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Evil Ghost Note
Atrophy
Blizz
Neziul
CassidyTheButch
FernStone
AtomicEmperor
Haha
“Somethings are better left in the past.”Far away from the hustle and bustle of the town center stood a large mansion and inside its study magic was happening. The study was a collision of eras. Shelves of gnarled, root-like wood held crumbling scrolls and leather-bound grimoires, while holographic runes flickered faintly in the air, a failed attempt to digitize the undigitizable. At the center sat Eldrin Moonshadow, his silver hair cascading over robes woven from the finest of silks. He was once a famed archeologist convinced that magic was real. He was attempting to read a tome that, if his translation was correct, would bring magic back to the world. His fingers traced glyphs in an ancient tome. The book’s pages pulsed faintly, as if breathing, its language dead for millennia.
He read aloud, each syllable a spark at the back of his mind. The words twisted as they left his lips, no longer just words but charged with every. The first sign was subtle: the flicker of the holograms stuttered, then died. Shadows pooled thicker in the corners, alive and watching. Eldrin’s voice grew steadier, louder, though his hands trembled. The glyphs began to glow, not with light, but with a negative radiance—a void that gnawed at the edges of the room.
His mind itched. A pressure built behind his eyes, as if something were peeling back the folds of his consciousness. The words now came unbidden, faster, harsher, the book’s pages turning themselves. The air tasted metallic, like blood and static. The walls… lmelted. Not into liquid, but into an assortment of impossible geometries—angles that bent away from reality, colors that had no name. Eldrin tried to stop, but his tongue was no longer his own. The tome’s magic slithered into his veins, cold and euphoric.
Then there was silence.
The study was gone. He stood, or at least he thought he did, it was hard to tell in a realm where space folded inward. Before him loomed… It.
Its presence was a paradox—a colossus that could eclipse galaxies, yet small enough to cradle in a palm. Its body was the night sky fractured: a living canvas of stars, nebulae, and black holes swirling in perfect, terrible harmony. Thousands of appendages spiraled from its core—not limbs, but *concepts* made flesh. Some resembled skeletal hands, others tendrils of liquid starlight, still more were shifting geometries that defied mortal eyes. Its “face” (if it had one) was a vortex of constellations arranged into something like a smile, vast and hungry.
“Little Siren,” it intoned, its voice a chorus of dying suns and birth cries of planets. Yet it was understandable. “You sang my symphony well. But the verse… that final verse is incomplete.”
Eldrin’s mind unraveled. Memories fractured—his centuries of study, his name, the taste of sunlight—all unspooling into the cosmic tapestry of the entity. The entity’s appendages brushed his soul (not his body, never his body), and he felt the weight of eons, the insignificance of all he’d ever known.
“Sing the last glyph,” it demanded, its form collapsing and expanding simultaneously. “Unbind me. Let us rewrite the song. Let us bring back magic.”
Eldrin’s mouth opened—to obey, to scream, he wasn’t sure—but before a sound could escape, the vision ruptured.
He gasped, back in the study, the tome snapped shut. His hands were bleeding, clawed raw from trying to close the tome. The walls were intact, the holograms humming innocently. But the air still thrummed with a dissonant hum, and when Eldrin looked down, his reflection in the polished floor showed not his face, but a flicker of star-strewn void.
Some doors, once opened, cannot be fully shut.
The Grinning Imp - 22:00The spotlight warmed Lena’s face as she strode onto the stage of The Grinning Imp, a cramped comedy club wedged between a well-liked noodle shop and a proper bar in the quiet city of Twin Pines. The crowd—a mix of drowsy halfling students, goliath construction workers, and elven baristas nursing post-shift coffees—clapped politely. Lena flashed her sharpest grin, the one that made her cheekbones look carved. No horns, no tail, no giveaways. Just a woman with a mic and a chip on her shoulder. If the crowd had known that a Tiefling was on stage it might’ve been more fun with the hecklers. While they were all almost completely human, there was still the running stigma their demonic past brought to the present. Still, Lena smiled even harder as her eyes scanned the crowd.
“Evening, everybody!” she barked, voice bouncing off the brick walls. A goliath in the back raised a tankard. “Yeah, I see you, big guy. You’re what, eight feet tall? Funny story, I dated a Goliath once! I’ll tell you that the height difference was so wild. Every kiss looked like I was summiting Mount Trauma. I had to break up with him because I just couldn’t stand the long distance relationship we had.” The room chuckled. A halfling in the front row snorted into her cider. “Gotcha.”
For forty minutes, Lena danced on the edge of disaster—teasing a gnome about his “suspiciously shiny” bald head, (“Sir, are you polishing that or is it naturally that reflective?”), commiserating with a human nurse about chaotic ER shifts (“Ma’am, if I see one more guy say ‘I just fell on it’ at 2 a.m…”), and dodging a rogue olive lobbed by a heckling dwarf (“Wow, that almost hit! If I was the broadside of a barn I’d be a little more worried”). The room buzzed, sweaty and alive. Normal. Lena was very used to nights like this. She would do her routine, have plenty of laughs, get drunk with half her earnings at the bars around town, and then struggle to eat until her next gig. This life was chaotic, it was tiring, but it was comedy. There was very little a rowdy crowd could do to throw her off her game.
Then the smell hit.
Burnt sugar. Sulfur. Lena’s nostrils flared. A headache bloomed behind her eyes, hot and insistent. She gripped the mic stand, knuckles white as she nearly collapsed. It felt like an energy surged through her body and threatened to make her explode. “Uh… anyone eating spoiled eggs or did the Dwarf let out some steam if you know what I mean?” she quipped in, voice strained. The crowd tittered nervously. A cough could be heard to mark a woman’s displeasure at the apparent joke. In her body she felt a heat surging, and it demanded a way out. Lena caught sight of an object and suddenly she felt the energy rush out of her body.
A candle on a corner table—unlit, just decor—hissed. Then *snap*. Blue flames erupted, vivid and cold. The halfling beside it yelped, scrambling back. “Whoa, pyro effects!” a drunk human shouted, clapping. At first, it stuck to the decorative wick, but soon the entire candle and the table holding it caught fire as well.
Lena froze. No. No no no. She felt a connection to this fire that she had never felt before. It felt warm, but it also felt oh so incredibly hungry.
A dwarf tossed his ale on the fire in an attempt to douse it. The flames rippled, unfazed, as they shot upward and began licking the ceiling. Panic surged as a goliath yanked down a tapestry to smother it but instead, the blaze clung to the fabric, spreading faster, and faster, and further. The fire arched out and began to gnaw at the surrounding tables until they too caught fire.. “Get out!” someone screamed.
Lena stood paralyzed, the mic screeching feedback. The smell of sulfur thickened. Hersmell. Her fault. Again.
“Fire exit!” a gnome bellowed, herding the crowd. No one looked at Lena. No accusations, no shocked stares. Just chaos. To them, it was a freak accident—faulty gas lines, cursed decor, bad luck. Only she knew the truth humming in her veins. She caused this. If anyone died, it would be her fault. Again.
She stumbled offstage, past the fleeing bartender, and into the alley. The cold blue glow pulsed through the club’s windows. Lena pressed her back to the damp brick wall, trembling.
“What the fuck?” she whispered.
Somewhere in the city, a church bell tolled. A breeze carried the scent of smoke. Something had awoken in her, and Lena could only hyperventilate as she watched the fire consume more and more before a Goliath grabbed her and pulled her further away from the growing inferno. As she got a good distance away the fire puttered and went out all on its own. She felt something writhing about in her pocket, and she quickly opened it and saw a blue ball of fire nestled in it. A small amount of smoke had already started to rise from her burning vest.
Lena used magic, and she was terrified.
The cabin was a tomb, and Lena was its reluctant body.
She lay in the tub, her body curled into itself like a question mark, staring at the water-stained ceiling. Burnie Cinders, the name she had given oh so affectionately to the sentient ball of fire, floated nearby, his blue light casting jagged shadows that danced across the room like a ballerina troupe. He’d been quiet tonight, which was worse than his usual antics. At least when he was setting her socks on fire or scorching the dinner she had delivered, she had something to yell about. Silence left her alone with her thoughts, and her thoughts were more painful than anything this fire could bring.
“NO.”
The word flared suddenly, sharp and impatient.
“I didn’t ask you anything,” Lena muttered, her voice hoarse from disuse.
“YES”
She groaned. Burnie’s binary responses were maddening. YES and NO. No explanations, no apologies. Just a sentient flame with the emotional range of a red light, green light game. Lena had not been back to this cabin in the woods since her parents died. Her dad loved to hunt out of this place and even took young Lena out a few times to teach her. She hated hunting back then. The very idea of taking a life was a cruel joke, couldn’t they just get meat at the supermarket where no animal had to die? It took her until thirteen to realize the truth of how wrong she was. Oh she wished she could go back to that youthful innocence and to be in his presence just for a minute. She used to hate this place for so many reasons, but there was only one that stuck out to her now.
The cabin was a museum of loss. Her parents’ things sat untouched, frozen in time: her father’s flannel draped over the rocking chair, her mother’s gardening gloves on the windowsill, their wedding photo on the mantel, half-melted at the edges. Lena hadn’t moved any of it. To disturb them felt like admitting they were gone for good. There were burn marks all over the walls that had collected dust over the years. While the roof, and many of the walls were scorched, the fire that consumed her family had struck fast and was put out even quicker thanks to her parents even if the fire and smoke claimed them in the end.
Burnie had taken a liking to the flannel. He’d curl into its pocket most nights, dimming to a faint glow, like a child clinging to a security blanket. Lena didn’t stop him. It felt like a truce with a pyromaniac child who would burn anything and everything he could. It took two days after the comedy club fire to learn that this thing thought and acted on its own. Once she did, it made it easier to control even if it was like negotiating with a terrorist who had their finger on the trigger of a bomb. Lena left her apartment with the fire a week ago because she was too poor to lose the security deposit, and she’s been stuck in this cabin ever since.
She’d tried to leave again this morning. Made it as far as the porch before her legs locked. The forest stretched ahead, pines swaying like a dare. “Just walk,” she'd told herself. “One foot. Then the other*. But her lungs had tightened, her pulse thrashing through her chest. Burnie had swooped in, frantic, etching “NO NO NO,” in the air until she stumbled back inside.
Now, they had rituals. Lena would cook breakfast, letting the sentient fire char his half to charcoal while Lena tried to eat hers when her stomach allowed. The fire would try to catch random things on fire and Lena would yell and scream at it to stop, and then apologize for raising her voice. They would walk the cabin together, Burnie would try to point at items only for Lena to completely not because looking at the discarded artifacts left by her parents was not the vibe right now. Finally, at dusk, Lena would sit on the floor in the bathroom with her back against the wall and stare at her parent's wedding photo that somehow survived the inferno. While half melted it still contained their essence, her father's cocky but kind smile and her mother's resting bitch face that was just her autism made physical. For some reason, the fire always respected these items, it would never try to catch them on fire and would even dim its light as if paying respects to the dearly departed. She sighed as she smiled at that photo. She missed them so much in that moment.
“YES.” The flame would always flicker as if asking, “Ready to talk,” right after.
“NO”, she’d think back.
For some reason, it always seemed to know what she was thinking.
---
The letter came on a Tuesday. Or maybe it was a Wednesday. Time had dissolved into a slurry of exhaustion and made food in the week or so she spent at the cabin.
Lena was scrubbing ash off the countertop, Burnie Cinders had decided that it would be a fun game for it to destroy a brand new roll of paper towels and have Lena clean up afterward when the envelope slid inside. No knock. No footsteps. Just the soft *shhh* of paper sliding on hardwood.
Burnie shot past her, flaring bright and growing in size.
”NO’
“You don’t even know what it says.”
“YES’
She picked it up. The paper was thick and expensive, the kind her mother used for holiday cards. The seal broke with a sigh.
Lena, I hope this letter finds you well enough.
Magic isn’t a spark. It’s a scream. And by all accounts, you’ve been screaming for the past week. This is not in your head, magic is real. You’ve heard it in your sleep, in the hollows of your soul, and every moment that Elemental lives is proof. You are one of the first mages in five hundred years. I’m sure you have questions and I have the answers to them.
Come to 13 Mourningdove Lane. Midnight.
~The Archivist (PS: Bring the good senator. He’s righteous.
Burnie recoiled, incinerating the letter in a single, violent snap even as the letter rested in Lena’s hands. Even though the fire kissed them her hands did not burn, nor hurt, with the heat.
“They know your name,” Lena whispered.
“NO.
“The good senator, at least they have good taste in elected officials,” Lena Joked.
“YES.
”Do you have an actual name?”
”YES.”
”Can you tell me it?”
”NO.”
She sank to the floor, the tiles cold through her sweatpants. Burnie drifted closer, his heat a low thrum against her face. She didn’t pull away. Her eyes shot over to the door and the thought of the letter entered her mind.
“Are they dangerous?”
“YES.
“Are they lying?”
“NO.
“Should I go?”
Burnie stilled. The cabin creaked, the wind outside gnawing at the eaves. Lena pressed her forehead to her knees. *What would you do?* she asked the ghosts. The flannel rustled. The novel’s pages fluttered.
When she looked up, Burnie had etched a word in delicate, wavering script above the sink—a word he’d never used, a word that didn’t fit his binary soul:
“PERHAPS.
Lena watched in awe at the fire script. She had learned much about the sentient fire that seemed to have a thing for her, but it always seemed ready to surprise her again.
““You’re not just fire, are you?” she murmured.
“NO.
“Are you… them,” she pointed towards the burnt scraps of paper, “Did they… make you?”
“NO.
“Are you mine? Did I make you?”
A pause. Then, softer in color and slower in speed, Burnie Cinders spelled out: “YES.
The word hung, glowing, until Lena’s eyes burned. She cupped her hands around him, not caring if he seared her skin. He didn’t. He never did. Outside, the pines whispered. Somewhere, an owl cried. Lena’s breath steadied, syncing with Burnie’s rhythm with his flicker for inhale, his dim for exhale.
“Monday, April 14th 22:00’Two hours.
She had two hours until the meeting with the stranger who somehow managed to find them, slide a note under their door, and disappeared without a trace. Lena did not know what was worse, having a sentient fire shouting NO at you every time you considered going to the meeting or the fact that she was considering it. She paced back and forth as as looked at the clock on her phone. Seventeen missed calls from the comedy club, seven from her best friend and roommate Jackson, and over a thousand unread text messages though only one hundred were from the last week.
Lena was so engrossed in her thoughts that she initially missed a tapping sound. A second later it came again, and suddenly Lena could hear the tapping at her cabin door, and the sentient fire grew in size and intensity. ”Hey,” a voice called out. “Tis some visitor,” Lena quoted, “tapping at my cabin door. With a voice, I’d recognize forevermore.”
“Lena,” that familiar voice called out, “It’s Jackson. I need to talk to you and you’re not answering your phone and you’re not responding to my texts even though you got the delivery of food I sent you earlier today. I know you’re in there, please open the door we need to talk about the comedy club and everything that’s happened since.”
Lena looked at the bag of Dairy Queen complete with a peanut buster blizzard, knowing it was a trap. “I never got a-”
“You’re in the drop off photo.”
“Go away Jackson,” Lena paused as she crossed her arms and bowed her head. Shit. She did not like when others saw her in the den of her despair. “I don’t want to talk….. wait.. what happened since?”
““You mean to tell me you’ve been locked up in here for a whole week without checking the news, ticktok, or anything?”
Lena looked at the sentient fire. It had dimmed ever so in the minute that she spoke, it sensing her recognition of the person on the other side. Lena thought back to the various fires that it caused over the last week. “I’ve been busy.”
The door handle turned and it was pulled open. The sentient fire hid behind her and dimmed even more. In the doorway, Lena could see only up to the chest of her friend, his head far too high to be seen from her angle. Jackson bent down and maneuvered his giant frame to fit through the door and bent his body to walk inside. He gracefully turned around and closed the door.
“You never look right walking through that door,” Lena chuckled, “like you remind me of this gif I saw with a train and a-“
““Don’t finish that thought,” he responded quickly, “at least you cleaned this place up. I don’t see any trash on the ground anymore,” he said without knowing it was all burned before he held out his hand and passed his tablet-sized phone to Lena. On the screen a video was playing, showing a man in Japan shooting electricity into the air. He swiped to the next and the video showed someone in a forest floating precariously only to fall a moment later. He swiped to the next, and the next, and the next. Each one shows someone from around the world using magic. ““No one on the news is talking about it, and as fast as they uploaded they’re removed from the apps. Still, everyone is trying to find more. As well-“
Jackson held up a hand. Suddenly water began to pull itself from the air until it pooled into a pulsating orb. He held it up and muttered a soft ““ta-da” as he pulled the magic back and the water fell to the floor.
Lena’s mouth dropped.
““Now you must have questions,” Jackson started.
“J-J-Jackson,” Lena stuttered at the revelation.
““And normally I would be more than willing to provide them.”
“Jackson st-”
““But I don’t have any, and frankly I am a little upset with you.”
Lena recoiled backward, right hand on her chest and her mouth agape. “Me? What did I-“
““Because when you need anything I’m right there for you. But when I suddenly develop magic and need my best friend in the whole world you are gone, don’t answer my desperate calls, or my sad texts.”
“Jackson I didn’t-“
““And I get it. Fire is very traumatic for you so the fire at the club must’ve been traumatic and you of course came to this safe place. Which is weird because this is a traumatic place where your parents died in a fire right in front of you but I promise I get it. I get it. I get it? I gave you space and waited for you to reach out again like the past five times you’ve had this breakdown. But I need your help now.”
“Please let me-“
““If I didn’t know you better, I’d say you didn’t care about me. Do you have any idea what this is like? To suddenly develop magic? To feel like your body isn’t your own anymore? To—”
Behind Lena, Burnie spelled out YES in flickering blue flames, the letters hovering in the air. Jackson stopped mid-sentence, his eyes widening as he spotted the fire. ““Of course, you don’t—oh my god, what is that?”
“Ummmm Jackson, meet Bernie Cinder,” Lena paused as the flame fully revealed itself, “I developed magic too.”
Jackson stared at the sentient fire, then at Lena, then back at the fire. ““Burnie Cinder,” he repeated flatly. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a poster-sized letter, the same thick, expensive stock as the one Lena had received. ““Well,” he said, his voice heavy with irony, ““I was going to try to guilt-trip you into coming with me tonight. Apparently, someone took notice of my magic. Now, I don’t have to guilt trip you because you need to see this let-”
“I got the same letter,” Lena interrupted as she pointed to a small pile of ash on the ground. “Anyone else we know get one?”
Jackson muttered a soft ‘okaaaay fuck me then’ as he put the poster down on the table. “Not that I know of. I am going to this meeting to find out,” Jackson paused as he opened the door once more and stepped outside, “are you?”
Lena hesitated, glancing at Burnie. The fire flickered uncertainly, but for once, it didn’t spell out NO. She took a deep breath and nodded. “Yes.”
Jackson’s expression softened, and for the first time since he’d arrived, he smiled. “Good. Because I’m not doing this alone, Lena. You’re my best friend, and I need you. Even if you’ve been a terrible one lately.”
Lena winced but nodded. “I’m sorry, Jackson. I… I just… I didn’t know how to deal with all of this.”
“Yeah no shit,” Jackson said, his tone lighter now. “But we’ll figure it out. Like we always somehow do.”
Lena managed a small smile. “Together.”
Burnie flared brightly, spelling out YES once more, and for the first time in days, Lena felt a flicker of hope. “Do we have enough time for me to take a shower before we go?”
“No,” Jackson responded with crossed arms.
“Can I change?”
“Yes.”
13 Mourningdove Lane 23:55The drive to Mourningdove Lane was quiet, save for the low hum of the car’s engine and the occasional flicker of Burnie Cinder’s flames in the backseat. Lena stared out the window, her fingers drumming nervously on the armrest. Jackson, ever the steady presence, kept his eyes on the road, though his grip on the steering wheel was tighter than usual.
“You know,” Lena said, breaking the silence, “if this turns out to be some kind of cult, I’m blaming you.”
Jackson chuckled, the sound deep and warm. “If it’s a cult, I’ll befriend their leader. Get priority access to the inner workings of the cult. Build our brand you know? Do a hostile takeover, kill the existing leadership, and become the new cult leader with you as my number two.”
Lena smirked, but it didn’t reach her eyes. “Yeah, because that’s exactly how I pictured my life going. Being number two in a cult. We both know I’d make the better leader because I am calm under pressure.”
“Hey, I can be a leader,” Jackson protested, grinning. “And you’re one to talk, Miss ‘I-set-a-comedy-club-on-fire-and-it-triggered-my-PTSD-really-bad-so-I-ran-to-the-woods-to-cry.’” Jackson took his hands off the wheel as he spoke, doing air quotes with them, and his voice had a mocking quality.
“Low blow,” Lena muttered, though she couldn’t help but laugh. The tension in the car eased slightly, and she leaned back in her seat, watching the streetlights blur past.
They parked a block away from the address, the mansion’s silhouette visible in the distance. It loomed against the night sky, its windows dark and foreboding. Lena hesitated as she stepped out of the car, her boots crunching on the gravel. Burnie floated beside her, his blue light casting eerie shadows on the ground.
“You good?” Jackson asked, his voice soft but steady.
“Peachy,” Lena replied, though her hands were shoved deep in her jacket pockets, her shoulders tense. “Let’s just get this over with.”
They strolled, the cool night air wrapping around them like a shroud. The streets were empty, the only sound was the rustle of leaves and the distant hoot of an owl. Lena glanced at Jackson, her brow furrowed.
“So,” she began, “how’s the whole water thing going? You’ve been pretty quiet about it.”
Jackson shrugged his shoulders, his hands in his pockets. “It’s… weird. Like, I can feel it, you know? The water. It’s like it’s alive in my hands, but I have no clue what I am doing with it. I can shape it, and move it, but it’s not always easy to control. Especially when I’m stressed.”
“Sounds familiar,” Lena said, glancing at Burnie, who flickered as if in agreement. “I still can’t believe this is real. Magic. All of it.”
“Yeah,” Jackson agreed, his tone thoughtful. “But it’s not just us, Lena. Those videos I showed you, people all over the world are waking up with powers. Something’s happening, and we’re part of it.”
“Lucky us,” Lena muttered. She kicked a pebble, watching it skitter across the pavement. “Do you think this Archivist person knows what’s going on? Like, why now? Why us?”
Jackson shook his head. “No idea. But if anyone has answers, it’s probably them. And if they don’t…” He trailed off, shrugging. “Well, we’ll figure it out. Like we always do.”
Lena smiled faintly, though her nerves were still on edge. “You make it sound so simple. Like we’re going to walk through the door and all of a sudden this all makes sense. Or we walk through the door and wake up from some collective dream.”
“It’s not,” Jackson admitted. “But we’ve got each other. And that’s gotta count for something, right?”
“Right,” Lena said, her voice softer now. She glanced at him, her expression grateful. “Thanks, Jackson. For… you know. Being you.”
Jackson grinned, slinging an arm around her shoulders. “Anytime, Lena. Now come on. Let’s go see what this Archivist wants.”
They approached the mansion, its iron gates standing open as if waiting for them. The path to the front door was lined with overgrown hedges, their shadows twisting in the moonlight. Lena hesitated at the gate, her heart pounding.
“You ready?” Jackson asked, his voice steady.
“Not even a little,” Lena admitted. But she took a deep breath, squared her shoulders, and stepped through the gate. Jackson followed close behind.
As they walked up the path, the mansion seemed to grow larger, its windows like dark, unblinking eyes.
“Whatever happens,” Jackson said quietly, “if one of us dies in here the other has to delete the dead ones browsing history.”
“Oh for fucking sure,” Lena responded, her voice barely above a whisper.
They reached the front door, its heavy wood carved with intricate patterns that seemed to shift in the dim light. Lena raised a hand to knock, but before she could, the door creaked open on its own, revealing a dark hallway beyond.
“Well,” Jackson said, his tone light despite the tension, “that’s not creepy at all.” Lena shot him a look that screamed 'don't jinx us please', “Let’s just get this over with.”
Lena’s eyes caught a movement in the neighboring property and she saw a man who waved at her before darting back inside. Lena squinted. He looked familiar like she had seen him in a movie or TV show before.
Together, they stepped inside, the door closing behind them with a soft but final click.
