Page 13 of Magpie

O ne of the final few patrons in the library is a college student surrounded by a pile of books and papers, lost under a mountain of homework.

I peer over the top of the small cubicle I’m in, training my eyes on them.

I’m careful to keep my hood down, to try to keep the decay that wafts off me in waves hidden.

I don’t want to infect anyone else, but I can’t help but watch the student.

A quick glance at their textbooks has me guessing they’re a science major.

Thoughts of the college degree I left behind in another life sour my stomach.

Yet another thing I gave up, another sacrifice laid at the feet of a monster.

I can’t stand to watch the student any longer.

I sink back into my chair. Even with my eyes trained on the bright screen in front of me, my thoughts stay with the student, and the life ahead of them.

I hear their harshly whispered curse in the quiet of the library, and I assume they just noticed the time as they begin to hastily pack up.

I don’t need to flick my eyes to the softly ticking clock above the exit to know the time.

I am keenly aware of it. Only too well in tune with the night, and the many creatures it hides.

The student stands, and I can’t stop myself from glancing at them as they pull their bag over their shoulder and move to the exit.

I wonder if they’re going to meet a friend, or maybe even a date.

I can’t help but imagine a younger, less tainted version of myself walking excitedly beside them.

I wonder if I would be preparing for a night out with friends, or even a weekend visit to family.

Sighing, I turn my eyes back to the screen in front of me.

It’s no use wondering what my life would have been, because it isn’t .

My family, my friends, my past, none of it is anymore.

I grimace, clenching my hands tightly, my knuckles whitening at the thought of the void I left behind, the erasure of my life before I met him .

Fiery rage fills me. My life may have been stolen from me, but I am determined to get it back.

Finding nothing helpful on the message boards, I put my laptop away and drag over one of the many stacks of laminated newspapers I’ve been studying all day.

The librarian I approached was so engrossed in her work that she barely took notice of me when I asked for old newspapers.

She waved a hand at me, pointing me in the right direction, never once meeting my eyes.

I’m glad of it; she doesn’t deserve the effect of my aura.

Unfortunately, the newspapers are proving to be just as useless as my attempt to escape him.

Truth be told, I’m not entirely sure what I’m looking for.

I entered the library for the free internet, and in the process I stumbled upon a forum dedicated to the Wandering House, filled with posts about various hidden clues and easter eggs in local newspapers, all hints pointing to the location.

Most of the posts are badly photoshopped images, advertisements with a creepy, but stereotypical, haunted house.

I roll my eyes at all of them. The very idea that the House would advertise itself is ridiculous.

It doesn’t need to try to draw people in.

Its essence alone is the hypnotizing nectar that calls stray souls to it, drowning them in its sickly-sweet embrace.

I almost closed the forum, until I scrolled by one comment in particular.

It was hidden so low at the bottom of the thread, I almost overlooked it.

My body froze at the picture on the screen, fear and panic seizing me at the mere sight of him.

The image of that white-gloved hand, concealing the face of a devil, and that blinding white smile.

Before me on the screen was the exact newspaper clipping that sits stuffed in the back of my journal.

The user who posted it mentioned finding the piece in their grandmother’s scrapbook full of old clippings.

She had labeled the picture “Darkness Himself,” and I can’t help but agree with the description.

The other users were only too quick to dismiss it as fake or having nothing to do with the Wandering House.

The original poster tried to argue that the man fit the description of the rarely seen actor who is said to live in the attic of the House, but no one was willing to believe them.

Except me.

So, with no plan, and nowhere to go, I remain in the library, looking through old newspapers.

I don’t need to study the pages too intently; I know if there is any sign of the House hidden within them, it will call out to me.

The clipping the user posted on the forum, and the one I have hidden in my backpack, are both old.

Stained brown with age, faded by time. The newspaper I’m flipping through is from 1923, and I only have a few more stacks left to look through. So far, I have come up empty-handed.

I groan, leaning back in the chair and rubbing my hands over my tired eyes.

They’re stinging and scratchy from staring at a computer screen and old typefaces all day, and it’s all been for nothing.

I hoped, uselessly, that if I could find a tangible image of him, I could track down who created it, who knew him outside of the House, hoping stupidly that it would lead me to the only other person who escaped him.

It isn’t much of a plan, but it’s the only place I could think to start.

Sighing, I drop my hands from my face and crack my neck, stretching my arms. I’m careful to not draw too much attention to myself, which is hard to do anyway in a mostly empty library.

The more people aware of my presence, the easier it will be for him to find me.

He will feel the darkness calling out to him, and he will come for me once again.

I scoff. Not that he needs to find me. He has my key.

He knows, just like I do, that it is only a matter of time before I have to return to him.

The library door dinging as another patron exits startles me from my thoughts, and I realize I am the only person left. I swear under my breath. I need to find a place to hide for the evening.

Scooting my chair back quietly, I peek over at the counter.

I can just see the librarian. She moves out from behind the desk, and I duck down as she begins clicking lights off.

I am all at once glad for my presence dripping from people’s memories like melting wax; it makes it only too easy to be forgotten.

Taking the opportunity, I dart behind a bookshelf, silent as a ghost.

With one final flip of a switch, the librarian plunges the place into darkness.

The jangling of keys and the click of a lock let me know she is gone, but I still give it a few moments before coming out of hiding and walking back to my workstation.

The newspapers are still spread out, and I am just grabbing the back of the chair when—

“You’re just delaying the inevitable.”

I hear the soft tapping of his shoes as he moves through the shadows, creeping toward me like a coming storm. My eyes are wide, my body taut, as I feel him stop behind me.

No, no, no, no. He can’t take me. He can’t turn me back into Magpie.

But I am powerless to move, powerless to stop him.

Fear grips my mind and has complete control over it.

All I can manage is to pull in one ragged breath after another.

His hands, encased in those soft leather gloves, glide onto my shoulders.

Warmth spills from his touch, and I cannot stop the sigh that escapes my lips, cannot stop the desperation to melt into his touch.

To let him control me entirely, to own me entirely.

His grip on my shoulders is tight, verging on painful, before he relents and begins to slowly trace his hands down my arms. His touch is somehow featherlight and entirely caging as he tugs me against him.

His arms encircle me, a too-tight embrace, and his lips trail a series of frigid kisses down my neck.

My eyes flutter closed at the feel, as that slithering numbness begins to fill me.

He kisses his way up my neck, until his lips are directly next to my ear, and he whispers, “Come back to me, Magpie. Come back to where you belong. Aren’t you tired of being left in the cold without me? ”

A tear slides down my cheek as his hand reaches up to circle my throat, gripping it tight.

“Aren’t you tired of feeling ?”

A cry escapes my lips, a desperate sound, the only fight I have in me. He chuckles, his rumbling laugh vibrating through me.

“How much longer do you think you can resist me? How much longer do you think you can be without it ?”

At once my eyes snap open, and I yank myself out of his smothering hold. I will not sink into that dark hole. I will not allow him to bury me in the grave of his embrace—never again.

Whipping around, I ready for the attack, sure he will grip me with those white-gloved hands and try to drag me back with him. I am determined to go down fighting. But as I stand, my fists raised in front of me, I am greeted by an empty library.

I’m panting rapidly, my eyes darting around the dark space in front of me.

I’m tense, fighting the urge to bolt from this place before he can come back.

Cold understanding settles in my stomach.

It does not matter where I am, where I hide, he will find me.

I am no longer safe, and I think I never have been.

Not from the addictive pull of his embrace.

I can feel the warmth seeping from me, replaced with that freezing cold that has been my existence since leaving him, growing only more frigid the longer I am without my key.

When I am certain he will not jump from the shadows, I drop my raised fists.

Scrubbing at my eyes, I let out a strangled cry of frustration.

I turn and sit down forcefully, pulling the stack of newspapers toward me with renewed resolve.

Picking up the first one, I flip it open and instantly frown.

This paper must have been placed in the stack by accident; it’s unlaminated, and isn’t faded brown and worn with age like the others.

It’s bright white, with full-color advertisements.

Glancing at the date, I notice this paper is only a few years old.

Grumbling, I begin to toss it aside, when something catches my eye.

At the bottom of the page are a few advertisements for local shops.

A man holding a big, curly-haired dog, showcasing a grooming business.

A coupon for a free cup of coffee at a newly opened café.

A summer sale at a local boutique. Nestled in between them is the image of a woman, smiling in front of a crystal ball.

She is dressed in a flowy patchwork dress, a crown of daisies on her head.

Grounded: Your one-stop shop for holistic remedies, crystals, and more! the advertisement reads, before listing an address.

I stare at her, unable to look away, to even believe what I am looking at. I let my gaze trail over her pale hair, her light blue eyes. She looks every bit an ethereal goddess.

Tearing my eyes away from the advertisement, I pull my laptop out and hurriedly flip it open, chewing my nails as I impatiently wait for the old machine to boot up.

My fingers race across the keyboard, punching the store’s address into a search bar.

My mouth falls open when the page loads, and I sit back in my chair, studying the screen.

I flick my eyes between the details for Grounded, listing the days and hours of operation, and the newspaper open in front of me. It opens tomorrow at 8:00am. Ripping the page out of the newspaper, I fold it and place it in the back of my journal, with the other clipping.

Hugging myself tightly, I look to the darkened window and the night sky beyond it.

I don’t believe in coincidences, not after seeing just how easily fate can be changed, molded to fit the whim of another.

I don’t believe this newspaper just happened to land in my lap.

And I’m beginning to believe that it has not been my own desperate need to flee calling me east this whole time.

Maybe it is her.