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A book should not be this much trouble.
Black, French-tipped fingernails moved effortlessly across the keys of her piano, as the woman tried exceptionally hard not to glare at the small, hand-written journal on the coffee table.
It was taunting her, really.
Property of Ciel Phantomhive, was inscribed onto the hardcover.
Talk about an extremely elaborate prank by some die-hard fans. She, herself, was one who was ( at least, currently ) apart of the craze that was Black Butler. Only a small handful of pages from the extremely popular Manga ( and now, anime ) had been read. It seemed interesting enough, but between finishing up college, job-hunting, and working on some lyrics, it had been relatively untouched.
No one ever mentioned how utterly ridiculous it was being an "adult". All the stress, bills, expectations. She doesn't recall there being a class on how to manage money ( sorely needed ), or how much debt she was going to be in thanks to student loans, and god-awful interest rates, among a million other things.
So, of course, amidst the horrors of no longer being a child, the journal just shows up – quite literally – in her apartment. It's definitely nothing she checked out of the library, or found around the apartment complex. There were a few people in the building who seemed to enjoy the series, given their paraphernalia.
Technically it was possible this was….some type of collector's item.
But that didn't explain how it got into her apartment, or the literal pull she felt toward it; as if it was inviting her to read it's contents.
Don't be stupid, she mentally chided herself, inanimate objects do not have agendas!
Pulling her thoughts away from the damnable thing, she tried to return to the keys laid out before her, only to find the melody that had been in her head had completely vanished, like smoke.
Damnit.
Although Mia often worked odd jobs, it was really the liberal arts that drew her, much to the chagrin of her family. Their daughter aspiring to be a songwriter didn't exactly inspire much enthusiasm, though they didn't pester her about it- too much, anyway. There was still the occasional call that revolved around other opportunities, which made sense.
It wasn't exactly an easy industry to break into, with so much competition. There was a back-up plan, sort of.
Ten percent of a back-up plan, which still counted for something, didn't it?
Beside her, the glass of wine she had shook a little.
Oh, right. That was another thing.
Ever since she found the stupid thing, little weird shit had been happening. Nothing serious ( like ghosts hell-bent of revenge, or dangerous like the walls caving in ), but sometimes things moved. At first, she thought it was just forgetfulness, seeing as she had a horrible attention span.
But, it was happening too frequently. Particularly, these minor things seemed to happen when it seemed like she was about to open the journal, before deciding against it. Frankly, it was like the journal was taking personal offense to not being opened, and was reacting like a spoiled brat.
Except, you know, other than the fact that books of any sort didn't do that.
Groaning, her face fell in her hands, fingers threading into long, dark hair. She could try to get rid of it, but damn if she wasn't at least a little bit curious as to what was inside it, and why it seemed to act so childish.
Funny, this is like a set up to a really bad horror movie.
And this would be the point in it when I yell at the main character to stop being a fucking idiot, and not do whatever is they are about to do.
Pale blue eyes flickered toward the coffee table, and narrowed.
The table moved, half an inch.
Goddamn it.
"Alright, alright, you win! Are you happy?" Shoving away from the piano, the seat scratched the floor slightly with the force of her irritation. Brushing back long, fallen bangs from her face, she scowled, before picking up her cell phone.
"But I'll be damned if I crack you open before eating something, first. I really have zero desire to die on an empty stomach, thank you very much. Also, I'd really appreciate it if you stopped moving my shit too, got it?"
Needless to say, the distinct lack of anything moving in retaliation was taken as a silent agreement to her request.
Well, at least it had some manners.
A/N: this story will probably contain more than a few tropes and clichés, but I will attempt to make them less redundant. Now, for the first trope: time-traveling, huzzah! This will probably be a bit short, to get the ball rolling, and also gauge potential interest, while making sure I don't bite off more than I can chew and pace myself a bit. I hope you enjoy, and please leave some feedback if you like it!