Page 91 of Ashen Souls

“I don't know. I don’t think so,” I admitted.

His knuckles were bone-white against the dark cover. He held on for a second too long before the black book slid across the dividing line of the desk.

“You have to be careful,” he warned. “If this is real, it doesn't play by modern rules. If anything happens: if you see something, if anything changes… you come to me immediately. Do you understand?”

I reached out and rested my palm flat against the cover. “I understand.”

Up until this exact second, I had treated this like a curse I’d accidentally stumbled into.

But looking down at this diary, I knew it wasn't.

It was an inheritance.

24

Sunday dinner was normal.

My mother covered every inch of the table with a massive pot roast and an unnecessary amount of side dishes, trying to enforce family stability through the pure volume of food. Chloe talked endlessly about nothing in particular, and Matt provided just enough sarcastic commentary to keep things from getting sentimental. Plates clinked. Glasses refilled.

But my father and I kept missing our cues.

He spoke less than usual. Whenever he thought I wasn’t paying attention, I caught him studying me. He was looking at me the exact same way he looked at his old texts: trying to measure the extent of the damage.

I played my part as best I could. I smiled, offered vague half-truths about my week, and forced down food so my mother wouldn't ask questions.

When the meal finally wound down, Chloe excused herself. Matt lingered just long enough to steal a leftover roll before vanishing upstairs, clearly realizing that the silence between my father and me wasn't the comfortable kind.

I waited through it all with one thing on my mind: that black journal.

I broke at least two speed limits on the way back to my apartment. I didn't even notice the drive. The only thing in focus was the book resting on my passenger seat, sitting there like an unexploded bomb.

When I got inside, I didn’t bother turning on the overhead lights. I flicked on the small lamp by the couch, dropping the journal onto the coffee table.

I picked up my phone and called Harper.

She answered on the first ring.

“Tell me everything,” she demanded, her voice bright with excitement. “And don’t start with ‘Hi.’ I hate small talk when there’s potential ancient trauma involved.”

“I’m home. I have the journal.”

“I’m putting on pants.”

“Don’t bother. Just throw a coat over your pajamas, I’m not judging.”

“Nice try, but if this antique death trap opens a portal to another dimension and sucks me in, I am not spending eternity in a sleep shirt. Give me five minutes.” I heard movement, the rustle of fabric, the sound of Harper making a dramatic event out of footwear. “Do you need me to bring anything? Snacks? Candles? A priest?”

“Maybe wine,” I said.

“Say less.”

Harper arrived ten minutes later.

“I brought moral support,” she announced, holding up a bottle of prosecco.

She stepped inside, kicked the door shut behind her, and dumped her tote bag on the floor. The one that read Ask Me About My Trauma. Then her eyes landed on the coffee table.

“So that’s it.”