Page 57 of Florescentia

One wiggled from under the tassels of the area rug. I stepped on it. The thing squeaked like a floorboard before disappearing under the weft.

A potted palm plant in the corner shivered, little shadows moving between the stalks.

They were bold today.

One dripped from behind a frame and decorative chair. Whispers began to gather, first a dribble, then a wave of them. The voices bounded off the walls and hit my ears, near and far, disappearing and reappearing.

“Papà?”

He made a gruff noise to acknowledge me. His glasses hung low on his nose, enough where he tried to lift his chin to see rather than just pushing his glasses up.

“What do you know about the shadows?” I asked.

His wiry brows furrowed, the grays catching the afternoon light easier than the others. “Shadows,” he muttered. “Ombre?” he clarified.

My throat clenched, like the words were already reluctant to come out.

“I fantasmi,” I insisted. “You can see them, too, can’t you?”

My father smacked his cup onto the floor, where it shattered, flinging smaller chips across the room along with his beverage.

“What happened? What is it?” I fell to my knees beside him, trying to steady him. I clutched my hands over his knees, keeping him from standing up. He nearly hit me with his book, and then he finally smacked it atop my head.

“The fire! I can’t stop it!” he cried, his eyes wide and darting. His head was whipping around so fast I thought he might suffer strain in his neck. I hadn’t seen him move with such quickness since my teen years.

“You are safe, sit!” I grabbed his arm to steady him.

He grabbed my hand with both of his, his shaking hands clasping tightly over my fingers. “He is coming. Malocchio.”

It guilted me to know that my first reaction was to think these ramblings were merely part of his condition. But in fact, he was mentally more present than he’d been the past couple of years. His eyes were straight on mine, stern and insisting upon his dire tone.

Another shadow dropped from the wall, and my father’s eyes caught it.

He could see them.

By now, I’d noticed his book splayed open on the floor, resting by my knees after its impact with my head. Small typesetting, disfigured by the deep scratches of a pen.

Florescentia

I flipped the page again.

Florescentia

“Papà . . .” My throat was almost too tight to let the word through.

The next page.

Florescentia

Florescentia

Floreeescent

Florescia

Fluica

Then nothing legible past those pages.