“Look, it’s doing it again!”

The trio stare at the almost not-blank page, sounding out the word even as it is forming.


A ‘C’ forms next, curling across the page before giving way to more cursive letters.



“Precipitate?” Josua asks. “What does that mean?”

I don’t know.

I wish this were a dictionary
, Kate adds, scowling at the book.

Josua eyes the shadows dancing about the walls nervously, unsure of their intentions. For now they seem harmless enough, content to warp their translucent bodies across the surfaces all around the children.

“Well, it should be able to help us, right?”

And how is a word going to do that?

Yah, Josua. Tell us

The twins stare at their brother, a mix of curiosity and doubt in their eyes.

“Well,” Josua starts, before falling into a soft sigh. “I don’t know.”

Looking into each other’s eyes, the twins share a silent laugh.

Of course he doesn’t.

Boys never know

“I can hear you, y’know!”

Maybe if he makes a wish.

Yah, like in those fantasy stories he loves so much.

Even in the silence of their unspoken words Josua can sense their mocking tones. But their idea strikes him as novel, possibly worthwhile.

“I wish for it to precipitate!” he hollers.

Kate and Lynne stare at him with open mouths, confused and confounded. Their feelings of utter perplexity only increase as the shadows launch themselves to the ceiling, becoming a solid mass of darkest black.

I don’t think-

-that’s a good thing!

“I agree,” Josua says, voice shaking.

The swirling mass of inky darkness tears a hole through the roof, allowing streaks of sky blue to peek through the tendrils of shadow. The trio looks up in horror as the clump of shadow continues to grow, spreading outwards and upwards through the roof.

Now look what you’ve done!

Boys can’t do
anything right!

As the words leave the minds of the twins, droplets of water start to fall into the attic. The darkness above has become a great gray raincloud, small sparks of lightning dancing across it while raindrops fall.

Three jaws drop. Three bodies become almost instantly drenched in water.

Meanwhile, the rain washes the word from the page of the grimoire, though the paper itself doesn’t become soaked. The ink flows off the page in a dark stream, and echo of the shadows that had danced about the (now ruined) attic only moment before.

The End

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