~ I ~

Séance was not the proper word.

A séance would imply, first, that she had some intention of including others in her rather impromptu experiment. Furthermore, it would suggest that she wished to make contact with the dead, and if her beliefs were correct, she was contacting spirits whom, most likely, had never been alive in the first place. And lastly, it was an ill fit considering contact was not her only intention.

No, no - séance simply wouldn't do. But she could think of no better word at the moment, so, in the meantime, her little project would remain nameless.

She is Magdalena. Magdalena Lydia Cross, whose name could possibly go down in history as one of the most biblically influenced names ever given. And if the most biblically influenced parents in the world who had given it to her could see her now, they would have her locked up, shortly before dying of disappointment.

Magdalena, known to herself simply as Lena, was trying to run away. And her attempt would be much more extreme and much more reckless than one's typical stick and handkerchief escape.

Lena had, in fact, just succeeded in collecting all of the necessary materials.

That night, she lay awake in her bed, listening to the mattress springs creak with each movement she made, waiting for her parents to turn in. The shadows of the trees outside her window cast twisted shapes over her body in the moonlight, and she entertained herself by allowing her hands to play in the light, forming birds and wolves with her fingers.

At last, when it was nearly half past eleven, she heard the door to her parents' room shut and the low murmur of their voices fade away. Nervous flutters erupted in her stomach, but she had made a promise to herself. There would be no backing out.

Silently, and with much care, Lena sat up and turned, striking a match and lighting the candle on her nightstand. It was black, as the book had suggested, and it was one of the many key pieces to the puzzle.

Her white nightgown sank below her knees as she stood, careful not to let the boards creak. She slipped the book out from underneath her bed, readjusting herself to compensate for its weight. It was old - the binding most likely wouldn't hold much longer - and its worn pages were stained with wax and ink and the occasional dark, rust-brown splotch that couldn't have been anything other than blood.

But, like all else, it had done nothing to smother Lena's conviction.

Cradling the book in one arm, she bent to grab the sack, tucked even further beneath her bed, which contained the rest of the materials. And then, carefully, she balanced the items and took up the candle.

And down to the basement she went.

Or crept, rather, with her feet bare as she tread on her tiptoes, wary not to let even the slightest sound rouse her parents.

It was cold this night, the stone floor unheated and somewhat dusty, and Lena had to shift to protect the candle's flame once or twice from a stray draft. Eventually, though, she got herself situated on the floor, legs crossed as she began to place the necessary objects on the ground around her.

A bay leaf. Several more black candles. One white candle. Shears. Four stones from a debilitated cemetery statue. A rose, cut this morning from the garden - the one with the greatest amount thorns. A piece of parchment. A fountain pen. And the book.

Lena took a deep breath to steady herself once everything was in place. This was not meant to be simple, nor altogether easy on the nerves. In truth, she was terrified. There was always the possibility that something could go terribly wrong. That the spirits would be unkind. Even violent. That she would be trapped. Or, perhaps the most frightening of all, that nothing could happen...and she would remain here. Imprisoned in this life.

This horrible, horrible life.

But she had made herself a promise.

She organized the black candles around her in a diamond, each facing a different direction - North, for the Crown Prince of Earth, South for the Crown Prince of Fire, West for the Crown Prince of Water, and East for the Crown Prince of Air. She organized the cemetery stones in a similar pattern.

"No fear," she whispered to herself as she lit the candles.

She then set the book down in her lap, paging through its tattered and worn contents until she found the ritual she had practiced a thousand times.

To be perfectly honest, the book was only a comfort.

She had memorized this incantation, forward and backward.

Closing her eyes and gathering one more deep breath, she began to whisper the Latin words, the lit white candle clasped in both hands. Nine times, she said it. Nine times without fumbling, something she had never accomplished before.

And then she took up the bay leaf and began to burn it across the four black candles. Its strong scent filled the basement, intense but pleasant. She inhaled it deeply.

Next, she raised the shears and, steeling herself, she sliced off a long lock of her curly blonde hair.

"She looks just like one of God's heavenly angels, Sophia," the vicar had said to her mother, smiling down at a five-year-old Magdalena.

"Yes, our Father has blessed her with great beauty."

Fiercely, Lena cast the lock into the flame of the white candle, and it crackled and sparked, burning so swiftly that it vanished in mere seconds.

That was the first tribute. There were more.

Placing the sheet of parchment flat upon the ground, she took up the fountain pen and wrote out her wishes carefully. She had given this part much thought, making sure that no two words were misleading, that nothing could be misunderstood. She wanted her intentions to be perfectly clear.

At the bottom of the sheet, she signed her name.

It was the next to burn, and small wisps of smoke curled upward from it, intermingling oddly with the scent of bay leaf. Again, Lena breathed it in deeply, surrendering herself to it.

The last tribute had taken her the most time to grow accustomed to, and even now she was hesitant.

With lightly trembling fingers, she at last picked up the rose, pausing for a moment to admire its dark, blood-red petals, as soft as silk against her skin. Their sensation was much different from that of the thorns as she pricked her fingers upon them.

She had never been able to withhold a grimace at the pain.

For a moment, she allowed the ruby blood to collect at the surface, watching as some of it began to streak down her fingers. Then she clenched her fist and squeezed, a hiss whistling through her teeth as she held it above the flame.

The droplets leaked out, staining the white candle as the flame caused them to bubble and boil, creating perhaps the oddest scent of all.

And with that, the ritual was complete.

The magnitude of what she had just done abruptly washed over her, Lena sat back, closing her eyes and breathing deeply. As an afterthought - a final, desperate plea - she whispered, "Save me."

Because that was what she needed. She needed saving.

All her life, she had been suffocated by what her parents had told her was the embrace of God. What was supposed to be God's love. But it had never felt like love to her. The endless hours of scripture readings and confessions and self-degradation had not felt like love. Being kept in to say her prayers for days on end while her school friends played in the town had not felt like love. The stinging, painful slaps on the hand with rulers when she mispronounced the word of God had not seemed like love.

But these were petty, childish things, she knew. These were the sorts of things in a childhood that, while grueling and miserable, could hardly ruin a life.

No, there was more.

It was the bite of her father's belt when she asked to be allowed out of the house. It was the disgust in her mother's eyes when she heard her daughter question God. It was the horrible memory of the vicar's clammy, prickly touch to her thigh that had started it all.

No, that was not love. And she had reached a nadir so very low that it had been a choice between protecting herself or hanging herself by her bedsheets.

She needed to get away from God. She needed to escape His watchful gaze, which had never been favorable upon her. She needed to run from the abuse.

God had been forced upon her, and that had ruined everything.

So what better escape from God was there than the arms of his sworn enemies? What better way to cast out the horrors of her childhood than to willingly damn herself? To beg for what no one begged for.

To beg to go to Hell.

It had been her first and last idea, and it had always been the best one.

Lost in memories, Lena almost didn't notice when the candles abruptly flickered out. But the sudden darkness snapped her attention back to the present.

It was pitch black in the basement, now.

Perhaps a draft...she thought, and then scolded herself. There were no such powerful drafts in this basement.

Her pulse quickened, the blood flowing to her face and the hair raising upon the back of her neck. Gooseflesh fanned out across her pale skin as a sudden gust of warmth overcame the chill of the room.

No. Most certainly not a draft.

Lena squinted into the darkness, a hand moving to her chest as though to steady her racing pulse.

"Is someone there?" she whispered.

Silence.

But the warmth did not dissipate. If anything, it grew stronger, caressing her at all sides. She shivered again, eyes fluttering shut. Perhaps she was no longer alone. Perhaps this was all she would ever see.

Perhaps she had expected too much.

Still, she found herself whispering, "Please come out. I mean no harm."

Her eyes were not adjusting to the darkness. It was like a thick, velvet cloak of black had been draped over her. And she had left the matches upstairs-

"Peculiar..."

The voice echoed suddenly, from all angles. Dark and deep. Masculine. Raspy.

Lena gasped, her pulse jumping once more as she fell backward onto her elbows in shock. The warmth followed her. And so did the voice.

"Are you frightened?"

Frightened? She could hardly speak. And in her shaken state, she managed only, "Y-Yes."

A low rumble was the only response.

"P-Please," she stuttered at last, "please, I can't see you."

There was a long hesitation. "I am of the opinion that you would not like to."

"W-Who...who are you?" Her courage was failing her.

Another long pause. And then a low, dark laugh. "Oh, little girl. Little, little girl. You summon me, and then you ask who am I?" He chuckled again, and it was like the quiet roll of thunder. "No. No, little girl. Who are you?"

Her breathing hitched. Was the spirit angry with her? Just as she had feared?

"I...I am Lena. M-Mag...Magdalena."

"I know your name, little girl," the voice snapped, suddenly darker than before. And to her shock, the parchment on which she had scrawled her name - the one she had burned not minutes ago - was suddenly levitating before her face. It was glowing, a gentle, fiery yellow, as if illuminated from within.

And just as swiftly as it had appeared, it was gone again, once more bathing her in the suffocating darkness.

"Who are you?" the voice repeated.

She could think of no response. No adequate response, at least. Her heart pounding, chest heaving, she lay sprawled on the floor, a lump caught in her throat.

She had brought this upon herself.

"I...I..."

The warmth surrounding her seemed to increase by a few degrees, now to the level of a hot bath. Any more and it would surely burn.

"I...do not know," she whispered finally - meekly, a lone tear sliding down her cheek.

"Brave little girls don't cry," said the voice.

But, to her disgrace, a sob escaped, breaking the silence and echoing off the walls of the basement.

"Are you frightened?" he asked again.

"Yes," was her whimpered reply.

"Why, little girl?" His tone was quite suddenly gentle. Disarming. It caught her off guard. "Why summon me, only to fear me?"

"I do not mean to fear you."

A pause.

"Do you fear punishment for what you have done? For summoning a being as wretched as I? Do you fear God's wrath?"

And it was the mention of that dreaded name that sent a sudden spark of courage up her spine. "I do not believe in it," she ground out.

This silence was no doubt a calculating one.

The spirit was evaluating her, she felt sure.

"Peculiar," he whispered again. And then a soft sound. Almost a sigh. And the warmth was abruptly gone, replaced with the shocking cold of before.

She shivered, teeth chattering audibly.

"I am no savior, little girl," the voice murmured. "You should exercise caution. Not all creatures will leave you untouched."

And somehow she knew he was leaving.

"Wait!" she choked out, and the loud echo of her voice was startling. She stumbled to her feet. "Please! Please don't leave me here."

Silence.

"I...I want - I want to go with you."

And then, once more, she was greeted by the sound of that low, dark laugh. It made her shiver twofold. "Why?" he asked.

"Because...because I want to hide from the light. Please. It has only ever brought me pain."

Another sigh. "Silly, little girl. Such things are not so simple."

But she felt empowered. Perhaps only by the fact that he was still present. "I believe they are. For you. I believe you are powerful enough."

"You do not know me."

"Please," she said again, the desperation taking over now. "Please, I beg of you." Lena squeezed her eyes shut. "Please. Please. Take me away from the light."

And this was the longest, most painful wait of all.

Then, finally, he whispered those same words again. "Silly, little girl."

And she felt the brush of his skin for the first time. His hand - if it was a hand - upon hers.

It was the strangest sensation.

That of being swallowed up by the sound of her own scream.