Page 4 of Grimoire Omens

“Pretty sure she didn’t mean to do that. Grams hated me.” Hated everyone actually. But me, she seemed particularly vehement toward. Why must you slouch? Get out in the sun and darken your skin, you’re embarrassing our ancestors. Do something about that rat’s nest of hair.

“Very sure, Ms. Miller. How soon can we meet to go over the details of the estate?”

Knowing how Grams lived, I doubted it would amount to much. For my birthday, I never got a gift but rather unwanted advice. Only whores need taxies after midnight. Never marry for love because their poor ass will leave you high and dry with a baby. Never accept handouts because that means they’re looking down on you. And my favorite, If at first you don’t succeed, it’s probably because you’re stupid.

Despite not expecting much, two days later, I found myself in Mr. Clarke’s office, a nicer one than I would have expected given my Grams’ finances. The lawyer, a portly man in his fifties, walked me through the probate process, which, for the uninitiated, involved many headaches and a whole lot of frustration. While Grams surprisingly had registered a proper will, that turned out to be the only organized thing she did. I soon found out her idea of filing involved stuffing bills in the most random places or using the paper as liners for the bottom of the kitty litter box.

Oh yeah, me who’d never had a pet, suddenly owned a black cat named Cedric who didn’t like me, seeing as how every time I caught his eye he hissed. I thought of rehoming the testy fucker, but that would involve getting close enough to stuff his ass into a cage. I valued my flesh too much to pit myself against his claws. Maybe he’d get eaten by a giant city rat when he went on one of his excursions. Grams had a pet door installed so he could come and go as he pleased. He must have spent a bunch of time roaming—and hunting—because, despite visiting every day to refill his kitty kibble and water dish, neither ever seemed to be touched. Thinking he hated the brand I’d bought, because, of course, I couldn’t locate what Grams fed him, I tried different varieties; dried nuggets, wet pate, cans of tuna—which stank! None of it got eaten, but I consoled myself with the fact I tried.

To my surprise, it turned out Grams owned her home, free and clear, and as her heir, I inherited the hoarder’s paradise. All the rooms except for the kitchen and bathroom held stacks of eclectic junk, clothing, and books. But in good news, despite the mess, I saw no sign of rodents or bugs. While the house might have been brimming with stuff, Grams kept it clean.

Seeing as how Grams didn’t trust banks, I had no idea how she paid her bills. Apparently, late or not at all since I ended up with vultures—AKA debt collectors—hounding me for payment. Mr. Smith handled them, somehow finding the funds necessary to have them skulk away, but that left nothing for me. Pity, I could have used some cash.

I managed to hold on to the house only barely. I used my meager savings to pay the death tax owed on the property, which, given its derelict state, ended up with a lower-than-expected value despite its prime location in an established Kanata neighborhood. Since the property taxes and utilities combined for it amounted to less than my rent, I chose to move in and began the process of clearing it out.

Now you might wonder why I’m telling you this. I mean, you’re expecting a story about demons. Did I find one in a box I opened as I went room by room clearing out items? Nope. Just a bunch of weird knick-knacks that I took pictures of and posted on Kijiji and Facebook marketplace to make a few bucks. Turned out plenty of folks wanted the inappropriate statue of a fat dude bending over an equally voluptuous woman and the oversized wooden spoon and fork. As I discovered items, I put them online. Most surprisingly sold, and those that didn’t, I donated.

As the piles of junk began to disappear, I discovered the house might be more awesome than I initially thought. It had original wood floors and molding, which, with a bit of elbow work, would look nice and new again. I could have done without the layers of wallpaper that needed peeling, though.

It took several weeks to get the place habitable because, hey, a girl had to work, and given I’d landed a cushy government job—with benefits—I knew better than to do anything to screw up the easy gig. My bestie, Florence—who went by Flo—moved in with me once the second bedroom became usable, making my monthly bills even easier to manage. With my expenses greatly reduced, I’d finally be able to save up enough for that Caribbean cruise I’d always longed to go on.

Okay, so now that we’d covered Grams’ death and my inheritance, time to remind you about the books I mentioned. Before you imagine some awesome bodice rippers, or encyclopedias, I should mention those dusty tomes—some of them actually handwritten and bound in leather—turned out to all be devoted to the arcane. AKA magic. Witchery. Monsters. Wild stuff with crazy images and incantations that Flo theorized might be worth money to the right collector.

“Dude, there’s people who will pay big bucks for this kind of shit,” Flo insisted.

As I flipped through a cookbook of spells with mind-boggling ingredients—a drop of blood from a virgin’s hymen, the skin of a toad who’d never seen the full moon—and even crazier titles—How to Hex an Annoying Neighbor, Make Your Garden Grow Without Burying a Body, Trapping a Pesky Fairy—I shook my head. “Mom never mentioned Grams was a witch.”

“Don’t be so sure. I mean could be we mistook a few of those bitches she tossed around,” Flo stated, reminding me of Mom’s most oft used term when it came to my Grams. Some people had warm and fuzzy relationships with their grandmothers. Not me, or my mom for that matter.

My mother had only rarely popped in for visits, probably because those short meetings usually involved insults—You ever going to make something of yourself? Good fucking grief, what kind of trash are you wearing? Can’t believe I raised a whore who had a child out of wedlock. The barbs weren’t limited to my mom either. Grams used to cluck her tongue and shake her head at the sight of me. I was too chunky as a youngster. Then too thin as teen. My hair too kinky—especially compared to an old lady who kept hers buzzed short. Why did I have to be so nosy? I mean, can you blame a kid for being curious about the many strange treasures scattered around? Exploring the maze of paths through the precarious towers was how I entertained myself when mom did her filial duty.

Of course, that curiosity didn’t come without chastisement. Don’t touch that. Don’t read that. Break anything and I will skin you.

As a teen, I’d asked my mom, “Why do you bother visiting? Grams hates us.”

The reply? “I know she’s unpleasant, but she’s my mother.”

Not an excuse I accepted, and when my mom passed—fluke accident where an air conditioner fell from a window and bonked her in the head—I saw no reason to subject myself to the verbal abuse. No more visits with Grams. I spent a lovely fourteen years without being criticized.

Oops, off topic again. You want to know about the demons. Right. So anyhow, back to the books on magic and shit. I made a spreadsheet with titles—if they had one—authors—of which many of the tomes seemed to lack any—and a basic summary of the content. I then searched online for a starting price before I placed the first one on eBay for auction.

I started with the one titled Herbology for the Arcanely Gifted. It seemed to be in the best shape with an actual title page that listed the author and publisher—Jinxed and Blotted, which no longer seemed to exist.

To my shock, within twenty-four hours, my starting price of fifty dollars ballooned. At the end of the seven-day auction, I had someone offering me five thousand three hundred dollars.

Ka-ching. I mailed out that sucker soon as the payment hit my account even as I expected the buyer to bail or cancel or chargeback. Given my trepidation—because who the fuck would pay that much for a joke of a book?—I put the money from the sale into a savings account and didn’t touch it for a month. But it turned out to not be an anomaly because the second dusty book, How to Train Your Fairies, fetched even more.

The success led to Flo saying, “Maybe we should hold off selling for a bit. You know, until we find out more about the books.”

“Find out what? I’ve searched for them online, and it’s like they don’t exist.”

“Well, obviously they must be known in some circles, or we wouldn’t have people getting into bidding wars,” she countered.

“No accounting for folks’ weird taste.” But Flo had a point. Was I underselling the tomes? Could it be the right collector would pay even more? How would I even find them?

I held off posting any more of Grams’ collection, meaning to delve deeper into their origin, only life got busy. AKA, I went on a few dates with a dude that seemed promising. Handsome. Employed. Awesome kisser. Pity he turned out to be married. Such a bummer and why I found myself in the living room on a Friday night, smoking a joke, drinking wine, lamenting life.

“I’ll never find a man.”