Wrong Side of the Bed - Ch. 01 (3rdE)

Chapter 1: A Desperate Ritual

This is a work of FICTION, made by and for adults 18+. The following chapter includes depictions of severe trauma (panic, dissociation), light cutting, minor bleeding, and unintentional suicide through ritual sacrifice. Reader discretion is highly advised.

The waning moon shone above the trees in the near-dark of twilight. A young woman swiftly turned—disturbing her untamed ginger spirals—towards a faint glow in the distance. Elva peered through the thick brush of the pine forest and wondered, 'What is—'

The smoldering flames of torches barely let her discern several tall figures. Finally hearing the chorus of men's shouts, she stared in panic and her heart stopped.

'No— How are they inside the ward?!'

Elva dropped her foraging basket and sprinted to her grandmother's home—hidden only a little further in the woods. The branches snagged her patched dress and scraped her cheeks while pine needles stabbed into her soles with every step; but she ran still.

Relief set in when she spotted the hut. 'There it—!' Her foot caught on a root, throwing her into the mossy ground and shocking her still. As she squinted in a daze, Elva saw a blurred cottage before it cleared with a few blinks. With a grimace, she grasped the grass to pull herself up and finish her flight. She desperately disregarded the ache in her toes before banging into the familiar wooden frame, throwing the door open and then slamming it shut.

Her trembling legs gave out and Elva fell to the dirt floor, sobbing as fear overtook her. 'Móra, please, help me.' She hugged her knees and wept into her coarse skirt. The scorching fire that carried away her grandmother's final screams tickled her skin, while the twisted cheers of the hunters as she burned at the stake deafened her ears. Dread quickly filled her of the men storming into her home and dragging her to the same fate.

With a few deep breaths, she wiped away the tears and willed herself to stand. 'I— I'm not safe here.' She sullenly stepped to a small table of polished pine, upon which her grandmother's grimoire sat on a squat oak pedestal. After opening the wrinkled leather cover, she carefully read over the descriptions of the spells in her native tongue and the strange glyphs that followed.

"'Wards.' They're already through the ones Móra put in place, so that's no good," she contemplated as she turned the pages. "'Divination...' I can't even read the rites. 'Potions,' not helpful, either. 'Healing,' no! Where is—" Elva flipped more desperately until she found, "Finally! 'Summoning!'"

'Móra forbade me from reading these spells.' She shuddered upon recalling her only scolding some ten summers past, 'I remember her warning me about demons especially, but... I'm sure whatever could go wrong couldn't be worse than—' Elva glanced to the door before bracing her spirit. "I'll just have to be careful.

"Let's see... 'Faeries.' They don't sound very kindly, but— one might be better than no help at all. The rite is... Oh, that's—" She darted across the glyphs. 'It's only the first one and it's so complicated. I— I can't perform that.' She turned the sheet.

"'Elves.' They sound friendlier, at least. What about the—" Her breath caught. "I— I don't— even know how to read some of these glyphs." She sulked upon realizing the futility of her task. Before the welling tears could fall, Elva wiped them away.

'You can do this. You have to.' She took a deep breath and turned to the next page. However, she held her mouth in horror as she read the terms of vampire contracts.

'I can't sign that! My heart might stop just Thinking about it! Or I'll get sick at least...' She hurriedly skipped to the next entry without reading the rite.

"'Demons,'" she shivered. 'Please be helpful at least.'

"They sound strong... and— not unfriendly. 'Some additional biological differences between the males, incubi, and the females, succubi...' 'Contracts— Consume the magical and physical energy of those they contract through... carnal acts.'" Her lids fluttered. 'Carnal acts.' Elva's cheeks flushed. 'The last two summers have been... lonely... Wh-what would— an incubus—' She finally realized how hot she felt and clapped her cheeks.

'Focus!'

"The rite, Elva! That's," her shoulders loosened, "not too hard, actually. The components... I have all these! Sigil— I can draw that!!"

'Finally, something I can use!' "What are my other options?"

She turned the leaf but the sheet was blank; her jaw went slack as the truth dawned, "Wait— four summons?" Elva flipped through the remaining pages in a frenzy. "That-that can't be all." She panicked when the rest were barren, "There can't— THERE CAN'T BE JUST FOUR!!

"Maybe I missed one," she flipped back but, as she reached the healing spells, she hesitantly turned forward again. "Four summons," Elva resigned, "and I can only perform one of them.

'The one that Móra specifically warned me against, of course.' She glanced at the door to her small cottage. The small gaps ignited with the fires of Hell as the walls closed in.

'They're here!'

Wide-eyed, her heart stopped as she cowered. When Elva realized that there were no shouts, she peeked again: the glow was gone, save for the faint moonlight trickling in.

'I'll take my chances with an incubus.'

Elva flipped to the final summoning and studied the spell while retrieving the components from nearby shelves. 'Five candles and cat's eyes around the sigil, two dove's feathers, four sprigs of horehound, a lock of my hair, and...' she balked, 'virgin blood to draw the sigil.' Elva picked up a small cutter and trimmed some strands from her hip-length curls.

'Mine should work, I guess.'

She stared with ragged breaths before resting the edge against her trembling fingertip. 'It's just a prick.' Despite pressing the knife in, she failed to pierce her flesh. "Come on." Elva gritted her teeth before her quaking hand fumbled the blade.

She shrieked and dropped the tool as her finger burned. Blood trickled as she numbly reflected, 'I-I didn't mean to cut so deep.' The borders of her vision dimmed, but she fought the searing sting. 'The sigil, Elva.' Looking over the simple design, she shakily copied it onto the smooth table—failing to ignore the dragging agony.

After quickly fetching a wrapping, she winced while securing the wound with a snug knot. "Finish, Elva," she muttered before copying the configuration. With the last stone in position, she whispered in Wiccacant before the candles flickered into tiny flames, illuminating the altar.

"That should be everything." She clasped her hands together and shut the world away to pray.

'Oh, Brigit, please help me... And please... let him be gentle.'

Elva began reading the strange glyphs aloud. The air swirled around the altar with a few words, disturbing the candles and fluttering the grimoire's pages. She braced against the newfound wind before continuing.

A strange radiance illuminated the bloodstrokes that overtook the candlelight. The components dissolved into a golden mist and spiraled with the turbulent gust. Elva regretfully spoke the last word and stared as a glistening fog burst forth and filled the cottage.

'Oh, Brigit, please tell me this is normal!' She shut her eyes, desperate for the bolstering brilliance and bluster to break.