These pages were bound in oilcloth and sealed beneath the eastern floor of the Mortelle estate. They are believed to be the final writings of Marguese d'Aurille before her disappearance in the spring of 1603.
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April 10th, the year of our Lord, 1603,
Today, I uncovered Grandmother's sealed box behind the hearth. Inside: a stack of folded papers, brittle with age, a dried bundle of rosemary bound with black thread, and a single iron key. The key opens the east storeroom, long kept shut since my youth.
In that room, I found more pages—handwritten, unsigned, but in her hand. Symbols I do not know. Instructions in short lines. Most were weathered, but one had been pressed between two panes of glass and preserved: "To summon and bind a witness of the veil." I do not yet know what it means, but I have copied it below.
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April 13th, the year of our Lord, 1603,
I tried the first of the rites. It asked for chalk, a mirror, one drop of my own blood, and a name spoken backwards. I do not know why I did it—curiosity, perhaps, or some part of me wanting proof of her madness.
The ritual was brief. The mirror clouded, though the room was warm. For a moment I could not see myself—only the faint shape of another, watching from behind the glass.
I wiped it away, quickly. I have locked the mirror in the old wardrobe. It does not feel safe to throw it out.
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April 16th, the year of our Lord, 1603,
In the night just past, I was stirred by a sound thrice struck — sharp, like stone tapped by bone. In the morning, I found the mirror cracked down its middle, the line jagged as if struck from within. No other item in the house is marred. I keep the room sealed now.
Since the rite, I cannot shake the feeling of being watched. Not from windows or doors, but from corners where the fire does not reach. There is presence there, though it moves not.
I have begun to study the other writings. Some speak of reversals, but few are whole. Many pages are stained or torn. A handful of names, roots I do not recognize, and one asks for blood from a vessel "not born of man nor beast." I know not what that means.
I shall continue my search for a rite to unmake what I have done. But I feel time narrows around me.
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April 19th, the year of our Lord, 1603,
I performed a second rite this past night, hoping to undo what I had drawn forth. The first calling was meant to summon a witness, no more, but I now believe the wrong name was spoken.
The dispelling required salt, coal-dust, and a flame lit by one's own breath. At first, the fire burned straight and pale, a white-blue with no smoke. Then it split itself in twain, bending backward and shivering in the air. When it died, the ash lay thick as soot, and in the shape of a circle, half-broken. The floor bears its mark even now. My ears have not ceased ringing since.
Since then, the house has not slept. Doors swing open of their own. Shutters rattle, though the wind is still. I heard my name called from the back field at dawn. There was no one there.
At night, I hear steps where no weight should fall. I do not sleep. I do not believe I am alone.
It walks the halls as if it knows them. It walks them as if they are its own.
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April 21st, the year of our Lord, 1603,
I found Grandmother's final entry, hidden beneath the lining of the black box. It was brief, as if written in haste. Her hand was shaky. She speaks of a rite called The Fifth Binding—a last effort to seal what has come through.
She warns: "If the fifth rite is begun, it must not be left undone. Lest it see through thee."
I do not know what she meant, not fully. But I know now I must finish what she could not.
I have gathered the things it calls for:
⚚ crushed bone (from the old family crypt)
⚚ ash (from the first burning)
⚚ a shard of mirror (taken from the cracked glass, with gloves)
⚚ a candle formed from tallow rendered during a moonless night
I shall begin at sundown.
I have placed rosemary at the door. The scent is strong and sharp, and the leaves blacken faster than they should. The mirror is still locked in the wardrobe, but it hums faintly, as if holding its breath.
If I fail, this book must not remain in the house.
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April 22nd, the year of our Lord, 1603,
I spoke the rite before the sun had vanished fully. The words were bitter in the mouth, hard to hold. The moment I finished, the air collapsed inward, as if the house had been waiting.
The mirror cracked once more. This time from within. It did not shatter. It folded.
What I see now within the glass is not this room. It is another, built in the same shape, but it breathes. The walls pulse, faint as skin drawn too thin. I saw movement there—my reflection waved, though my hand lay still.
Something stands behind the glass. It watches from the other side. I do not think it sees me as separate. I do not think it sees me as its summoner, but as its vessel.
I tried to burn the sigil I drew, the one I carved into the wooden frame. The flame rose, then died in my palm, as if swallowed.
The house is no longer still. The east wing groans, and the ceiling warps. My breath shortens near the stairs. Light bends at strange angles. I dare not look into the mirror again.
If this entry is read by blood of mine—
heed these words: "do not speak the names. Do not enter the parlor. Burn the...."