Little Black Grimoire

Charlotte Wilde flung off her too-pointy, too-tall, too-black funeral shoes. She sighed and rubbed at the corners of her eyes, rotating clockwise until she reached her temples. She had told her family she just needed a minute to collect herself. The Wildes understood. Charlotte had been closest to Beth. Luckily, she only had to cross a white pebble driveway to reach solitude. She lived above the generous carriage house on their sprawling estate. She jammed her favorite glass under the ice maker and let her eyes wander across the refrigerator surface. They fell on a playful magnetic kitten pad. Like her favorite glass, her aunt had given her it to her as a joke about a year ago. Kitten had been Beth’s nickname for Charlotte her whole life.

Elizabeth was only thirty-eight when she died, her father’s youngest sibling by a decade and a half. Only nine years older than Charlotte, the two had been more like sisters than aunt and niece. They had grown up in a small Massachusetts port town. The Wildes were infamous in Saltlock. To the town, and even most of the actual family, the Wildes were Old Money from England; among the first families to settle coastal Saltlock. It was even rumored that the clan had named the town. Only the eldest Wildes knew and guarded the family secret. Only the eldest Wildes and one other knew there was a secret to keep. This small club comprised of only three people. Charlotte’s great grandma Mercy, her identical twin Mary, and their apprentice. The twins had just turned one hundred this past June and were still as sharp and mean as rattlesnakes.

Charlotte and Beth were just two of the many residents living on the sprawling ancestral estate. There were at least thirty immediate relatives at any given time. Most of the Wilde family was extraordinarily self-centered, and Beth’s health crisis had made them excruciatingly uncomfortable. It had been centuries since a Wilde had died before reaching old age. They had been bred to take both longevity and financial stability for granted. Beth became too weak to work after one month. Exactly eight months after that, Charlotte’s beloved Aunt “Betty” took her last breath.

When Beth got sick, Charlotte devoted herself to her care. They had gone to general practitioners, hematologists, oncologists, infectious disease specialists, homeopathic healers, and even a couple of drum circles. They tried a gluten-free-dairy-free diet, blood transfusions, chemo, and eventually pungent elixirs pedaled by a hooded figure in a traveling cloak. Charlotte had been shooed out of the room upon his arrival and was only summoned once he left; with no explanation forthcoming. All to no avail. Diagnosis: undetermined. Medicine prescribed: make her comfortable. Their large family could only observe as the most vibrant of the Wildes withered away to nothing over the course of a under a year. It was a lonely and helpless feeling, watching your best friend die with no explanation.

Charlotte wrenched herself out of her reverie. She braced her hands on either side of the smooth white porcelain of the bathroom sink and forced herself to look up at the mirror. How had she even gotten here? She hardly recognized the woman looking back at her. Her red-rimmed eyes seemed flat and listless. Her usually luminous strawberry blonde mane was lackluster and limp. Her pale freckled skin was covered in unsightly red splotches. No wonder her family had let her freshen up. At least her accessories looked good. The violet gem seemed to glow at the base of her throat. It was hard to believe Beth had given her the pendent just last week.

“Turn around and close your eyes!” Beth demanded before slipping the necklace around her niece’s head. Charlotte had felt the cool metal against her skin. The stone settled in the dip of her neck and pulsed with warmth.

Charlotte’s hands flew to her neck and she gasped. “Betty! I’m not taking this from you!” She had never seen her aunt without the jewel. Before she had gotten sick, Beth had been gorgeous. She had Wilde signature auburn hair, azure blue eyes, and high freckled cheekbones. The beautiful necklace had always seemed like an extension of the woman herself. She seemed a shell of herself now. Charlotte had always admired the crystal, but could not stand to take her aunt’s last piece of beauty.

Beth made a pish-posh motion with her hand.

“I won’t be needing it where I’m going and it will look better on you anyway, everything does.” She winked at her niece. “Hand me my book, Kitt. There are some things we need to talk about before I shuffle off this mortal coil,” she tried for playful but missed her mark by a mile. Charlotte handed her aunt the little black book that she seemed yet another extension of her person. It was the first time she could remember being allowed to touch it. Despite their closeness, Betty had never entertained her niece’s many questions about the book over the years.

For a small notebook, it was deceptively heavy. The book was a soft and supple black leather, the pages were aged and uneven with random snippets sticking out at odd angles. There was a symbol etched on the front cover that Charlotte could never make out. The book was clearly well loved. Beth was constantly scribbling in it, consulting it, licking the tips of her fingers and flipping through the contents. Occasionally when asked questions, Beth would randomly open the book and read impossibly relevant answers. Charlotte recalled a time her aunt had opened the book and a pressed foxglove flower had fallen into Charlotte’s hand. Oddly, Beth had cautioned Charlotte not to eat the flower before plucking it out of her grip tucking it out of sight.

“You were born for this, Kitten. It should have always been you not me. THEY can’t argue with a dead woman!” Beth emphasized the word and let loose an uncharacteristic cackle. Charlotte stared blankly at her. Had she finally lost her mind? She hadn’t seen Beth this animated in months. She opened her mouth but was immediately shushed. Charlotte listened raptly to the bizarre story her aunt spun. She left Beth’s bedside hours later with the jewel secured around her throat and a million questions in her heart. That was the last time she had seen her aunt alive, and the last time anyone had seen her aunt’s book companion.

Charlotte’s long fingers stroked the thin iron chain. It shone like polished silver and ended in a small purple amethyst teardrop. It didn’t look nearly as old as her aunt had claimed it was. Then again, nothing Beth said that night had made any sense. She let a couple of tears escape down her cheeks, splashed cold water on her face and carefully re-applied her makeup. Charlotte sighed. The effect was better but not up to her usual standard. She had been so deep in thought that she didn’t realize she wasn’t alone in her apartment leaving the bathroom. There was soft but feverish conversation coming from her bedroom. She quietly crept up to the room and recognized the voices. Bewildered, she pushed the door open and confronted her strange, uninvited visitors. Her old biddy great-grandma and great-aunt were perched like vultures on her bed. Beth’s beloved black book sat between them. Relief flooded over Charlotte at the sight of the familiar book.

“What are you doing in here?” Charlotte crossed her arms over her chest. She exhaled and composed herself. She remembered Beth’s fondness for the pair and tried to channel it, “Is there something I can help you with?” She looked around. How had they gotten in here?

The Crones surveyed Charlotte. They continued their discussion as if she hadn’t spoken.

“Bright enough.”

“Not the brightest.”

“Nothing particularly special.”

“Nothing to be done about it now.”

“Nothing to be done about it now.” Mercy agreed with Mary after going back and forth in this manner for several minutes. The twins huffed in unison. Charlotte hadn’t spent enough time with them to realize how truly identical they were. Truthfully, they had always scared so she had declined Beth’s many invitations to visit with them. They were indistinguishable in both appearance and mannerism; the effect was unnerving. Finally, her great grandma addressed her in a reedy voice.

“Girl. We understand that Elizabeth told you some…interesting things about the Wilde family before she passed?” She eyed the amulet hanging at the nape of Charlotte’s neck. “While it was not quite her tale to tell yet, everything your dear Beth said was true.”

Mercy proceeded to give her what felt like a history lesson from a nightmare. The Wilde family are direct descendants of a powerful witch, Sarah Wildes of Salem. She was accused of witchcraft and hanged during the frenzy of 1692. Her son, Ephraim, had inherited the book, his mother’s amethyst amulet, and his judge father’s money. He escaped undetected and made his way down the coast. Through a series of misdirection and carefully placed spells, Ephraim Wilde started a new life, helping to found Saltlock with his inheritance. Ephraim had come up with the town name, as salt is a powerful protective agent for witches. He had hoped the added protection would serve his family and their secrets. It had worked until now.

“Sit, girl, and stop gawking like that.” With a flick of an ancient finger a kitchen stool appeared. Charlotte sat.

“There have always been imperative rolls that prominent family members must fill. We are the high priestesses of the family. Now, don’t interrupt child, it’s rude. We bind every Wilde child’s powers at birth, and they are none the wiser. We alone perform necessary rituals to keep the family safe and blissfully ignorant. When Elizabeth was born, we chose her to be our successor. Her powers were never bound. While her death was sad, it was also inconvenient. Thirty-eight years of training down the drain. AND she had the gall to choose her replacement without formally consulting us.

By gifting you that amulet and our secrets, you have been designated as the next high priestess and heir to our grimoire,” the sisters gestured simultaneously to the book between them. It rose up and onto Charlotte’s lap, “A grimoire is a book of spells passed down from generation to generation. A witch’s grimoire is priceless and extremely dangerous in the wrong hands. Interestingly, Elizabeth had insisted her whole life that we had chosen wrong; YOU should have been our apprentice. Given the supernatural nature of her untimely demise, she may have been right.” Charlotte blinked dumbly at the old women. Mercy continued. “Beth has left you her trust fund, all of her possessions, and access to your powers. She also left you with an unbearable burden. To protect our family.”

They validated everything Beth had confided in Charlotte the night she died. Everything Charlotte had declared too weird to be true. She turned her attention on the grimoire, shakily opened the primitive cover, and could have sworn it exhaled. A letter drifted out. She grabbed it and instantly recognized her aunt’s tremulous handwriting as it had looked at the end.

My Dearest Charlotte,

I’m sorry for keeping so many secrets from you in life. Now I’m afraid I must ask something of you in death. It is essential that you find the creature who caused me this malfeasance. Not for me, but for the future of our family. Protect the Wilde. You are stronger than you know. I have always believed in you.

To the moon and back,

Beth

The letter was cruelly short. Charlotte’s eyes turned steely. She straightened and met her new mentors’ gaze. She would find the monster who turned her world upside down and she would make them pay.

“Where do we start?” Her mystical inheritances glowed in anticipation.