Wrong Side of the Bed -

Chapter 1: A Desperate Ritual

This is a work of FICTION, made by and for adults 18+. The following chapter includes depictions of severe trauma (panic, dissociation), light cutting, minor bleeding, and unintentional suicide through ritual sacrifice. Reader discretion is highly advised.

The crescent moon shone above the pines in the near-dark of twilight. A young woman swiftly turned—disturbing her untamed ginger spirals—towards a faint glow in the distance. Peering through the thick brush, Elva wondered,

'What is—'

The smoldering flames of torches barely let her discern several tall figures. Finally hearing the chorus of men's shouts, her heart stopped in panic.

'No— How are they inside the ward?!'

Elva dropped her foraging basket and sprinted home—hidden only a little further in the woods. The branches tore at her patched dress and scraped her cheeks; pine needles stabbed into her soles with every step, but still she ran.

Relief set in when Elva spotted the hut.

'There it—!'

She squeaked when a root snagged her foot, casting her into the mossy ground and shocking her still. Dazed, Elva squinted to a blurred cottage, though it cleared with a few blinks. Grimacing, she pulled herself up, desperately disregarding the ache in her toes before banging into the wooden frame, throwing the door open, and slamming it shut.

Her trembling legs gave out; Elva fell to the dirt floor and sobbed as fear overtook her.

'Móra,'

she hugged her knees and wept into her coarse skirt,

'please, help me.'

The scorching fire that carried away her grandmother's final screams tickled her skin, while the twisted cheers of the hunters as she burned at the stake deafened Elva's ears.

Managing a few deep breaths, she wiped away the tears and willed herself to stand.

'I— I'm not safe here.'

She sullenly stepped to a table of polished pine, upon which her grandmother's grimoire sat on a squat oak pedestal. After opening the wrinkled leather cover, she carefully read over the descriptions of the spells in her native tongue and the strange glyphs that followed.

"'Wards.'" She turned the pages, "They're already through the ones Móra put in place, so that's no good. 'Divination...' I can't even read the rites; not that it'd help at this point. 'Potions,' not helpful, either. 'Healing,'

no!

Where is—" Elva flipped more desperately until she found, "Finally! 'Summoning!'"

She shuddered,

'Móra forbade me from reading these spells. I remember her warning me about demons

especially

, but... I'm sure whatever could go wrong couldn't be worse than...'

Elva glanced at the door. "I'll just have to be careful.

"Let's see... 'Faeries...' They don't sound very kindly, but— one might be better than no help at all. The rite is..." Her gaze darted across the glyphs. "Oh, that's—"

'It's only the first one and it's so complicated. I— I can't perform that.'

She turned the sheet.

"'Elves...' They sound friendlier, at least. What about the—" Her breath caught. "I— I don't— even know how to

read

some of these glyphs." She sulked upon realizing,

'This is useless...'

Before the welling tears could fall, Elva wiped them away.

'You can do this. You

have

to.'

She huffed and turned to the next page. Horrified, she held her mouth upon reading the terms of vampire contracts.

'I can't sign that! My heart might stop just

Thinking

about it! Or I'll get

sick

at least...'

Elva skipped ahead.

"'Demons,'" she shuddered.

'Please be helpful at least.'

"They sound strong and— not

un

friendly. 'Some additional biological differences between males, incubi, and females, succubi...' 'Contracts— Consume the magical and physical energy of those they contract through...

carnal

acts.'" Her lids fluttered.

'Carnal acts.'

Elva's cheeks flushed.

'The last two summers have been—

lonely

... What— What would an— incubus...'

Elva clapped her cheeks upon realizing how hot she'd grown.

'Focus!'

"The rite, Elva! That's," her shoulders loosened, "not too hard, actually. The components... I have all these! Sigil— I can draw that!!

'Finally, something I can use!'

"What are my other options?"

She turned the leaf but the sheet was blank; her jaw went slack, "Wait— four summons?" Elva flipped through the remaining pages in a frenzy, "That-that can't be all." She panicked when she reached bare leather, "There can't— THERE CAN'T BE

JUST FOUR!!

"Maybe I missed one," she flipped through but, as she reached the healing enchantments, she hesitantly turned forward again. "Four summons," Elva resigned, "and I can only perform

one

of them."

'The one that Móra specifically warned me against, of course.'

She glanced at the door to her small cottage. Her heart stopped as the small gaps ignited with the fires of Hell as the walls closed in.

'

They're here!'

Elva cowered but, upon realizing that there were no shouts, she peeked again: the glow was gone, save for the faint moonlight trickling in.

'I'll take my chances with an incubus.'

Elva flipped back and studied the spell while retrieving the components from nearby shelves.

'Five candles and cat's eyes around the sigil, two dove's feathers, four sprigs of horehound, a lock of my hair, and...'

she gulped,

'virgin blood to draw the sigil.'

Elva picked up a small cutter and trimmed several strands from her hip-length curls.

'Mine should work, I guess.'

She stared with ragged breaths and then rested the edge against her trembling fingertip.

'It's just a prick.'

Despite pressing the knife in, it failed to pierce. "Come

on

." Her quaking hand fumbled the blade. She shrieked as the iron burned before dropping the tool. Blood trickled as she numbly reflected,

'I-I didn't mean to cut so deep.'

The borders of her vision dimmed as the searing sting set in.

'The sigil, Elva.'

Looking over the simple design, she shakily copied it onto the smooth table—failing to ignore the dragging agony.

After fetching a wrapping, she secured the wound with a snug knot and a wince. "Finish, Elva," she copied the configuration. With the last stone in place, a Wiccacant whisper lit the candles with tiny flames to illuminate the altar. "That should be everything." She clasped her hands to pray.

'Oh, Brigit, please help me... And please... let him be gentle.'

Elva read the strange glyphs aloud. The air swirled around the altar with a few words, disturbing the candles and fluttering the grimoire's pages. Bracing against the wind, she continued. The bloodstrokes illuminated a queer radiance that overtook the candlelight. The items dissolved into a golden mist and spiraled with the turbulent gust. Elva regretfully spoke the last word and gaped as a glistening fog burst forth and filled the cottage.

'Oh, Brigit,

please

tell me this is normal!'

She shut her eyes, desperate for the bolstering brilliance and bluster to break.