Shadows move eerily on their own when the imagination lets itself run away and create stories. It’s easy to believe one was simply seeing things when they entered into that dark attic or basement, that there was simply an illusion. But, at the same time, there are some things that can’t quite be faked. Cuts and bruises, or broken glass, for example.
Neither of these I have, of course, but that doesn’t make my story less true or less valuable. It only means that you have to take my word for it, base everything on faith, and just believe.
Do you believe in magic?
I don’t think it matters if you do or don’t.
At least, I didn’t until I was investigating the attic of my house one day. It’s an old attic, and I was planning to turn it into a small guest room. There was always limited space in the house, and if I needed just one more bed, the small attic room would do.
It was dusty when I got up there, with cobwebs in the corners and a thick coat of dirt over everything. There wasn’t any of the crates or boxes that I expected. I knew that I had never entered the space before, so none of my boxes were there, but it always seems like there’s boxes up in these spaces from previous owners.
But the whole room was empty.
Take my advice. An empty room is never a good one.
Or at least, not usually. They often are startling.
When I was standing up in the center of the A-frame of the roof, I noticed that the room was not completely empty. Over in the far side, where the window was almost black from dirt and grime, was a stand. It looked a little like a music stand, only a very solid one. A bookstand of sorts.
Of course, as curiosity would, I walked over to it, cringing at shadows that moved and the way that cobwebs brushed against me.
It was an eternity to reach that stand, and the large book on top of it. I was covered in dust just from brushing up against things. When I finally did, I paused for a moment, looking down at a cover that held dust as if it were a book cover.
At this point, I couldn’t help but wonder who would leave this book just lying there, all set up to read, but not read. But curiosity is a fickle thing, and left that question or the next quite quickly.
What was the book? A story of some kind? Or was it just some old dictionary?
I reached out to brush my hand over the cover, finding it quite strong despite the half inch this layer of dust that I pushed off with my hand. I worked my way over the cover until I found the title, written in bold print.
The Book of Shadows.
I stared for a moment, trying to think. I had heard that before, but wasn’t sure when, or what about. I was pretty sure that it was a story though. Or maybe a series of them, considering the thickness of it.
Carefully, I slid my fingers under the cover, and flipped it open to the first page. It was blank. But when I turned the page once more, I was greeted by a delicate, but easily read calligraphy. And that was when my journey really began.