Page 61 of Wedded Witch

The space beyond is dim, but enough light filters through the small, round windows that I can see. The staircase continues upward, spiralling, leading to the highest point of the house—the tower I saw from the outside.

I follow it, each step feeling like I’m moving closer to something monumental, something sacred.

At the top, the narrow staircase opens into a large attic room—the sanctum.

The air here is thick with magic, an ancient, potent energy that hums through my veins the moment I step inside. It’s like the entire room is alive, buzzing with the remnants of spells cast long ago.

The walls are lined with shelves, each filled with jars of dried herbs, potion bottles, and ancient-looking tomes. Crystals of all shapes and sizes catch the light from the windows, casting shimmering rainbows across the floor.

In the centre of the room stands a stone altar, smooth and dark, its surface littered with candles that have long since melted down to stubs.

There’s an array of tools spread out—an athame, a wand, small cauldrons—and a thick, leather-bound book. My breath catches in my throat as I move closer, recognising the symbols etched into the cover.

The Book of Shadows. My family’s book.

I run my fingers along the worn leather, feeling the power that pulses through it. It’s warm to the touch, like the book itself is alive, waiting for me to unlock its secrets.

I flip open the cover, the pages brittle but intact, filled with handwritten spells, notes, and diagrams. Each entry is dated, some going back centuries. I skim through a few of the pages, seeing my family’s history laid out before me in ink and magic.

There’s something awe-inspiring about this place. It’s as though I’ve stepped into a piece of my lineage that I never knew existed, a part of my family’s soul that’s been preserved just for me.

It feels right, like I’m meant to be here, like I belong.

Yet, beneath that sense of belonging is something else—a weight, a pressure that bears down on me as I stand before the altar. The weight of the curse. The weight of being the last Galdur.

It’s almost suffocating, as if the magic in the room is trying to remind me of the task ahead. The deadline looms in the back of my mind, the constant reminder that if I don’t succeed, everything will be lost.

I place the Book of Shadows gently back on the altar and glance around the room once more. Shelves of potions, ingredients, bundles of dried herbs hanging from the ceiling beams, and candles scattered in every corner.

There are sigils carved into the stone floor, protective symbols, though some look faded and worn with time.

My eyes drift to the windows, small and circular, letting in beams of light that feel almost golden in the dusty air. From up here, I can see the whole of Spells Hollow, the woods beyond, the river winding through the land.

The view is breathtaking, serene. But as I stand here, soaking it all in, that feeling of being watched returns—stronger this time.

It prickles the back of my neck, sending a chill down my spine. I whirl around, half-expecting to find someone standing behind me, but the room is empty.

I’m alone.

A cold sweat breaks out along my skin as I move to the window, trying to shake the feeling. The house might be safe, but something out there isn’t. I can sense it.

I place my hand on the glass, staring out at the horizon.

Maybe I should take the Book of Shadows back to the motel with me. I’ll need time to read through its pages, and I don’t want to keep the guys waiting too long.

The thought of leaving this place, though—leaving behind the magic that pulses in every stone—feels wrong. Like I’m abandoning something sacred. But I don’t have time to dwell. If I’m going to break the curse, I need answers, and fast.

Carefully, I pick up the book, holding it to my chest. It’s heavier than I expected, its power almost tangible in my hands. The warmth of the leather seeps through my fingers as I close my eyes, letting the ancient magic of my ancestors settle over me.

There’s an energy here that feels both comforting and terrifying, a reminder that I am the last of the Galdurs.

I turn away from the altar, heading back down the spiralling stairs. The weight of the book is a constant presence, like it knows how important it is to me, to all of this.

Each step echoes in the quiet, the only sound my boots against the worn wood. It’s strange how much this place feels like home, even though I’ve never been here before.

As I reach the bottom of the stairs, that creeping sensation of being watched prickles the back of my neck again. I freeze, clutching the book tighter.

There’s no one here, no sound but the faint rustling of leaves outside and the distant creak of old wood. Still, the air feels thick with something unseen, something that watches from the shadows.