Magic
Undeserved Ascendance
chapter 6
by
copier
· original author:
an188
Emberlynn stood in the quiet hallway, listening to the front door click shut and the car engine fade down the suburban street. Silence wrapped around her like a warm blanket—thick, delicious, unbroken. No parental footsteps, no sighs of disappointment, no gentle nagging about "real life." Just her, the house, and weeks of freedom.
She spun in a slow, giddy circle, arms outstretched, skirt flaring. "Nya~! The house is mine! All mine!" Her high-pitched squeal bounced off the walls. She skipped through the living room, twirling past the floral couch and the framed family photos she usually avoided looking at. "No more 'Emberlynn, please tone it down.' No more 'those posters have to come down.' Just me, my room, my rituals, my stories…"
She paused in the kitchen, grabbed a half-empty soda from the fridge, and took a long swig straight from the can. "Okay, Little Kitten," she said aloud, voice pitching even higher with excitement, "time to plan. Tonight—no, right now—I’m doing another summoning. Bigger this time. Proper sigils, candles in the right pattern, maybe burn some of that black incense I ordered last month. If the stars are right… ph'nglui mglw'nafh…" She caught herself, giggling. "Not yet. Save the R'lyehian for when it counts."
She bolted upstairs, socks sliding on the hardwood, and burst into her bedroom. The purple-pink glow welcomed her like an old friend. Tentacles swayed gently from the corners as if nodding approval. She yanked open drawers, rummaged through shelves. Chalk for the floor—check. Five black candles scavenged from a discount Halloween bin—check. The small brass bowl she used for offerings (currently full of candy wrappers—she dumped them out). Her favorite tentacle dildo, the deep indigo one with textured suckers, she set reverently on the vanity like a sacred idol. "You’ll help focus the energy," she whispered to it. "You always do."
She was arranging a circle of salt when her phone buzzed violently on the desk. The screen lit up: "Raven – Witch Club."
Emberlynn blinked. She wasn’t really part of their group. They were five girls from online forums who’d formed an IRL "coven" last year—same monster fetishes, same obsession with eldritch lore, same dream of becoming real witches. They traded PDFs of grimoires, swapped cursed-looking jewelry, and occasionally met up to do dramatic photo shoots in graveyards. Emberlynn exchanged messages with them sometimes, but she kept her distance. They were too… performative. Too loud about being "spooky sexy." Still, information was information.
She answered on speaker. "Helloooo~?"
"Em! It’s Raven!" The voice was breathy, excited. "You will not believe this. That creepy little antique shop you love—the one in the alley behind the old theater? They just got a massive shipment. Some ancient millionaire died, his kids dumped his entire esoteric collection there. Like, actual old grimoires, weird statues, ritual knives… the owner said half of it’s untranslated and smells like old basement and ozone. We’re heading there in twenty. You coming?"
Emberlynn’s heart slammed against her ribs. "New… merchandise? From a dead collector?"
"Yessss. Rumor is he ran a private cult in the ’70s. Real deal. You in?"
"I’m there. Meet you outside in fifteen!" She hung up, already shoving her feet into chunky black boots. No time to change—hoodie, skirt, stockings, cat cuffs would have to do. She grabbed her backpack, stuffed in her notebook of copied sigils just in case, and sprinted out the door.
The antique shop sat tucked in a narrow, shadowed alley downtown, the kind of place Google Maps refused to acknowledge properly. A faded sign read "Obscura Curios – By Appointment Only," but the door was propped open today. Five girls waited outside, silhouetted against the dim streetlamp.
They were everything Emberlynn wasn’t: tall, curvy, confident. Each dressed like they’d stepped out of a sexy-witch photoshoot—corseted black dresses, fishnet gloves, pointed hats tilted rakishly, heavy eyeliner, blood-red lips. Raven (tallest, platinum hair) wore thigh-high boots and a velvet choker with a pentagram. Luna (curviest, crimson curls) had a plunging neckline and a silver ankh between her breasts. The others—Vesper, Nyx, and Selene—posed similarly, all leather and lace and dramatic poses.
"Em!" Raven called, waving. "You made it!"
Emberlynn slowed, suddenly self-conscious about her chubby frame and schoolgirl-goth outfit next to their hourglass silhouettes. She forced a squeaky laugh. "Hiii~! So… what’s the tea on this dead guy?"
Luna leaned in conspiratorially. "They’re saying he collected forbidden texts. Like, actual hand-copied Necronomicon rip-offs, but some might be real. He threw orgies with cultists, chanted to things that answered back. His kids found locked trunks full of… stuff. They wanted it gone fast."
Vesper giggled. "We’re hoping there’s residue. You know—psychic echoes. Maybe we can charge something and finally get a real response."
Nyx smirked. "Or at least something sexy to play with."
They pushed inside.
The shop smelled of dust, old paper, and something faintly metallic. Shelves towered to the ceiling, crammed with brass astrolabes, cracked leather tomes, glass-eyed taxidermy, and jars of unidentifiable herbs. The owner—an elderly man with thick glasses—nodded from behind the counter and went back to his ledger.
The girls fanned out like excited crows.
Emberlynn drifted toward the back corner where the newest crates sat half-unpacked. Her eyes scanned hungrily.
There.
On a low shelf: an ancient, thick book bound in something that might have been leather—or might not. No title on the spine, just strange angular glyphs that made her head buzz faintly when she stared too long. The pages, visible through a crack, were yellowed and covered in tight, spiraling script in no language she recognized.
And next to it: a figurine, palm-sized, carved from glossy black stone veined with sickly green. It depicted… something. A humanoid shape, but wrong—too many joints, head split into writhing tendrils instead of a face, base flaring into what looked like coiled tentacles. It seemed to drink the light around it.
Her breath caught.
The book whispered promises of secrets—real spells, maybe the kind that actually worked. The figurine… it felt like it was already looking back at her. Hungry. Familiar.
Raven appeared at her shoulder. "Ooh, those two are creepy-cute. Which one are you feeling?"
Emberlynn’s fingers hovered between them, trembling slightly.
The book… or the figurine?
She didn’t answer right away.
She just stared, heart pounding, while the purple-pink glow of her imagination flickered behind her eyes like distant stars waking up.
Which one?
She spun in a slow, giddy circle, arms outstretched, skirt flaring. "Nya~! The house is mine! All mine!" Her high-pitched squeal bounced off the walls. She skipped through the living room, twirling past the floral couch and the framed family photos she usually avoided looking at. "No more 'Emberlynn, please tone it down.' No more 'those posters have to come down.' Just me, my room, my rituals, my stories…"
She paused in the kitchen, grabbed a half-empty soda from the fridge, and took a long swig straight from the can. "Okay, Little Kitten," she said aloud, voice pitching even higher with excitement, "time to plan. Tonight—no, right now—I’m doing another summoning. Bigger this time. Proper sigils, candles in the right pattern, maybe burn some of that black incense I ordered last month. If the stars are right… ph'nglui mglw'nafh…" She caught herself, giggling. "Not yet. Save the R'lyehian for when it counts."
She bolted upstairs, socks sliding on the hardwood, and burst into her bedroom. The purple-pink glow welcomed her like an old friend. Tentacles swayed gently from the corners as if nodding approval. She yanked open drawers, rummaged through shelves. Chalk for the floor—check. Five black candles scavenged from a discount Halloween bin—check. The small brass bowl she used for offerings (currently full of candy wrappers—she dumped them out). Her favorite tentacle dildo, the deep indigo one with textured suckers, she set reverently on the vanity like a sacred idol. "You’ll help focus the energy," she whispered to it. "You always do."
She was arranging a circle of salt when her phone buzzed violently on the desk. The screen lit up: "Raven – Witch Club."
Emberlynn blinked. She wasn’t really part of their group. They were five girls from online forums who’d formed an IRL "coven" last year—same monster fetishes, same obsession with eldritch lore, same dream of becoming real witches. They traded PDFs of grimoires, swapped cursed-looking jewelry, and occasionally met up to do dramatic photo shoots in graveyards. Emberlynn exchanged messages with them sometimes, but she kept her distance. They were too… performative. Too loud about being "spooky sexy." Still, information was information.
She answered on speaker. "Helloooo~?"
"Em! It’s Raven!" The voice was breathy, excited. "You will not believe this. That creepy little antique shop you love—the one in the alley behind the old theater? They just got a massive shipment. Some ancient millionaire died, his kids dumped his entire esoteric collection there. Like, actual old grimoires, weird statues, ritual knives… the owner said half of it’s untranslated and smells like old basement and ozone. We’re heading there in twenty. You coming?"
Emberlynn’s heart slammed against her ribs. "New… merchandise? From a dead collector?"
"Yessss. Rumor is he ran a private cult in the ’70s. Real deal. You in?"
"I’m there. Meet you outside in fifteen!" She hung up, already shoving her feet into chunky black boots. No time to change—hoodie, skirt, stockings, cat cuffs would have to do. She grabbed her backpack, stuffed in her notebook of copied sigils just in case, and sprinted out the door.
The antique shop sat tucked in a narrow, shadowed alley downtown, the kind of place Google Maps refused to acknowledge properly. A faded sign read "Obscura Curios – By Appointment Only," but the door was propped open today. Five girls waited outside, silhouetted against the dim streetlamp.
They were everything Emberlynn wasn’t: tall, curvy, confident. Each dressed like they’d stepped out of a sexy-witch photoshoot—corseted black dresses, fishnet gloves, pointed hats tilted rakishly, heavy eyeliner, blood-red lips. Raven (tallest, platinum hair) wore thigh-high boots and a velvet choker with a pentagram. Luna (curviest, crimson curls) had a plunging neckline and a silver ankh between her breasts. The others—Vesper, Nyx, and Selene—posed similarly, all leather and lace and dramatic poses.
"Em!" Raven called, waving. "You made it!"
Emberlynn slowed, suddenly self-conscious about her chubby frame and schoolgirl-goth outfit next to their hourglass silhouettes. She forced a squeaky laugh. "Hiii~! So… what’s the tea on this dead guy?"
Luna leaned in conspiratorially. "They’re saying he collected forbidden texts. Like, actual hand-copied Necronomicon rip-offs, but some might be real. He threw orgies with cultists, chanted to things that answered back. His kids found locked trunks full of… stuff. They wanted it gone fast."
Vesper giggled. "We’re hoping there’s residue. You know—psychic echoes. Maybe we can charge something and finally get a real response."
Nyx smirked. "Or at least something sexy to play with."
They pushed inside.
The shop smelled of dust, old paper, and something faintly metallic. Shelves towered to the ceiling, crammed with brass astrolabes, cracked leather tomes, glass-eyed taxidermy, and jars of unidentifiable herbs. The owner—an elderly man with thick glasses—nodded from behind the counter and went back to his ledger.
The girls fanned out like excited crows.
Emberlynn drifted toward the back corner where the newest crates sat half-unpacked. Her eyes scanned hungrily.
There.
On a low shelf: an ancient, thick book bound in something that might have been leather—or might not. No title on the spine, just strange angular glyphs that made her head buzz faintly when she stared too long. The pages, visible through a crack, were yellowed and covered in tight, spiraling script in no language she recognized.
And next to it: a figurine, palm-sized, carved from glossy black stone veined with sickly green. It depicted… something. A humanoid shape, but wrong—too many joints, head split into writhing tendrils instead of a face, base flaring into what looked like coiled tentacles. It seemed to drink the light around it.
Her breath caught.
The book whispered promises of secrets—real spells, maybe the kind that actually worked. The figurine… it felt like it was already looking back at her. Hungry. Familiar.
Raven appeared at her shoulder. "Ooh, those two are creepy-cute. Which one are you feeling?"
Emberlynn’s fingers hovered between them, trembling slightly.
The book… or the figurine?
She didn’t answer right away.
She just stared, heart pounding, while the purple-pink glow of her imagination flickered behind her eyes like distant stars waking up.
Which one?
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·
June 13
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