Witchcraft, according to the introduction, was a compilation of texts written by Szarlota of Kraków during the Early Middle Ages. It was, in effect, a posthumous grimoire created by the 19th century occultist, Avery Lloyd of the Ordo Oculorum, to serve as a compendium on ritual and potion-craft. The book I had was a second-edition copy, printed in 1894 by Vigil Publishing, which was stupid.

Why? My thoughts exactly! I almost wanted to storm back to the library and demand Mister Giles tell me why he thought it was a good idea to leave such a valuable text in the hands of teenagers. Though, it wasn't like I could be too critical. After all, had he taken better care of his books, I never would've gotten my hands on it.

The book itself was segmented into four hefty chapters, plus the introduction by Lloyd and a series of appendices. The first chapter was a collection of philosophical treatises on magic in all forms, what it was and where it came from, along with how it should and shouldn't be used. In effect: a lot of mythology and a lot of complaining about how everyone, except Szarlota of course, was wrong and, more importantly, stupid, especially the dogmatic Congregatio Alba Veneficorum (whoever they were; nobody elaborated) — and seriously! What was with all the Latin?

About the only thing Szarlota agreed upon with her peers was what could've been a prototype to the Wiccan rede, translated as:

Ye shall harm not thy neighbour for that which done afouls the soul. Spill blood and more will be spilt; fracture the mind and ye will be fractured.

The rest of chapter one was skimmed without guilt. It was just the same as everything else I had read — a whole lot of waffling about nothing — and I could barely get through a few pages without wanting to set something on fire. I mean, if only to do something practical. Unfortunately, chapter two wasn't anything better. It was just magical theory that droned on and on with a dry thickness that I could only promise to read later.

Chapter three and four, however? Now, that was a gold mine: ritual and potion-craft.

I had already skimmed through Ritual — it was what drew me to the book in the first place — so I skipped through to Chapter IV: Potions. There was a lot. Three recipes a page. It read like a cookbook, in a way. Though, instead of cakes, it's potions of fire immunity, and to deter enemies, and to see in the dark. Practical things. Tangible things. Just like the rituals. However, compared to the rituals, it quickly became apparent that half the potions were poisonous. The rest were just impossible. I mean, how was I supposed to bottle sunlight? Yet, the Potion of Cat's Eye needed it — along with, well, an actual cat's eye. That wasn't even the most disgusting ingredient I found printed in this book, and I quickly realised that potions weren't for me. At least, not yet.

That led me back at square one: ritual.

There were a few written in the tome: the tracking ritual, of course, but also other spells, like rituals to summon an electrical field or to grant a "thin facsimile of True Sight." However, many seemed more complicated. A lot more complicated. The ritual to revoke invitation for "supernatural entities" — that is, to revoke their power to enter one's home, because that's something I've got to worry about now — required alone a few litanies, burnt herbs, blessed water, and religious iconography, on top of some choreography. It was a little daunting. I wanted to do magic, and I wanted to do magic now, but I guess I really would have to read the entirety of Chapter II before I could even put the book to use.

Still, that left one question: once I figured everything out, what would be my first spell? There were many rituals, and it was a bit overwhelming. Though, I soon realised that the answer was actually quite simple: the tracking ritual. It was the first one I saw and, out of those I had skimmed, it was the simplest. In fact, at its core, I only needed three things: a circle, a pendulum, and a catalyst — a piece of whatever it was that I wanted to track. Blood or hair if I wanted to track a person.

Sympathetic magic, Szarlota called it. What happened to a piece happened to the whole: so above, so below. It made some sense, I guess. Kinda. I think poppets ran off the same principle. Voodoo dolls, too.

There were two paths to the ritual — to most rituals in the book.

The first path was for those with the "gift," which Lloyd helpfully explained as those with a natural ability to manipulate arcane forces. People who could perform magic through their own power. For them, if trained, all they would need were the base ingredients. Keyword: trained. I didn't know shit about magic, outside of the fact that it probably existed. Maybe Chapter II would help, but if it didn't? Well, that left path número dos.

For those without the gift or, like me, who didn't know shit about magic, there was a complicated yet detailed ritual that involved the invocation of a deity. Here, I would be invoking Mercury Artaius, an aspect of the Roman god. Lloyd explained: "It is the interplay between the God of Travellers and their Aspect of the Hunt that gives the spell its power." There'd need to be an offering, a prayer-like incantation — a Latin incantation. More than that, Lloyd had included a rather curt warning on the opening page that said, in effect: "The gods are cruel and capricious. Do not invoke them without care."

I didn't know why, but the warning was unnerving. Scary, actually. So much for not wanting to think about gods . . .

It was well into the night when I realised that, perhaps, I should just focus on the basics first. I didn't have to devote myself to a path, and I still had time to figure everything out first.

The pendulum was easy. I had an old necklace Grandma had gifted me for my birthday a few years back. A small, blueish stone with dark striations hung from a net of golden wire and thin, tangled chains. I liked it, but I didn't wear it much. It just bounced about too much, and I was petrified that I'd end up chipping a tooth. So, there it stayed, buried in my jewellery box. Until now.

With a quick application of wire cutters, I replaced the useless, knotted chain with a thick length of braided twine, and there it was: my pendulum.

The catalyst — the piece of which that I would track — would be collected later.

Hair, probably.

Undoubtedly.

I didn't want to think about blood collection, no less skin.

Finally, there was the circle. It was an easy bit of magic, at least according to Szarlota, but fundamental to countless rituals. So, I grabbed my pen and some paper, and got to work.

Never have I ever hated a shape so much until now. Circles. Goddamned circles! Mine was perfect — drawn with a fucking protractor — without a break in that steady line of ink. Yet, no matter how hard I tried, I just couldn't get it to work.

"'An easy bit of magic' my ass," I growled, glaring down at the offending shape.

A circle of power, they called it. A magic circle. It was supposed to — in a surprising bit of unanimous agreement between all my sources — create a space where delicate magic could be worked: a controlled environment that warded off outside energies that'd otherwise much with the spell.

It made sense, from an esoteric perspective. It was like drawing a metaphorical and literal line in the sand and telling the natural chaos of magic to fuck off.

Unfortunately, when it came to casting the circle (the professional term by professional witches), that's where people started to disagree. Nightshade and Ambrose were of the opinion that about five-feet was a good diameter for the circle. Szarlota, surprisingly, didn't really say anything about the particulars. All that was called for was a circle: nothing more. Lloyd, though, came and saved the day, elaborating in the extensive appendices about magic circles at length.

A magic circle, or so he said, could be as big or as small as the caster wanted and it did not even need to be a line of chalk, paint, nor ink. It could be a circle of people or an arraignment of candles, or stones, or anything, really. It just needed to be a circle, even abstractly. A drawn circle was just more stable and, I supposed, it took less time and energy to draw than anything else.

Again, however, there were two paths — always two paths — of making the circle work. Another disagreement but, in a surprising twist, it was Nightshade and Ambrose who gave practical instructions: the lesser banishing ritual of the pentagram. I'd be invoking the four archangels to purify the circle for ritual use, which was troubling from a theological perspective. How would the angels react to being invoked as part of a ritual for a pagan god?

Lloyd's method was less troubling theologically but a nightmare practically. There was no prayer, no purification. Nothing like that. All I needed was my own will or, well . . . my own blood.

"It's easy," he all but said. "Just visualise a wall growing at the circle's edge and add a drop of blood."

It did sound easy but, well . . . I wasn't entirely comfortable with that last bit. Shocking, I know.

So, I didn't.

Instead I bashed my head against a brick wall trying desperately to get the magic to just work. I did everything. I intoned the names of Raphael, Gabriel, Michael, and Uriel until they didn't sound like names anymore, and I did all the stupid gestures, and still nothing worked. It didn't matter how many times I read and reread the entirety of Chapter II, trying to see if any wisdom would gush forth from the pages, there was nothing helpful inside. Even Lloyd had nothing more to say outside of what he already said.

It was either "invest energy" (whatever the Hell that meant), or I spout off some angel invoking bullshit, or just . . . bleed.

Not a great swath of options, if I'm being honest.

Szarlota said that I should, at least, feel something when it worked, but all I felt was the intense desire to break something. I didn't, though. I'm good like that.

In the end, I realised that I spent far too long thinking about circles. Thinking in circles about circles. I just threw my hands up in the air and decided to take a shower. My hair felt a bit greasy — ratty. When was the last time I showered? Monday, I think, but I couldn't be too sure. It was Wednesday today. Or, well, tonight. I stank.

I gathered my shit and hopped into the shower. A nice, warm shower. It was nice. I wish it was longer, but Dad came-a-knocking telling me to leave hot water for the rest of them, and so I hopped out and went through the arduous task of drying off.

All the while, circles plagued my mind. Circles. Circles. Circles. I'm sure Mom would comment on the bathroom mirror, now covered in circles drawn into the condensation, but that was a problem for future me. I was just so frustrated!

There was doubt, too. A dangerous combination.

Returning to my bedroom, I glared at the paper marked with the circle.

I sighed, though it sounded more like a growl. "Nope! Fuck it. Not tonight."

Drying myself off, I sprayed on some deodorant, and chucked on what constituted pyjamas for me — an old shirt and some loose, flannel shorts — before shuffling downstairs somewhat aimlessly. A nasally voice sounded from the lounge, a laugh track following, and I could tell exactly what Mom was watching.

The Nanny was one of those shows I had only seen sporadically. It wasn't a lack of interest — just poor timing. Mom recorded them, though, so I'd have a box of The Nanny VHSes to pour through once I was done with Deep Space Nine. Still, there were days where the stars aligned and I was able to catch an episode, or at least the latter half of one.

Today, it seemed, was one of those days.

Mum eyed me as I entered, eyebrow raising when I flopped onto the couch. "You look chipper."

"I'm fine," I replied, and hoped that would be it.

It wasn't meant to be.

"School work?"

"Yeah."

"Wanna talk about it?" she continued and I, however briefly, considered the offer. Then I realised I had also just lied to Mom about my issues and dismissed the idea. I mean, what would I even say?

"I'm fine," I said, leg bouncing. "I just need a break."

"Alright." And that was that.

The Nanny continued and I quickly realised that I needed a bit of context. Fran was pregnant now? Last I heard, she and Maxwell had only just gotten together — at least for now. I tried asking, but Mum just hushed me.

So, I huffed and tried my best to get into the episode.

It was then the walls started to bleed.

I don't actually know when I realised it.

One minute, they were the same old floral wallpaper dad had put up when I was eight. The next, they began oozing crimson blood, glinting against the light from the kitchen.

Naturally, I reacted as any would in my position.

I gaped, and I stared, not quite sure what I was seeing. Then, as calmly as I could, I turned to my mom in askance.

She just stared at the television, a small smile on her face, enjoying The Nanny, even as blood began to pool onto the floor, seeping into the carpet, into her slippers.

Mom didn't care.

Absently, I noticed my heart thumping in my ear. Thump! Thump! Thump! It was like a jackhammer, cracking against my skull.

The blood continued filling the room, creeping closer and closer toward me. Instinctively, I pulled my feet up, onto the couch, staring at the floor with mounting concern.

I was hallucinating.

I must be.

I suppose that realisation should've come with some measure of panic. Then again, with my heart beating in my ear — Thump! Thump! Thump! — and the tight, squeezing sensation tightening around my chest, I was probably in the middle of a panic attack.

My mouth opened, words on my lips:

A call for help?

A stoic update on my condition?

I had no idea what I was going to say.

What could I say?

But no words were said.

It was like I had lost my voice, and all I could do was gape at the blood now dripping from the ceiling with a methodical drip.

A thought wiggled into the buzzing mess that was my brain.

Touch the blood.

Such a small and quiet demand.

Touch the blood.

Why would I do that?

Touch the blood.

But why?

Yet, even as I questioned the order, I could feel my body reaching out, a finger stretching down toward the ground, to the blood now lapping at the legs of the armchair, closer, closer —

"Kaity, you alright?"

And then, like the snap of a rubber band, reality readjusted and I was back in my blood-free living room.

I nearly jumped out of my skin, a quiet shriek slipping from my lips.

Dad was leaning against the doorway, staring at me with light concern. Mom was, too.

I blinked, owlishly. What did I say? I was still processing the fucking walls bleeding. Yet, I had to answer. I had to say something. Anything.

I opened my mouth and threw up on the carpet.

Then, I blacked out.

One hospital trip and a sleep later, and I was confined to my bed under the express orders to "take it easy" and "call if anything's wrong." I wouldn't be going to school for the rest of the week, it seemed, and I'm not sure if I was entirely bothered by that fact.

Diagnosis? Stress. That was the most anyone could figure out.

Personally, I thought the suddenly bleeding walls had something to do with my sudden bout of Exorcist-itis, but that wasn't something I was entirely comfortable sharing with the class.

For the most part, I kept my promise. All Thursday morning, I did nothing but rest, only leaving my bed for food, water, and baser bodily functions. Yet, as much as I wanted, I couldn't spend the entire day napping. I was restless, and my blankets felt a bit too warm despite the November chill.

So, I read instead — mostly for pleasure but, by mid-day, I decided that I more or less had an obligation to fulfil my promises to read the first and second parts of Witchcraft in their entirety.

It was . . . infuriatingly helpful.

One must mind the manipulations of the essence of life and creation, for a spell incorrectly cast will take its toll on the mind.

Such a small passage, missable by anyone simply skimming through the dry sections about magic and its effects on the body, but it explained so much! The headaches, the vomiting, all because I fucked up one too many spells.

Apparently, I'd continue suffering if I continued to bumble about, which didn't seem particularly fun.

Then again, if the lesson to learn there was "stop mucking about with magic," I wasn't sure I could follow through. In fact, it only left me wanting to do more, to figure out how magic works so it stopped being a pain in the prefrontal cortex.

It was telling, though.

I could cast my fire-spell as much or as little as I wanted, yet I never got a headache — outside the Friday night which was, coincidentally, the first day I figured it out.

Issue was, my most recent bout of vomiting came after the walls decided to start bleeding, which kinda messed with the whole thing. Maybe it was another symptom?

If it was, what the fuck?

Like, I don't know if Szarlota cared, but I feel like the whole "hallucination" thing should've been mentioned somewhere at any rate. Warning: improper use of magic may induce sanguineous hallucinations. Please contact your local Sorcerer Supreme if symptoms persist.

It was nice being able to joke about it, nearly half a day later, even in my own head.

Bloody terrifying (pun intended), but at least I make myself laugh.

Of course, maybe the whole hallucination was just my subconscious trying to tell me something?

I don't know.

Still, there was something that didn't quite sit right with me.

Memories of the day before replayed over and over again in my head, every detail as crystal clear as it was when I first saw it. The shock was gone, though — the undercurrent of panic leaving me too stunned to even properly think.

Honestly, I couldn't quite discount the idea that, perhaps, I was just crazy.

It unsettled me, and I couldn't help but feel a bit helpless.

Maybe I should've told my parents? Maybe I should've told the doctor?

Maybe they could've helped?

Maybe they'd have made everything worse.

What's done is done. I lied through my teeth. Spun a story about feeling nauseous while doing homework, and coming downstairs to settle down.

Then came the vomiting.

Then the passing out.

But what was with the hallucination?

What did it mean?

Did it mean anything?

Probably.

I had spent hours yesterday agonising over the magic circle, over blood, and then I had hallucinated the whole house filling with the shit. I'd be stupid to think they were utterly unrelated.

But, if they were related, then what did it mean?

The obvious thought was a warning, like God Himself coming down from on High to tell me to stop fucking with magic. It made sense, but —

What if it wasn't a warning?

What if — ?

Thoughts of blood, of pain left my stomach tying itself up in knots, tugging and tugging incessantly. Yet, at the same time, the part of me utterly sick to death with this entire thing screamed in the back of my head: Just do it! Get it over with! For the love of all that is holy, just do it!

For a good half-hour, I laid, glaring up at the ceiling as if the paint would peel away and just make the choice for me. Stab myself, or . . . what? Give up? That's what it felt like, at least.

I was making no headway into the magic circle business, and there was only one avenue available.

Either I took it, or I didn't.

It was stupid. I had magic. I should be jumping up and down, screaming from the roof tops, proclaiming myself next to God in my unravelled ability to start fires. Yet, here I was, frustrated to the point of a headache about a bit of pain.

When you put it that way —

"Oh, fuck it!" I threw myself out of bed, knowing that if I took a moment too long, I'd resign myself to an entire day of bellyaching.

The circle I had drawn yesterday was snatched off the desk, and I was off, thundering down the stairs, then down some more stairs to where I knew mom kept her sewing equipment. It didn't take long before I found what I needed: the needles.

As a seamstress, she had a lot. A bit too many, if anyone asked me, but she denied being a collector, or having a problem.

It took a good minute rummaging through boxes after boxes to find the sharp needles, and once I did . . . I hesitated.

Were they the sharpest?

I had no idea.

An hour and a thoroughly perforated sheet of spare paper later, and I realised that I was just wasting time, stalling. Just do it.

It's like popping a pimple, I told myself. Just a bit of pressure, a bit of pain, and it's done. No stress. Except, it wasn't so simple. It was blood magic. Or I guessed it was. Whenever blood was used in fantasy, it was usually blood magic, and blood magic was usually bad. Bad and evil.

"Well, nothing ventured, nothing gained." I slapped the paper with the circle centre stage onto Mom's desk, and held the pointiest needle in my hand. Just a bit of pressure. I pressed the tip against the pad of my thumb, pressing, and pressing, and pressing, until — "Ah, fuck!"

A drop of blood welled, and I focused on my goal. Cast the circle. Cast the circle. The mantra repeated in my head, an endless loop. I dabbed a line on the circle as I envisioned a wall building, of brick and mortar, and touched the circle's edge with a drop of blood.

Snap!

The air suddenly felt tight, strained. I couldn't see anything. It was as if nothing had changed, but I just knew it had worked. I sat, staring at the unassuming circle, gob-smacked. "I did it. I did it!"

I went to touch the circle, but hesitated. There wasn't anything I could do with the circle, but it was like a house of cards: I had put so much effort into creating it, I almost didn't want to break it. I just wanted to keep it, preserve it. Then again . . .

I flited my hand above the circle, and, with a hiss of energy, it broke.

The grin on my face may have been manic, and I might've cackled madly, but I deserved it. It took the walls bleeding, and a trip to the hospital, but I did it. I made a magic circle. I did.

But, before I could start flailing madly, positively filled to bursting with the pure euphoria of casting a circle, the doorbell chimed throughout the house.

I had a visitor.