered. The temperature around her dropped, becoming unnaturally cold. She ignored the rising goosebumps pebbling her arms, too engrossed with the grimoire sprawled across her lap to take notice, as page by page she exposed the unfamiliar words to her hungry eyes.

          The handwriting was narrow and slanted, the script made with an elegant yet confident flair. She attributed the old-style cursive to be the reason why she couldn’t decipher most of the words. She picked out simple ones, like “the”, “darkness”, and “night”, but the more she read, the more she felt like the grimoire was written in an otherworldly language.

          “Igmus…zla-harsha…bah-nit? Is that Latin? What is this?” Lola asked aloud. She held the book close to her nose, squinting hard at the small, slanted letters written next to a drawing of a shape interwoven of circles and squares.

          “Igmus zla-harsha bahnit,” she repeated. The words felt weird in her mouth. She tried shaping the sounds slowly, yet the movement was awkward and clumsy. Instead of trying a third time, she shrugged, turning the page to find new words and symbols.

          “Maybe these will be easier to say,” she speculated, turning a few more pages. “Here we go. Ee-art-ma-law,” she drawled rather foolishly.

          Her bedside lamp turned on.

          “Whoa!” Lola gasped, flinching away from the lamp. “Was that…me? Ee-art-ma-law,” she said again, and stared expectantly at the lamp. It did nothing. “Ee-art-ma-law,” she declared, putting a little more confidence behind her tone. Again, the lamp did nothing.

          “Silly me,” she laughed. “The lamp is already on.” She leaned across the nightstand and turned off the light. “Eeartmalaw!” she bellowed.

          The lamp did nothing.

          She frowned, disappointed, and turned her focus back to the grimoire in her lap. “I guess it wasn’t me.”

          The bedside lamp turned on, and her head whipped up in excitement. The lamp then turned off, then on again, then off. It escalated into a sputter, as if malfunctioning. It flickered wildly, flashing sporadically in a dangerous short-circuiting lightshow, transforming Lola’s initial excitement into panic.

          She reached over to turn the lamp off, but it made a loud popping noise, scaring her. She fell back, terrified by the strobing light. The lamp on Raphael’s night table started flickering just as wildly, mirroring the other.

          “Okay, that’s enough! Thank you!” Lola called into the room, backing away from the lamps to scoot herself to the bottom of the bed against the footboard. “I don’t like this anymore. Please stop!”

          The bulbs exploded, and Lola screamed. She covered her head and shielded her face, reflexively curling into a ball to protect herself. She remained in that position, waiting, listening, and when all remained quiet and calm, she lifted her head from the shelter of her arms.

          “Well! I wasn’t expecting that,” she said, darting her eyes between the innocent-looking bedside lamps. She crawled up the mattress, inspecting for glass shards, but found none. “No glass in the bed. That’s nice,” she acknowledged, and crawling higher, inspected her side table. “And no glass on the nightstand?”

          She dipped her head to look under the lamp shade to find the bulb was perfectly whole and undamaged. Slowly, she reached her hand up, turning the switch. The lamp clicked on easily, lighting the space in a soft, comforting, warm glow. Raphael’s lamp was also perfectly intact and fully functional, she observed upon inspection.

          “Interesting,” she breathed, sitting in the middle of the bed.

          Lola looked at the grimoire resting inconspicuously near the bottom of the bed, and she frowned at it, her eyebrows lowering in a knitted furrow. “If that was a trick, it wasn’t a very nice one,” she admonished the book.

          Her heartbeat, still unsettled, and her nerves a little frazzled, she shifted her gaze to the piles of bed clothing strewn about the floor, and decided a good dose of laundry would calm her. She hopped off the bed, then turned to pick up the grimoire.

          A loud, singular knock at the bedroom door made her jump in place. She yelped, chucking the spell book under the bed for no other reason than spontaneous impulse.

          “Co---.” She stopped herself, slapping her hands over her mouth, sucking in her breath from saying the words “come in”.

A warning grip around her heart kept her from uttering that particular phrase. She stood frozen, and thankfully, no other noise from beyond the bedroom door was made. After what must have been an eternity of holding her breath, she released a heavy exhale, and half-collapsed herself against the side of the bed, her knees buckling as she sank to the floor.

          “If that was a trick, I didn’t care too much for it either,” she declared openly into the room.

Aggravated, she gave her head a shake, and pushed herself off the floor. If indeed the grimoire was the cause of such puckish activity, she was glad it was under the bed.

          “You can just stay under there and think about what you’ve done,” she said with a harrumph.

She gathered up the sheets and blankets, throwing them into an empty laundry basket. Balancing the hamper on her hip, she threw open the bedroom door and departed without a look back at the troublesome grimoire.

*        *        *        *        *

          “Maybe I read it incorrectly,” Lola mused while slipping on a clean pillowcase to Raphael’s pillow. “Or, maybe I read it too much, and that’s why everything went haywire.” She fluffed the pillow, adding it to the others resting atop the freshly made bed. “That doesn’t make any sense,” she then said with a chuckle as she continued the conversation with herself.

          She was right in knowing laundry would help settle her mind, and now with clearer thoughts, she pondered over the happenings from the first few pages of the spell book. Curiosity replaced trepidation, and Lola dropped to her hands and knees, peering under the bed for her new book. Fishing it out, she held the grimoire in her lap as she sat on the floor in contemplation.

          “I’m sorry I threw you under the bed,” she apologized, lightly rubbing her thumb along the book’s spine. “You’ve probably spent a lot of time hidden away in the dark. Well, I won’t let that happen to you anymore. I think it might even to you good to get some fresh air,” she said with a smile.

“To be fair,” she then drawled, her forehead furrowing, “you must have gotten plenty of fresh air at the Renaissance Faire.” A prickle of tingles tickled between her shoulder blades, and she shuddered.

“If you are the same grimoire the Dark Sorcerer used, then whatever hex he cast upon me, and Sir Richard’s horse with those scratches, must be in here somewhere.” Lola turned the book in her hands, her fingers gliding over the textured edges to flip through the pages.

          “Wait! What am I doing? Modesta said this was dark magic. I shouldn’t be reading this here,” and she gestured openly about the room. “Don’t take this the wrong way, but I need to make some necessary precautions.”

          Lola stood from the floor, leaving her bedroom to walk down the stairs, venturing into the kitchen with Lillian’s grimoire tucked securely under her arm. She paused in front of the pantry, scanning its contents, and finding the item she wanted, plucked a canister of salt from its shelf. With a lighthearted hum to her jaunty steps, she descended into the basement.

          The basement was partially finished, with holiday storage and mechanical features like the furnace and water heater hidden away behind an ordinary door. The rest of the downstairs space was furnished as a recreational room for entertaining their friends during game nights.

Lola held her bottom lip between her teeth, gauging the best spot to read the grimoire. She needed a place that was unassuming and hidden away, so the wet-bar and pool table weren’t an option for her plans. She briefly considered the unfinished portion of the basement, but the idea of cobwebs and hairy spiders shut that thought down immediately.

          That left her with the guest suite; a cozy bedroom connected to a three-quarters bathroom. She entered the room, making sure to close the door behind her, and sat down at the writing desk pushed up against the wall.

          “Okay, here we go,” Lola announced, laying the grimoire in the center of the writing desk. “This should keep you in check for releasing any bad-spookies to wreak havoc in this house.”

          She flipped up the nozzle of her canister, and poured out a ring of salt, enclosing the grimoire within a large oblong shape. She drew the circle wide, making sure the span of pages, once fully opened, would lie within the protective boundary. Satisfied, she popped the nozzle down with a pleased thump of her palm, smiling broadly at her clever work.

          “There! That should do it. Now, show me what you got,” and Lola opened the grimoire.

She held her breath, pausing, evaluating her surroundings for any spectral activity. When the energies appeared calm and regular, she took a relaxed sigh, and proceeded to flip over the pages. The wording and images depicted in the spell book grew darker and heavier the deeper into the manuscript she perused. At one page turn, an image sketched in deep, black ink of a creature’s face popped out at her, and she jumped in her seat, taken by surprise at the creature’s gruesome, sinewy tendrils that formed its flesh.

          “Oh! He’s nasty,” she announced, horrified, but she couldn’t look away.

The lines forming the drawing gave the impression as being alive. Whenever she blinked to refocus her vision, some of the marks around the edges seemed to shift, pulsating as if it had its own heartbeat. Snapping out of the grisly hypnosis, she shook her head and turned to a new page.

          “I did not care for him,” she mumbled.

The table lamp next to her flickered.

“Hey! No.” Lola grabbed the can of salt, tracing a circle around the lamp base, and the flickering instantly stopped. “I’ll have none of that, thank you.”

          She leaned back in her chair, staring at the ceiling to give her brain a chance to process all her eyes absorbed. Slanted words were unreadable, the haunting images were confusing, and in the back of her mind, she just couldn’t imagine Lillian as the one to pen such darkness.

This couldn’t be the same Lillian who tended to her gardens, the same Lillian who drank her tea in a library surrounded by her treasures, the Lillian who was a loving wife and mother. There was a disconnect, that much was certain, and somewhere, somehow, Lola was going to find the answers.

          Returning to the book, she continued scanning its pages. She flipped through a couple more when she saw it, sketched in the margins: an inky, humanoid creature, with gaping, hallowed, wide eye sockets, and long, gangly arms. At the end of monstrous, elongated hands were three gnarled, boney fingers. The residual tingles between her shoulder blades turned into pricks of tiny pins and needles, as if three fresh claw marks slowly raked down her back.

          Terror-stricken, she slammed the grimoire shut, and the sensations clawing at her back vanished. At that same moment, she heard footsteps above her, with the sound of Raphael calling her name. She pushed back from the writing table, grabbed the canister of salt, and fled from the guest suite. She booked it up the stairs, unsure exactly why she was running, but any reasonable speculations on the matter disappeared as she emerged from the basement to see Raphael at the kitchen island, setting bags of their takeaway on the marble countertop.

          “So, that’s where you have been. Why were you in the basement?” Raphael asked, giving her a curious look.

          “Research,” she responded, out of breath from her sprint up the stairs. She closed the basement door, resting her back against it, trying to regain her composure.

          “Sorry it took so long getting dinner, but now, at last, we can eat,” Raphael proclaimed, taking out the containers of food. “Fresh off the grill, your steak fajita taco bowl, my love,” he announced. “I wanted to make us some margaritas, but I can’t find…the salt.”

          Raphael trailed off his sentence, taking note that Lola had yet to move from her spot at the basement door and that she held the missing canister of salt. “Is there a particular reason you needed salt in the basement for your research?”

          “Salt? Oh! No, don’t worry about it,” she stammered, her thoughts trying to catch up to her head.

          “Don’t worry about it?” he repeated, quirking a singular eyebrow and folding his arms across his chest.

He smirked, leveling her a sultry look. He was still feeling mighty frisky from their spontaneous bout of passion, the lingering warmth of her body fitting around him invading his thoughts while he procured dinner, and he leaned into his talents of salacious teasing, confident he could instigate round two of their earlier wild, intimate activities.

          “Oh, Dandelion,” he lilted, gaining her attention as he took measured steps toward her. “You’re acting rather sneaky. Must I tickle your secrets out of you?”

          “Huh?” Her mind was still in the basement, until she fully registered Raphael’s words and calculated stalk in approaching her. “Wait, what? No!” she squeaked, clutching the can of salt close to her chest while flattening herself against the basement door.

          Usually the threat of play caused a pretty flush to brighten her cheeks and clever banter to fall from her lips before an inevitable chase ensued accompanied by her delightful squealing, but when Raphael saw panic fill her eyes, he immediately pulled back his seductive advances, concerned.

          “Lola,” he softly called, “please, look at me.” He was near enough to gently cup her shoulders, and he leaned down to meet her with an even gaze. “Are you in trouble?” he asked, searching her eyes.

          “No,” she said with a sigh, and relaxed under his touch.

          “Will you tell me before it gets that far?”

          “Yes,” she promised, a smile lifting her lips and lighting her eyes.

          “I’m here when you need me,” he declared, squeezing her shoulders.

          “Thank you,” she acknowledged with a nod, and kissed him. “Can I help you with the margaritas?”

          “I would welcome it,” he said, dusting her chin with his knuckle. He straightened, and Lola eased herself into a normal routine, setting the salt aside to grab the blender. Raphael smiled, watching her from the corner of his eye as he selected the tequila, margarita mix, and limes.

          His first instinct was to mend and problem solve when Lola displayed her distress. He learned rather quickly that Lola liked to gather the facts of a situation before coming to him with an issue. That way, if he asked questions, she had the knowledge to answer them instead of the conversation turning into a frustrated one-sided back-and-forth of dialog to try and “fix” a problem she knew nothing about. He knew when to give her time and space, and when to press for details. She was good at keeping communication open, not leaving him in the dark or treating his opinions as something unwanted.

          They were partners, and he trusted that whenever she was ready, she would approach him, and he would be there for her. For now, what she needed most, was a taco bowl, their favorite streaming service, and a circle of salt around a margarita glass. That, at least, for the moment, was something he could easily fix.

*~*~*~*~*~*~

I think this is two chapter in one month. WHO AM I?! Haha!

Anyway...things got kinda spooky here, and only more trouble can surely follow! Looking forward to getting more out to you lovely readers! Thanks for coming along on this journey!

Until next time! Happy reading!

~Melissa

[daleketer]

[daleketer]

[daleketer]

Now all she needed was a plan.

Could she not have just written a letter asking for permission to check out the library? In hindsight, it probably would've denied by CJ the pushy guy who is totally not a fae badly pretending to be human.

bankcard

That's an interesting word to use. Is she using a debit card or a credit card? I know it's a word, but I've never heard anyone use it outside of a banking website.

Stitch ‘n Witch

Is this a reference to an actual group you belong to in real life? Because you do both things.

widow’s walk

Today I learned what a "widow's walk" is:

Dweezil

Does Dweezil exist in real life?

third light

TITLE DROP!

do you want to see it

It's starting to seem like there are two forces at work here. One wants Lola to get to the bottom of this, while another, presumably CJ, wants to keep everything hidden.

There was a haunted hotel level in Vampire: the Masquerade: Bloodlines. The wife tried to help you free her but the husband tried to stop you because he wanted them to stay together forever.

Also, Lola driving away from the building:

The question continued to linger in Lola’s mind, sinking its hooks into the deepest recesses of her thoughts.

Who else knows about Lillian’s grimoire?

          So overcome with the question, she knew the only way to calm the fuzzies ricocheting in her brain was to return to the Northcott Manor House. There could be no rest until she laid eyes on the spell book. She needed to physically hold the item and compare it with the one burned in her memory clutched in a pair of fingers ringed with glittering jewels. With Raphael being out of the house for longer stretches during the week, thanks to his new training schedule, and her friends tied to their jobs and obligations, this would have to be a mission she accomplished by herself, so she made a lunch reservation for Tuesday.

          Now all she needed was a plan.

          The days leading up to her lunch date were consumed with ideas on how to achieve getting the grimoire. One major roadblock she had to contend with was the fact the library remained locked and off limits to the public. She tried to formulate a believable ruse that she left one of her belongings in the upper rooms when she stayed the night and needed to retrieve it, but that had been two weeks ago. Anything the cleaners or staff found would have already been removed by now. Her mind continued to wander, even while driving to the Manor House, concocting any scheme or loophole that could get her in and out of the library without the police getting involved.

          “Maybe if I climb through a window,” she thought aloud, picturing herself scaling a rickety wooden ladder left out by a careless groundskeeper. She laughed, the idea obviously ridiculous. Though, she considered, it held better merit than some of her other ideas. Before long, she parked her car in the lot next to the Manor House, her steps taking her up the magnificent stoop, to present, standing in the rich foyer of mahogany, crystal, and candlelight.

          The house sang to her. The walls whispered their old charm and elegance, the woodwork, of poise and grandeur, while a thrum of warmth circulated through the space as a quiet veil of mystery. The house, though at times stoic and pretentious, welcomed her with its embrace of secrets. She glanced around the small entryway, seeing the front parlor room was empty, though appeared as if a big party was about to arrive, as staff members had maneuvered the long, linen covered tables to accommodate for space. The formal dining room resonated with a healthy amount of chatter and levity, lunch running as usual for the clusters of diners.

          Looking to the grand staircase, Lola saw a thick velvet rope spanning the width of the steps from railing to railing. A heavy gold placard hung from the barricade with blocky, bold letters reading: NO ENTRY.

          Lola bit her bottom lip, annoyed at being thwarted by a sign. She flicked her eyes up the stairwell, peeking a sliver of the library’s doorframe, and for a brief second, debated if she could bolt up the stairs without anyone the wiser.

          “Thank you for your patience,” the hostess greeted, appearing from the bar area. She approached the podium, and beamed a brilliant smile. “Are you joining us for lunch?” she asked.

          “Yes, I am. I have a reservation,” Lola said, tearing her focus away from the upper floors.

After giving her name, the hostess walked her to one of the rooms near the back of the house. What used to be Cornelius’s den had since been transformed into a dining room of five linen covered tables. She was sat at a small table in front of a marble fireplace, given a menu, and then left alone to her own devices.

          Serenading melodies of easy listening jazz warmed the underlying coldness that seeped from the shadowed corners of the room, and combined with the turn of the century opulence that practically dripped down the walls, the ambience created a pocket of suspended existence. If Lola wasn’t careful, she could easily find herself captured by the elegant charms of the House. Shaking off the hypnotizing spell, she held up her menu, reading the dishes just as a waiter approached her table.

          “How are we doing today?” he asked, filling Lola’s water glass as he flashed a cheery smile.

          “I’m well, thank you,” she replied, looking up at him. She guessed him to be of college age, not quite yet grown out of his youthful face, with close cropped sandy hair and brown eyes. Not Newspaper Man, she concluded, slightly disappointed. “How are you?” she asked in turn.

          “Can’t complain,” he laughed. “My name is Grant, and I’ll be taking care of you today. What can I get started for you?”

          Lola mentally shrugged, figuring she might as well take advantage of a good lunch considering it appeared gaining entry to the library was a bust. “I would love the fish and chips with a glass of the house Sauvignon Blanc, please.”

          “Excellent choice. I’ll put that order in and will be back momentarily with your wine,” Grant declared.

          She thanked him, and he retreated for the kitchen. Breathing a sigh, she took another look around the room. There was one couple mid-meal in the corner talking quietly to themselves. Aside from them, Lola had the dining room to herself. Since her library reconnaissance mission was a failure, it only made sense to make the drive and her lunch worthwhile by using this time to get some writing done. She pulled out a notebook and pen from her purse, opening to her notes for “The Toe Box” just as Grant came around the corner with her glass of wine.

          Lunch was brought out soon after. She found a steady rhythm between relaxing in the enjoyment of fancy-casual fine dining and making great strides in her work. She leaned back from the table with a contented sigh, having just finished a crucial plot point in her key twist ending, as well as the last bite on her plate. With a grin, she looked at her outline, rather impressed with all that she accomplished. The waiter Grant appeared as she set her fork down.

          “Can I interest you in some dessert? We have a lovely double berry mascarpone cobbler with brambleberries and blueberries,” he said with his pleasant smile, clearing her table.

          “No, thank you, I am stuffed. That was delicious,” Lola boasted.

          “May I get you another glass of wine?”

          “Thanks, but the one was enough for me,” she said, packing up her things. “Just the check, please.”

Lola handed Grant her bankcard and he disappeared to grab her receipt. She once again observed the small room while waiting for Grant to return. She took her phone out to snag a couple of pictures, adding to the album from her birthday weekend. From the entryway, a trickle of laughter caught her ear, the sound increasing as more voices joined in the merriment.

          That party must have arrived, she thought to herself, the sounds of their gleeful enjoyment making her smile. Grant returned, thanking her for joining the Manor House for lunch, and was gone. She signed for the meal and stood, albeit reluctantly, even going so far as to take her time putting away her bankcard in its correct place in her wallet. She didn’t want to leave the House. She hemmed and hawed, picking invisible lint off her table, saddened at having no reason to keep herself at the House. Lola looked to the ceiling, appreciating the preserved mural spanning the surface, yet longed to go beyond it. Lillian’s library sat right above her.

          As did the grimoire.

          It was so close, and yet so far. She yearned to reach up, stick her hand through the rafters, and pluck out the grimoire, satiating her desire to have it in her possession. Alas, the book remained untouched. Part of the fuzzies in her brain managed to calm down, knowing she was near the grimoire, at least, and that was good enough for now to pacify her curiosity. Throwing her large purse over her shoulder, there was nothing left to do but to go home.

          “Bye, House,” she mumbled into the old den, shuffling her feet toward the front entryway. The sounds of laughter grew louder as she approached the hostess podium, and again, she smiled, happy for the party that seemed to be enjoying themselves. Upon reaching the front parlor, she noticed an easel outside the room displaying a large foam board sign. Lola paused to read it, as the purple bats, witches’ hats, and spider web cartoons in the upper corners caught her attention.

          “The Stitch ‘n Witch retreat?” she read aloud, tilting her head in question. She turned fully toward the room, shocked to find the party consisted of people sitting at the banquet tables working away at their needlework projects. Some had contraptions made of wooden stretcher bars that held their fabric taut to help easily weave their needle and thread. Others held embroidery hoops of varied shapes and sizes, while a few simply sat with fabric and needle in hand, making stitches at a pleasant pace. The tables were also littered with the comforting evidence of snacks, wine, and comradery.

          “---And so, it was in this very room, where Lillian was murdered in cold blood, her killer, never to be found,” proclaimed a man in a sweater vest and wide gold framed glasses. “The End.” The room cheered, some even applauding, and he gave a proud bow over his needlework.

          “That’s my favorite story,” declared a woman with light up magnifying glasses at the end of her nose.

          “You always tell it so well,” said a man with salt and pepper hair around his temples sitting next to the storyteller.

          “Thank you, thank you,” said the first man. “Lillian’s story has always been my favorite.”

          “Uh-oh. Looks like we’ve caught a curious fly in our web,” said a woman with purple, pixie-short hair who sat at the table in front of the fireplace. She spotted Lola standing in the threshold of the parlor room, clearly intrigued by the people gathered.

          All eyes turned to Lola, and she flinched back a step in surprise, having been caught staring.

          “I-I’m so sorry,” she stammered, embarrassed for trespassing on their private conversations. “I didn’t mean to eavesdrop.”

          “We’ll forgive you…if…you can tell us something spooky about this house,” said the man in the sweater vest and glasses, giving her a crafty smirk. The collective eyes of the room swiveled back to her, eager to know what this newcomer would say.

          “Um…well…uh, did you know the turret on the upper level was supposed to be a widow’s walk?” Lola said. Her mind initially went blank when put on the spot, so she said the first thing that popped into her head.

          “That’s interesting, but not very spooky,” said the man with salt and pepper hair.

          “Well, did you know it was Lillian who had it decommissioned?” Lola asked.

          “Why?” the woman in the purple pixie hair questioned.

          “She didn’t want Cornelius to know about her secret love affair,” Lola answered with a nonchalant shrug, as if what she said was public knowledge. Collectively, the room gasped.

          “She was having an affair?” asked the woman with the light up magnifying glasses on the end of her nose.

          “A secret affair,” Lola reiterated, “with a sailor that may or may not have been the one to murder her, since her lover was evil.”

          “Whoa, whoa, whoa! How do you know all of this? Or if it’s even true?” asked the man in the sweater vest.

          “Lillian told me herself---through tarot cards.”

          The room erupted in a flurry of activity, and Lola found herself being ushered inside, bombarded with questions to know more. She was given a chair at one of the tables, the crafters setting aside their needlework projects to give her their full, undivided attention as she regaled them with the tarot reading from the night of her birthday party.

          “All in favor of making this little monkey an honorary Stitch ‘n Witch, say ‘Aye’,” the man in the sweater vest announced once Lola wrapped her tale. The room resounded in one booming “Aye”, and she laughed.

          “So, what exactly is a stitch ‘n witch?” Lola asked.

          “The Stitch ‘n Witches are a group of cross stitchers, who gather together at the Northcott Manor House once a month to tell scary ghost stories while working on our projects. My name is Robert-Paul,” introduced the man in the sweater vest, “and this is my husband Johnathan,” he next introduced, laying a hand on the shoulder of the man with the salt and pepper hair.

          “We launched our group on social media, and formed our community of misfit crafters. We’re basically a family now,” Johnathan shared.

          “Tell us your name, little monkey,” requested Robert-Paul.

          “I’m Lola.”

          “Well, good to meet you, Lola. That’s Denise, Margaret, Juan, Julie, Linda-Joy, Claudia, and Mark,” Robert-Paul introduced, pointing to everyone he named. “Don’t worry about memorizing their names, I promise there won’t be a quiz at the end of this,” he added with a laugh.

          “So, do you cross stitch, Lola?” Denise, the lady with the purple hair asked. Some of the crafters had gone back to their stitching, relaxing into their hobby again now that the excitement of the newcomer had settled.

          “Not as often as I’d like,” Lola answered. “My mom taught me. She’s the real stitcher. She’s working on a squirrel right now named Dweezil.”

          “Have her join our online group, and if she’s local, she’s more than welcome to participate in our Stitch ‘n Witch retreats,” Claudia said, adjusting the magnifiers on the tip of her nose. “Hopefully she likes ghost stories.”

          “You don’t have to worry about her, she’s more than capable handling her own,” Lola replied with a chuckle. “But, speaking of ghost stories, I couldn’t help but overhear you talking about Lillian.”

          “She’s my favorite ghost,” Robert-Paul sighed. “Absolutely tragic how she passed,” he said, pulling a needle through his fabric, returning to his stitching.

          “It was a horrible accident,” Lola agreed.

          “Accident? I meant what I said about her being murdered in cold blood,” Robert-Paul said, shifting his gaze back to Lola. “I’m not buying into the whole ‘stray bullet’ theory. That incident had premeditation written all over it.”

          “How so?”

          “She was lighting her third light,” Johnathan said.

          A shiver touched her skin, raising the small hairs on her arms. “What do you mean her ‘third light’?”

          “If you really want to deep-dive into the Northcott rabbit hole, you’ll quickly learn appearances didn’t match what went on behind closed doors,” Robert-Paul said, lowering his voice to a mysterious level.

          Subconsciously, Lola leaned forward, wanting to learn more. “It wasn’t a happy marriage?”

          “Rarely are ones made in convenience,” Johnathan said, matching his husband’s tone.

          “Lillian was rather…eccentric, and Cornelius was more straight laced,” Robert-Paul shared. “It was noted that she always lit the candles by three.”

          “Why?”

          “Eccentric,” Johnathan reminded while threading a needle.

          “When they found Lillian, the butler made a casual remark in his testimony to the police that only two lanterns were lit on the fireplace mantle,” Robert-Paul continued. It couldn’t be helped, the three briefly turned their attention to the antique oil lamps at the corners of the fireplace mantle. “So why wasn’t there a third lantern lit?”

          “She had died before lighting the third one,” Lola answered, reading between the lines of Robert-Paul’s question.

          “Exactly! And who better to know when to pull the trigger than someone on the inside.”

          “Someone who knew her eccentricities,” Johnathan purred.

          “Wait, but her husband was out of town,” Lola said, pulling on her memory of all the details surrounding the infamous case. “And all the staff had been sent from the house.”

          “Yes, and if what you said about her secret love affair was true---,” Robert-Paul began.

          “---Then her lover was the one who killed her,” she finished, eyes widening in shock. “That’s mind blowing!”

          “And that’s why Lillian doesn’t like it when you try to light three lights. It reminds her of her death,” Robert-Paul said. “It happens without fail.” He rummaged in a tote bag on the floor next to him, pulling out a booklet of matches. “Follow me.” He stood, as did Johnathan.

          Lola followed suit despite being at a loss of the movement around her. She glanced around at the other stitchers sitting at the tables. Some watched her with a knowing smile while others continued stitching, relaxed and uninterested at the scene before them. She was instructed by Robert-Paul to stand in the middle of the room, he and Johnathan placing themselves in front of her.

          “Hold this, please,” Robert-Paul said. He broke off a matchstick from the bifold and handed it to Lola. Then, he broke off another to give to Johnathan, followed by breaking one off for himself. “Lillian is going to stop you from lighting your match.”

          “She will?” Lola asked, her eyebrows raising high.

          “You have the third light,” Johnathan said.

          “It’s like clockwork. Watch,” Robert-Paul scratched his matchhead across the prickly strip on the back of the matchbook. “The first light,” he said, and passed the booklet to Johnathan.

          “The second light,” and Johnathan struck his match. He handed over the booklet to Lola.

          She stared at the two men, noting their gleeful, expectant expressions while holding actively burning matchsticks. An eerie trepidation had cloaked itself around her, settling into her lungs as she watched the two take turns striking their matches. A warning sense of dread made her hands tremble as she took the proffered matchbook. She licked her dry lips, sucking in the lower one, and set her matchhead to the striker.

          “The third light,” Lola said, her voice a hushed whisper.

          “Hello, Stitch ‘n Witches! How’s everybody doing today?”

          Lola yelped. She dropped her unlit match and the booklet as a staff member appeared in the threshold of the parlor room. She crouched down, picking up the fallen items, and looked up to see the Head of Hospitality Annie standing in the room.

          “Hi, Annie, always a pleasure,” Robert-Paul greeted. He shook out the flame from his match to give air kisses to the pleasant lead hostess. “What brings you into our little corner?”

          “How would you all like a special treat?” Annie asked, addressing the room of crafters, to which, they “ooh-ed” in curiosity. “As you know, the Manor House will be undergoing some renovations. One of the rooms about to start renovations first is Lillian’s library. Before construction begins…do you want to see it?”

          If Lola hadn’t already been on the ground, she would have surely fallen over, as she could have been knocked over with a feather upon hearing Annie’s treat.

          “You’re going to take us into the library?” Robert-Paul asked. “I’ve only ever dreamed of seeing her library.”

          “Well, it looks like your dreams are about to come true,” Annie said, and turned to leave the room with a wave of her arm for everyone to follow her.

          Light commotion moved all around Lola as the crafters rose from their tables, happily sharing their excitement and hopeful expectations of what they’ll find in Lillian’s library. She stood up, momentarily at a loss for what to do, but the gentle prodding from Claudia moved her feet to walk with the others gathering around the bottom of the grand staircase. She waited in the middle of the pack as Annie removed the velvet rope barring the people from venturing to the upper levels. Her heartrate picked up several beats as the excitement and disbelief of being allowed free access to the library registered in her mind.

          Lola followed as Annie continued to guide the way up the stairs. Her eyes fixated on the oak door, her anticipation building as each step brought her closer to her coveted destination.

          “Okay, my Stitch ‘n Witches, here we are,” Annie called out in a sing-song lilt. She produced a ring of fancy keys from her jacket pocket. “Get your cameras ready.” She slid one of the keys into the lock and twisted. An audible “click” echoed in the small space as the key released the tumblers inside the hardware. “I present to you Lillian Northcott’s library.” Annie pushed open the door and then stepped to the side, gesturing for the group to walk in.

          Again, Lola felt herself prodded to move forward, and she complied, accepting the invitation to enter the library. The room was unnaturally cold. She shivered, bringing her hands to rub up and down her arms for warmth. The room was just as it was that fateful night she stumbled upon it, though, in the daylight hours, Lillian’s library had a soft glow emanating from the gilded furnishings, as if this space was frequently loved instead of closed off and forgotten. She stepped all the way inside, observing the room in its full beauty.

          “Are you all right?” Annie asked.

          Lola blinked, taken out of her daydreams as the hostess approached her. “Yes, thank you. It’s just a little cold in here,” she said, smiling politely and rubbing her arms again to emphasize her comment.

          “You look familiar,” Annie said, her eyes squinting as she tried to recollect who Lola was. “Have you visited the Manor House recently?”

          “Actually, I have. A few weeks ago, in fact. A group of us rented the House for my birthday.”

          “Oh! How lovely. Yes, I think I do remember your party. I hope you enjoyed your stay,” Annie said, smiling broadly. “I didn’t know you were also a member of the Stitch ‘n Witches. I haven’t seen you in the group before.”

          “She’s our newest inductee,” Denise said over her shoulder as she stepped back to take pictures of the intimate space with her phone.

          “Annie, you said the library was about to undergo some construction,” Johnathan said from the fireplace. “What is the Manor House intending to do? This space looks in relatively great condition.”

          “This room is going to be converted and redesigned into a modern day home office,” Annie answered.

          “A what?!” Lola nearly shouted, the information acting like a hard slap in the face. “You can’t be serious!”

          “Yes, the owner wants an office space on site to conduct business, and the library was chosen as the optimal location,” Annie explained.

          “But…what about the books?” Lola demanded, throwing her arms out to indicate the hardback, dusty treasures.

          “Most will go into storage, and some will be donated to the museums, but the rest will be given to the surviving Northcott family members.”

          “Oh, no, no, no, no, no!” Lola laughed incredulously. “That’s not right. That’s not fair. These are Lillian’s books!” She started pacing, her indignation at the thought of boxing up Lillian’s treasure trove of sanctum artifacts absurd and out of the question. “Aside from her son, this is her legacy.”

          “Well…I’m sorry…but there’s really not a whole lot to be done about it,” Annie tried to appease. “The books will be handled with care and respect---.”

          “It’s not just about the books,” Lola stressed. “Lillian lived here.” She laid hands on a white, canvas tarp covered chair. “She read these books,” she continued, going next to touch a bookcase. “She ran her household from this very spot, and---oh!”

          The strap on her purse snapped, falling off her shoulder, and landed on the ground. Lola looked at her spilled bag, sighing as she crouched down to gather her scattered belongings. As she scooped her things back into her purse, her fingers brushed over a loose floorboard. It slid out from under her hand, opening a secret compartment. It dawned on her she was behind Lillian’s sheet-covered writing desk, hidden from the Stitch ‘n Witches and Annie. Laying before her, shrouded in a pocket of shadows, was Lillian’s grimoire.

          “Do you need some help, dearie?” Denise asked.

          “No! No, sorry! I’ve got it! Silly me, it’s okay!” Lola stammered. “Don’t worry about me!” Her hand was in and out of the hole faster than her brain could process the movement. She put the floorboard back into place with her foot as she stood, clutching the broken purse to her chest.

          “Sorry for getting so worked up,” Lola apologized. “I just really love books, and the news caught me by surprise.”

          “It’s understandable,” Annie said with a nod, accepting Lola’s apology. “Why don’t you take some pictures, so you can look back on this little piece of history?”

          Lola agreed, and grabbed her phone from the outside pocket of the purse still clutched to her chest. She fumbled with the device, her hands shaking almost too much to take a decent photo from her trembling. Eventually, it was time to depart and head back downstairs. Before Annie could close and lock the door, Lola hovered in the doorway, giving the library a farewell look-over. She snagged one more picture, the last of the group to leave the sacred room. Lagging behind, she waited for Annie to lock up as the others descended the stairs to return to their crafting.

          “Again, I’m sorry for being overly passionate in there, and thank you for showing us the library. That was a really special treat,” Lola said as she and Annie walked down the stairs together.

          “You’re very welcome. And no more apologizing, please. I think it’s very sweet you wanted to protect the books and Lillian’s library,” Annie said with a heartfelt smile.

          “By any chance, do you know when the construction is going to happen?”

          “Soon, I believe, but I don’t know the exact date. I know it will start before the next time the Stitch ‘n Witches meet, which is why I wanted to show you the library.”

          “I just wish---oof!” Lola ran into something hard and solid that had turned the corner to come up the stairs just as she was coming down them. She fell over, landing hard and flat on her bottom upon the carpeted steps.

          “My gracious, I am so sorry,” a man declared, startled himself by the surprise impact. “Are you all right, my dear?”

          Lola looked up from her place on the steps to see a tall, broad shouldered man in a three piece navy suit standing before her. At first glance, he reminded her of a robin’s coloring, with his red double-breasted vest and slicked back brown hair with shoes and belt to match. His eyes were a striking clear gray, and he had massive hands, she noted, as one was reached out to help her stand. She slipped her palm against his, accepting his assistance, and shivered at the contact, the skin unnaturally cold. She thanked him for his help, but when trying to take her hand back, he held on tighter.

          “Forgive me for saying this, but, I have the strangest feeling we’ve bumped into each other before,” he said.

          “I can’t say that we have,” Lola said. Part of her wondered why her insides were internally panicking, but the longer he stared at her with his hauntingly glassy eyes, the more she wanted to flee.

          “You’re probably right. I’d be a fool not to remember you,” he said. “May I have your name?”

          Something deep in her spirit told her not to give it to him. She floundered, flustered in coming up with a response that didn’t involve disclosing her name. She became more nervous the longer he stared and the wider his smile grew. Thankfully, Annie came to her rescue.

          “CJ, what a pleasant surprise,” Annie greeted, genuinely cheerful. “It’s been a while since we’ve last seen you.”

          “Just making the rounds, Annie,” the man, CJ, said, matching Annie’s smile.

          “CJ, this young woman stayed the night at the Manor House a few weeks ago for her birthday,” Annie continued to share.

          “Really?” His attention and smile turned back to Lola whose hand he still clasped. “Well, happy belated. Tell me, did you notice any peculiar, otherworldly things during the night? Any wails or rattling of chains, perchance?”

          “Just some footsteps on the third floor,” Lola said. Again she tried to pull her hand free and again he held strong. The cold sensation of his palm made hers turn clammy, her discomfort increasing the longer her hand remained trapped.

          “Ah! Then you must sign the haunted guest book,” CJ proclaimed. He let go of her hand, turning to a side table by the entryway of the front doors, and picked up a rectangular object.

          “What’s the haunted guest book?” Lola asked.

          “It’s a regular guest book, but, if you have a personal ‘ghostly’ experience during your stay through the night, you get to share it in the haunted guest book with all the other claims,” Annie explained.

    ��     “Oh! That’s a fun idea,” Lola said, a lightness returning to her disposition.

          “Here you are,” CJ announced, returning to the women. He held out the haunted guest book, opened to a blank page. “I insist you record your experience. And, if you share your address, you’ll receive the exclusive newsletter detailing all of the Manor House’s paranormal events.”

          “Maybe another time, I have some errands---.”

          “Nonsense,” CJ stressed, dismissing her rejection with a scoff and click of his tongue. “I’m sure your errands can wait. Please?” He held out the book closer to her. “I won’t let you leave until you sign it.”

          Lola was positive he meant every word of that statement. Her purse weighed heavy in her arms like a lead brick the longer she stood in the foyer. If signing the haunted guest book meant she was free to leave, she’d acquiesce. “Do you have a pen?”

          “Certainly,” and CJ produced a gold plated pen from the inner pocket of his suit jacket.

          Taking the item, Lola wrote in the book while he continued to hold it out for her.

Stayed the night for my birthday and heard footsteps on the third floor.

          Finished, she held the pen out for CJ to take back.

          “And your address?” he reminded, tapping a column in the margins where guests could leave their information.

          “All right, there you go,” Lola declared, biting back her sigh of impatience as CJ refused to let her leave. She tried to give him his pen back, but he ignored her, turning the book around to double check her work instead.

          “Glenbrook?” he asked, his eyebrows lowering as he thought upon the surname. “Glenbrook. Hmm. Why do I know that name?”

          “It’s fairly common,” Lola was sharp to reply, and he laughed.

          “We obviously have two very different definitions for when it comes to being ‘common’, Mrs. Glenbrook. Rest assured, it is a name I shall not soon forget.”

          Lola involuntarily trembled, his promise reading more as a threat. Her legs begged her to run away, even if that meant sprinting back up the stairs, her feet itching to put as much distance between herself and this slick man. “I hate to write and run, but I need to get to those errands---.”

          Again, he interrupted her. “You know, if you submit three addresses, the House enters you into a drawing to win a voucher for a free one night stay. Know anyone else who might enjoy a newsletter?” he asked, turning the haunted guest book back around to Lola.

          “CJ! My goodness you’re being particularly pushy,” Annie said with a laugh.

          “I’m allowed to be pushy, I’m eccentric,” CJ rejoined with a played up haughty scoff and raise of his shoulders. “Two more addresses and then I promise you’ll be on your way,” he said, tapping the empty space on the column below her name. “You have my word.”

          It was easy writing her home address, putting down her soon-to-be married name, and so used the same loophole of anonymity for her friends by only listing their places of business. She finished writing down the address for Curios and Oddities, and as she went to scribe Pyrite’s Pawn Shop, the gold plated pen flew out of her hand. It landed on the floor in front of the hostess podium, where Annie bent down to retrieve it.

          “Sorry about that,” Lola said while laughing. “That was weird.” She tried to write Pyrite’s Pawn Shop’s address for the second time, and as before, the pen flew out of her hand. “Well, you know what they say; if it happens a third time, then I guess it wasn’t meant to be.”

          CJ acted as if she physically attacked him. He bristled and blustered, offended by the very idea that she couldn’t write down the third address. He grabbed the pen from Annie, who, for the second time, had retrieved it.

          “Why don’t you tell me the address, please? That way, we’ll have no other interferences, and you can be on your way,” CJ said, turning the haunted guest book toward himself, poised to copy down her dictation.

          Eccentric is an understatement, Lola thought, eyeing CJ warily. At least he was quick to recover himself, the mask of poise having slipped only briefly. She gave the pawn shop’s address and he sighed, relaxing tense shoulders as he put his pen away in his suit jacket pocket.

          “Well, now that that’s all settled, I have no reason to hold you hostage from your errands any longer,” CJ said with a chuckle. “I appreciate you indulging my pushy behavior,” he added, the charm and smarm back in full swing.

          “It’s a good thing I like newsletters,” Lola said. “Have a nice day. Thanks again for showing me the library, Annie.” She slipped past CJ and Annie, her purse burning against her chest. Without a look back, she pushed open the main doors, and was gone.

          “You took her to the library?” CJ asked, a curious look in his eye as he watched after Lola’s retreating form.

          “I did, I hope that was all right,” Annie apologized. “The Stitch ‘n Witches adore this house so much, I wanted to treat them to the library before the renovations began.”

          “No harm, no foul,” CJ said, giving Annie his signature smile. He closed the haunted guest book, passing it over to the lead of hospitality. “Great minds think alike. I, too, was on my way to visit the library.” With a nod, he departed, his light steps carrying him up the stairs.

          Annie resumed her business. She checked over paperwork at the hostess podium, humming blissfully to herself and enjoying the laughter coming from the front parlor room filled with the needlework crafters. She moved to return the haunted guest book back to its place on the side table, when from behind her, a clattering sound of footsteps came running down the stairs. Startled, she whirled around to discover CJ barreling toward her. He pushed past her, bursting through the front doors.

          He took the stoop steps three at a time, nearly flying down them to reach the front walkway. He came to an abrupt halt when he saw a car pulling out from the Manor House side parking lot to glide along the quiet street across from him. He noted the woman behind the wheel, her distinct red hair billowing behind her as she sped away. CJ took a moment to catch his breath and gather his thoughts. He ran his hands through his hair to help him gain his composure, watching the little black car morph into a speck down the road before disappearing around a corner.

          Turning on his heel, he slowly climbed back up the stoop, entering the Manor House. He found Annie in the entryway, still discombobulated from his brusque departure. She recovered enough to stare at him, wide-eyed and stammering around her questions. His eyes flicked down to the haunted guest book she clutched in her hands, and wicked inspiration flared to life in his mind. He plucked the book from Annie’s grasp, a thin grin splitting his face.

          “I think I’ll take over the newsletter this month,” he said, and without another word, tucked the haunted guest book under his arm. He turned from Annie, waltzing up the grand staircase. He whistled a happy tune, the notes eerily complementing the cold shadows lingering in the corners of the entryway, his song creeping down the stairwell as he vanished into the lonely solitude of Lillian’s library.

*~*~*~*~*~*~

Hiya, friends! It's been awhile! I'm in love with this chapter for so many reasons! I hope you all liked it too! And now...mayhem! See you all next time, and happy reading!

~Melissa

[daleketer]

A charred coochie board!

[daleketer]

Hello, I ran into you at Anime St. Louis 2025. I take it you're not on Instagram? These were the two pictures I took of you and of your work.

This weekend was Anime St Louis and I finally busted out the chalks again. It was a little sprinkly and I couldn’t do anything Saturday because I had to leave early to go to my niece’s birthday party to teach her and her friends how to paint. But here’s Sailor Moon (I just recently rewatched the series), and RotTMNT Michaelangelo. Enjoy, my chalk friends!

[daleketer]

[daleketer]

[daleketer]

i go to the shop and I ask if they have any raspberries. they say no, they used to sell raspberries, but they haven't had any in stock in the last 15 years. I ask if there's somewhere else I can go to buy raspberries. They say no, with confidence and pride, they're the only shop around who has ever sold or will ever sell raspberries. Other shops might sell other fruit, sure, but they have a monopoly on all raspberries forever. I ask if they're possibly planning on them selling them again in future? they say they can't tell me that.

on the way home, I encounter someone eating raspberries. I ask and they tell me that they grow their own, they got some seeds from the shop back in The Raspberry Days and kept them. They take me to a field of many beautiful raspberry plants and invite me to pick my own, they're free for all the town to pick whenever they'd like.

someone comes up behind us. It's the shop manager, President of Nintendo Shuntaro Furukawa. he hatefully throws a bob-omb that blows up and kills both of us instantly for stealing 200 trillion dollars worth of potential Raspberry Shop That Doesn't Do Raspberries Anymore profits that they weren't making and then he turns around to the camera with a big thumbs up and says don't do piracy or something ok please

[daleketer]

First, I can't help but notice the coincidence of you posting this today:

Second, Raphael is a baritone? Did you ever describe what type of voice he had before?

Third, I find the mentions of "dandelion" and Monty Python-esque coconut horse steps hilariously serendipitous.

In my last game, the Dandelion Fae paid a visit to the town to thank them for their help.

As for the coconuts, I asked the group if they ever used horses in the game, and was told that it was too dangerous, despite several equestrians among our players. They did consider using coconuts to simulate horse sounds at one point.

Finally, did you have a spoopy goast encounter when you were younger? And is there an equivalent picture in real life like the one in the story showing young Lola and a spoopy goast?

🍿

          Lola sat in the middle of the couch, head bent and eyes narrowed as she typed away at the document pulled up on her laptop. The French doors leading to the backyard had been thrown open, allowing the balmy breezes of early summer to drift in around the parlor room, the lilting birdsong from the nearby dense crowding of trees the perfect ambient white noise for her creative endeavors. More often than not, she had logs burning in the fireplace to further solidify the atmosphere of intimate coziness, but considering the already warmer weather, she settled for a scented candle of brown sugar and lavender instead.

          The events at the Renaissance Faire over the weekend were chaotic, to be sure, but also inspiring. The spark for her mystery novel “The Toe Box” continued to fuel her imagination, the evidence of her wild inklings scattered about the couch in open notebooks and loose leaf papers filled with her writings of bullet points, outlines, and intricate webbings. A small twinge in the muscles at her back signaled she had been hunched over for too long, so she straightened her spine while rolling her shoulders back. She rocked her head side-to-side, releasing the tension in her neck with a satisfying “pop”, and sighed, closing her eyes and leaning back to relax against the plush embrace of the couch.

          She took in a deep breath, filling her lungs with the fresh air that hinted at a touch of sweetness. She detected the distinguishing murmur of a distant lawnmower as a soft breeze brushed through the wind chimes hanging outside the kitchen window, the warming ping-pong notes playing the quintessential melody of summer. She smiled, releasing her breath in a rushing exhale, melting into her surroundings.

          “Feet, my love?”

          The sudden, resonating baritone of Raphael above her head made Lola scream in surprise, clearly taken unaware of his presence from when he entered the room. She fumbled with her laptop, realizing the tab for an image search of human toes was splayed across the screen, and her face grew hot, burning from initial shock and embarrassment as he chuckled above her.

          “I had no idea. Far be it for me to kink shame. You know I’m at least open to a conversation, especially when it comes to pleasing my dandelion,” he continued to tease, loving how the blooming flush of her cheeks matched the shade of her hair.

          “Raph! When did you get home? How long have you been there? I can explain! This is for research!” Lola declared, shutting the lid of her computer. She frantically collected herself, refusing to allow the all-too-pleased smug expression plastered across his face to further rattle her flustered nerves. She took in a breath, trying to recover from her startled, racing heart, and moved the attention onto himself rather than what was on her computer screen.

          “How did it go with the board of directors? Are you still able to joust this season?” While she asked her questions, she cleared a spot for him to sit on the couch with her. She scooched to one end, turning inward as she set her laptop on the ottoman to then pick up her coffee mug, and patted the empty cushion across from her to signal the open invitation. She was eager to hear all the details from the Faire’s emergency meeting regarding the messy events during the joust over opening weekend.

          “It’s complicated,” Raphael began with a sigh, rounding the furniture to sit with Lola. “Our horses have been recovered, and luckily, they seem relatively healthy.”

          “I’m glad the horses are safe,” Lola said, relieved to learn the animals were well.

          “However, they’re too spooked to ride,” he informed. “The Committee are bringing in replacement horses from a nearby circuit that haven’t started their season yet.”

          “That seems like a good solution.”

          “In theory, yes, but it’ll take a couple of weeks to get them acclimated to their new riders, which means Tony, Richard, and I have to squeeze in extra rehearsal times to train with the new horses before the joust can resume its full performance.” Raphael slouched down in the crook of the couch, his legs sprawled out and head fallen back. His hand covered his eyes, rubbing at his forehead, annoyed at the thought of extra rehearsals, but also resigned to the circumstances of the situation. It couldn’t be helped, so he accepted his fate.

          “I’m sorry, Honey Love. Does this mean you can’t joust until the horses are ready?” Lola asked, placing a hand on his knee for comforting support.

          “On the contrary,” Raphael laughed. “The Committee find the joust too profitable to want to shortchange the experience of the Faire, so I am still obligated to joust.”

          “But, you don’t have a horse.”

          “They gave me a temporary one. Would you like to meet my new steed?”

          Lola watched as Raphael sat up, his tone and gestures dripping with snark and sarcasm. “You have a picture of him?” she asked, leery of his response.

          “Actually, I brought him home.”

          Before Lola could put two sentences together, confusion muddling her thoughts, Raphael rose from the couch, disappearing into the foyer. She turned in her seat, setting her coffee mug aside, and followed after him with her eyes as he left, yet he returned soon enough, galloping into the room with a stick horse between his legs.

          “Lola, meet Buttercup,” Raphael introduced, prancing onto the scene while holding the brittle, plastic reins attached to the muzzle of the stuffed horse’s head. The dusty black yarn of its mane stuck out in dangerous angles along the old, chocolate fur of the child’s hobby horse, with large glassy buttons for eyes awkwardly pushed too far to one side of its face, giving the illusion its gaze could follow one’s self around the room.

          Lola burst into laughter, quite literally falling off the couch, unable to control her hysterics as the love of her life, her pristine history Professor, her knight in shining armor stood in a gallant pose before her with one foot raised on the hearth, and a fist perched on his hip while the other hand clutched the reins in a tight grip.

          “No way!” she cackled. “You can’t be serious!” She peeked over the ottoman at him, doubling over once more at the sight of him glowering at Buttercup.

          “Yes, it is quite…dignifying, isn’t it?” he sneered.

          “You have to joust,” she gasped between breaths, “with that?”

          “Not only me, but Sir Tony and Richard as well.”

          “Sir Richard?!” she screeched, holding her sides, tears streaming down her face. “It’s too much!” she bellowed.

          “Another thing, which I’m sure you’ll find amusing, is when we joust, we were instructed to have one of our serfs behind us to clap coconut shells together to mimic the sound of horses’ hooves as we ‘ride’ down the line.”

          Lola begged for mercy, her sides splitting at the mental imagery of the surly Green Knight skipping down the tiltyard with one of his cronies clacking away with a set of coconuts behind him.

          “I’m glad you’re finding this so funny,” Raphael droned, deadpan, petting the mane of Buttercup while Lola continued to laugh as she rolled around on the floor. "Richard blames you for this, by the way.”

          “What? Why is he blaming me?” Lola finally gained control of herself, sitting up while wiping tears from her eyes. “What’d I do?”

          “Nothing, as far as I know, but he’s been grumbling about your supposed involvement to our new situation ever since we were told to joust like this,” and he motioned to Buttercup. He sighed, dropping his arm, letting the toy fall to the floor. “He thinks the whole catastrophe was somehow your doing.”

          “What a jerk face,” Lola swore.

          “Don’t worry, I set him straight.”

          Lola had sharp eyes, and noticed him subtly flex his right hand. “Raph, did you punch him?”

          He avoided eye contact. “It’s possible his jaw happened to be in the spot where I placed my fist.”

          “Thank you for defending me,” Lola said, crawling onto the ottoman. She reached out her arms for Raphael to join her. “But, please, no more hitting, okay?” She held his hands as he sat down with her. “I’m also sorry for laughing as hard as I did. It must be very demeaning for a noble knight of your expertise to be reduced to such a state as to have your trusty steed replaced by a child’s plaything.”

          “The sting of humiliation will soften over time, I’m sure. I think I’m most dreading over how Richard will react for when the time comes he is to face the crowds,” Raphael said, admitting his concerns.

          “That’s a valid worry, he’s a bit of a hothead.”

          “And thank you for your apology, but I don’t blame you for laughing. It is a ridiculous predicament,” he said, cracking a genuine smile.

          “Well, I’ll help you doll up Buttercup into the prettiest pony on that jousting field anyone has ever seen. You’ll be the envy of every knight out there.”

          “With your flair for costuming, how could I fail?” he laughed, and they shared a kiss. “Now, I seem to have walked in on some important---*a-hem*--- ‘research’,” he continued, raising his hands to make air-quotes, to which, she rolled her eyes. “What has your mind buzzing about on this fine afternoon?”

          “I’m trying to get the terminology correct when it comes to my new villain,” Lola answered. “He’s a serial dismemberist.”

          “Dismemberist isn’t a word…nor a profession.”

          “That’s beside the point,” she said, waving off his comment with a scoff. “What I really want, is to capture the essence of a mysterious, creepy aura for my villain, like what the Plague Doctor exudes.”

          “You think Karl is creepy?” Raphael asked, stunned by the descriptions made of his fellow cast member.

          “His name is Karl?”

          “He’s a pretty decent guy. He’s actually the Conductor for the University’s chamber orchestra. I see him from time to time on campus.”

          Lola’s jaw dropped, having her turn to feel the shock of hearing the descriptions made of the character. “Don’t tell me his backstory, that completely ruins the whole illusion.”

          He laughed. “Sorry to dispel the smoke and mirrors.”

          “It’s fine, it’s fine. I’m basing my villain off vibes, anyway, not ‘real’ people, per se,” she said with a sigh. She then straightened her spine, angling her shoulder blades to dislodge a tiny patch of itches prickling over the skin along her back.

          “Are those scratches still bothering you?” Raphael asked, concern turning down the corners of his mouth and knitting together his eyebrows. He gently turned Lola’s shoulder to place a warm palm over the spot where three claw lines had marked her tender flesh. He was initially worried she had injured herself at some point during the Faire to receive such nasty marks, but his vision bled red when she told him of the coincidence between those scratches to that of the clawing gesture made by a supposed Dark Sorcerer skulking about the grounds.

          He vowed vengeance, but cursed his unfortunate, ill-luck, for the Faire employed no such character. Who attacked Lola got away without consequences to his actions, and the cruel guilt at being unable to bring the ne’er-do-well to justice gnawed relentlessly at his heart. Thankfully, at the very least, the scratches cleared up the following morning, leaving no trace behind of their menacing existence.

          “No, I think it’s just an itch,” she replied, wiggling a touch under his hand. She heard the smile in his relaxed breath, his fingers moving to take care of her itch, and she shivered, a rush of goosebumps erupting over her body from the pleasant, caring contact.

          “Speaking of scratches,” Raphael said, dropping his hand once she turned to thank him, “the handlers who recovered our horses from the forest noticed something…unique…upon examining them for injury.”

          “Oh? What did they find?”

          “Tony’s and my horse were relatively unharmed, but they found three long scratches on the haunch of Richard’s horse. They only made note of it because it seemed weirdly out of place.”

          Lola knew the color drained from her face as a chill whispered its caress to raise the small hairs on the back of her neck and along her arms.

          “They said it was probable an animal could have made those marks, but there are no harmful wildlife like that on the grounds, especially ones that would attack horses, nor is there anything big enough to leave only three scratches in that particular way.”

          The air hung thick between them, their eyes conveying the words of speculation they dared not speak aloud. The tension broke when Lola’s phone chirped a text notification, and after one more shared moment of lingering eye contact, she reached for her device.

          “Oh! It’s a text from Jack,” she said, unlocking her phone screen to read the full message. “He says he sent me an email he thinks I’d find interesting regarding my birthday.” She reached for her laptop as Raphael shifted off the ottoman to the floor next to her. Perching the computer over her crossed legs, she opened the lid, ignoring his resonating chuckle at the image search of toes being the first thing to pop up on the screen. She minimized the page, and then accessed her emails in a matter of seconds.

          “Here we are. Looks like he sent a video. ‘Hey, Lola’,” she said, reading aloud the message. “’This was too good not to share right away. Happy hauntings’.” After checking to make sure the audio wasn’t muted, she clicked on the video clip Jack sent her, sizing the viewfinder to fill the screen. Hitting “play”, the two watched the scene unfold. The clip began with the fateful incident in the hallway outside the row of suites in the Northcott Manor House, chaos encompassing the screen at the image of Raphael hoisting Lola over his shoulder. He had leaned toward Jack’s camera lens, the eye recording the close up of his profile complete with disheveled bedhead and sultry eyes.

          “No need for your camera, Jack. Mine will do just fine.”

          “You actually said that?” Lola gasped, turning her head to see her fiancé mirroring the same grinning smirk with the one he made towards the camera. “You’re impossible,” she breathed, going back to watching her computer.

          “I think you mean ‘passionate’,” Raphael corrected, his hand coming along side of her to pull her close as he cupped her hip.

          The camera angle shifted downward and off to the side, glimpsing the retreating form of Raphael carrying Lola into their suite as the sheet around his waist unraveled. Jack must have edited this part of the video, for the clip began to play in slow motion when the camera tipped to its side, eventually freezing on a frame of a tilted image of the library at the end of the hallway. Lola squinted at the screen, she and Raphael leaning forward at the same time to focus on what it was Jack apparently wanted them to notice. Jack had superimposed a white ring around the half ajar doorway into the library, indicating the spot he wanted to draw attention. The ring faded, and the footage returned to its regular recorded speed. A few more seconds in, the upper half of a gray figure leaned around the door as if to peek into the hallway, and then just as quickly, darted back behind it. The heavy barricade closed itself soon after with what looked to be a pretty hefty push, as if slamming shut, but never making a sound. The video ended there.

          “What the hell?!” Lola screamed with excitement and surprise. “Was that the Gray Lady?! Oh, my God, did Jack get actual footage of the Gray Lady?!”

          “Play it again,” Raphael said, his excitement as equally palpable to that of his beloved, the two glued to the laptop screen.

          Lola scooched back the slider bar to locate the spot where the camera focused on the library door, and watched as a gray figure lurked out from behind the door, retreated, and then shut the door closed.

          “That was the Gray Lady,” she exclaimed, rewinding the footage again. “I have literal chills. Holy heavens, we captured evidence of the Gray Lady.”

          “This is nothing short of compelling,” Raphael agreed.

          “Lillian---we found you.”

          “Are you crying?” Raphael detected a slight snuffle, and he turned his head to catch Lola wiping at her eyes. “Dandelion, what’s the matter?” His hand at her hip moved to rub up and down her arm for comfort.

          “These are happy tears,” she assured, laughing as she fanned her face to dry her eyes. “Do you have any idea how incredible this is? That’s Lillian, and she’s in her library. Even in death, it’s nice to see she still visits her favorite spot.”

          “It is rather poetic,” Raphael said.

          “That’s not the only thing poetic. I forgot to show you something. Look at what I just found.” Lola moved her laptop aside and disengaged from Raphael’s embrace, unfurling her legs from under her to retrieve a cardboard box sitting on the floor with her stacks of notebooks and papers. “I was going through that old box of stories Mom gave me, looking for inspiration and ideas, when I found this envelope of pictures. Take a look at this.” She rummaged through her box, finding the envelope of topic, and returned to the ottoman, handing him one of the photos.

          He took the photo with a drawn out “aww”, smiling at it, his heart warming at the young image of his bride-to-be looking back at him in all her preteen glory: braces, newly experimenting with makeup, and maybe having the slightest chance of a brush touch her hair. Her eyes sparkled, much to the same as her present self, alerting those who knew her best that mischief was at play, and he loved her all the more for it.

          “Do you see it?” Lola asked.

          “You’re not an ‘it’, but a ‘you’,” Raphael said, admiring the wild, untamed image of his future wife.

          “No, not me. There, in the window. I never noticed it before.” Lola had given him the snapshot of the first time her parents took her to the Northcott Manor House. At the time, the three of them had finished lunch and were exploring the grounds. Her father asked to have their picture taken with the large house in the background, the moment forever captured on film as well as in her memory. What she didn’t remember, however, was where specifically on the grounds the picture was taken, and its significance.

          “Are you talking about this grayish blob in this window?” he asked, pointing to the bank of windows along the second floor of the house.

          “I am talking about that grayish blob,” Lola answered. “Do you notice anything special about that particular window?”

          “Only that it’s in the back of the house.”

          “Right, and what specific room has windows facing the backyard of the grounds?”

          “The bedrooms. Oh! Wait! These windows are from---.”

          “---From the library,” they finished together. “It’s the Gray Lady in her library, Honey Love, and I’ve had proof, this whole time, that she’s been in that house looking after her books. How’s that for poetry?” She sighed with a dreamy smile, caught up in the charmingly endearing romance of a ghost in her library, living out her eternal peace amongst her books. “It feels like a full circle moment.”

          “Maybe that’s why we caught her peeking around the corner. She was making sure you didn’t walk off with any of her books. Or her grimoire.”

          “That damn grimoire,” Lola cursed, her daydream broken at the mention of the spell book. “I still don’t understand how the Dark Sorcerer had it to begin with.”

          “If it even was her grimoire. I hate to say it, but I doubt it was the same,” Raphael said, handing her the photograph.

          “It had to be the same, it even had the little bits of paper sticking out of it, and the Dark Sorcerer didn’t retaliate until after I named the book out loud,” Lola reiterated as she took back the photo. She stared at the glossy image in her hands, her eyes not focusing on the imprint of her past in the foreground, but of the solitary gray blob framed in the upper windows. She chewed her bottom lip, her mind crowding with unanswered thoughts and speculations.

          “It does beg the question, though,” she said, her thumb gently moving over the library windows. “Who else knows about Lillian’s grimoire?”

~*~*~*~*~*~

Who else knows about the grimoire indeed???? Only time will tell, but it might be sooner rather than you think! Mwha-ha-ha-ha! We're heading back to the Manor House, folks! Buckle up! Next chapter is going to be one for the books!

~Melissa

[daleketer]

being a symbolism enjoyer should humble you because at the end of the day no matter how eloquently you articulate it youre essentially saying "i love it when things have meaning"

[daleketer]

same sex marriage? actually we're having all kinds of different sex

[daleketer]

grief is so crazy like what if i forget what her laugh sounds like. does she know i loved her. i miss her so much. i catch myself doing things she used to do. i wish i could call her. i miss her so much. i do a crossword puzzle. i cry while washing the dishes. does she know i loved her? my heart feels like a hummingbird. i miss her so much. what if i forget what her laugh sounds like. what if i forget.

[daleketer]

interesting fact i have titanium in my spine

[daleketer]

Being like. Post-suicidal is so strange. Like hiiiii everybody im new I spent a good chunk of my life languishing and have like 3 or 4 lived experiences. But now I'm ready to fuck and party or whatever. Can we be friends. Im so happy to be here. Can we be friends

[daleketer]

u should read this