You peer wistfully outside. This discovery had baffled You, there was no explanation for the events that had just occurred. A book of no known origin, appearing almost out of no where was not a usual occurance. Not in your household anyway.
Your mind spiralled in a tornado of information, arguments and other variables, that due to the immediacy of the circumstances, had not been processed. Unlike most situations a brain may catalogue and order useful data. In this case there was no useful data not that your brain could muster.
Ethics were a major concern. Were there any moral dilemmas if this spell worked. Were there any existing laws against the theft of 'bodies'. Or was the idea so inconceivable no law men had procured the idea to phrase it as a law and as such there was no legal objections to you practising this magic.
As was the question with most legal and moral qualms, aspects of society need not be laws for one to know something may be wrong. An imaginary Lucifer, who had now placed himself comfortably on your shoulder, his miniature ruby reds caressing your collar bone, stated
"The power that you now possess is bound by no moral obligation, compared to any of societies practises, it is almost unthinkable that such a power exists. It is easy to attribute moral opinion to a collective understanding of an inherent subject and additionally a firm stance on it, this power is neither understood and therefore a strong opinion has not been formed as a result. Do as you wish."
As if that closing remark bore the same end affect as Dorothys shoes the ruby demon disappeared.
Contrary to popular culture, the devil in this case may have not been a liar. Consequently the fact that such feelings had manifested itself in a form as specific as that one, made you reevaluate your process. It was difficult in the way that your primal instincts were telling you to try it. As if the home-erectus version of yourself had used it's new ability of standing up straight to get up in your face and forced you to submit.
It was hard to disagree both with the devil himself and pre-historic Jake.
A singular question rose into the air like a recently escaped Phoenix, caged for embodying your darkest desires.
"Why not?"
A question that could most certainly be answered with moral logic, and quite easily at that.
In accordance with his own Prince of darkness, you refused to answer the question he, himself had posed, rather using the question as a rhetorical justification for anything he would proceed to do.
A smile grew on his face, one that did not emit kindness, as most grins shoulder, but more to illustrate a inherent blackness that your soul had caged.
You then looked in the mirror that was placed in the north easterly corner of the room. Regardless of whether the spell worked he used this opportunity to take a final look at yourself . The smile still printed on your face.
A couple moments passed as you moved quickly over to his window, a white polymer frame defined the square glass. Black beams dignified the window in a symmetrical diamond shape. Leaving an equal pattern of reflective triangles to see the outside world through.
You stared, intently, his interest was seldom nourished by any of the menial subjects regurgitated by his teachers, and you so often lost concentration, that you theorized that any focus beyond basic eye contact you somehow un-learned. Though this was obviously untrue you did debate this privately to yourself. Evidently this was false. The manner in which you perused the car-laden streets was comparable to Albert Einstein.
Suddenly you had acquired a suitable target. It was a girl, her chestnut hair flowed effortlessly down below her shoulder. Her eyes were large, at least next to those girls you knew. The bridge of her nose was thin leading down to a pointed end, where 2 small holes lay. Pink filled her full lips, it was not immediately clear whether this had been a result of good genes or personal enhancement.
A jacket encased her torso. One of demon variety and a simple black T shirt lay underneath.Though enveloped by the jacket cleavage could still be seen as her top had been pulled, and tucked purposefully inside a denim skirt that she sported on her lower half. Her legs bare, smooth, shiny. Snow white socks hugged her ankles but were eclipsed by black soul shoes, the shocks only making sparse appearances in the slaves where her footwear did not exist.
Those were the only details you could make out from the distance that you were currently. After a brief consultation with what was left of your conscience you had decided on your victim.
At first glance you had not recognised the girl, You had assumed she was just a passed by, but then as you got up to check that she was still walking, she had turned into your neighbours front garden. A thought entered forcefully into your mind, as if an important event was occurring and you had not heard prompting someone to burst into your room.
The Johnson's were on holiday.
Their house was not too dissimilar to yours, with the obvious exception of the interior, what was dissimilar was their paranoia which must come from having such a nice interior. They were house proud, you were often acquainted with the sight of them carting numerous antiquities into their inappropriately sized door frame.
Consequently they had a house sitter. A point if humour came from the fact that the girl they had hired was clearly not a fighter, no would she ever succeed in defending the house. But if an intruder did subterfuge their way into the home it was house one more person than would have been present if the Johnson's hadn't hired anyone.
Their were more rumours about the Johnson's then was truths you imagined. They were recluses, loners and rarely made the effort to escape their museum of an abode, never mind go out if their way to appease the neighbours at any point with the exchange of polite words.
A dangerous combination is lock-ins and little information. All of the more active residents filled in what blanks they thought needed to be filled and as such created stories, one bring that Mrs Johnson had a Sex Dungeon.
Some of the streets alumni had seen Mrs Johnson exhibited an 'Ann Summers' neglecting to acknowledge the fact that Mrs Johnson would reuse old bags. The question still stood. Where did she get the bag originally.
Another rumour was that Mr Johnson had died, and Mrs Johnson 'weekend at Bernie'd' him but that was more of a joke around the block.
A predicament then arose in your head...
"How to they pick their house sitter?"
It had been made abundantly clear that they wanted no one to frequent their place, which would suggest that may be they did have something to hide, in which case picking a person for a such a position sought to be a tricky task. Were their auditions, were they picked my Mr Johnson's ghost? Either way it must come with rather more scrutiny then an average progression.
You continued to analyse. You had never seen this girl before, maybe she was from out of town. This was likely but also it was ignorant to think that you knew everyone in your town. A family friend? This was also a definite possibility, yet this had been partially discredit based on the fact that the Johnson's didn't seem to have a family. Or friends! No one can recall any other human entering the Johnson's house effort the Johnson's. Unless all the social etiquette had been performed in the short visits away from their well furnished mansion, a family friend would almost be impossible.
Memories were dug up from your ingrained cabinet inside your head, bringing forth pictures of other house keepers, most of them had been unremarkable average Jies, most you'd even written out of your storage. It was futile to attempt to draw lines of comparisons between these illusive characters, there wasn't even a consistent gender between the suspects.
The idea of possession was already scaring you slightly. Not that you wanted to be scared, you killed to be excited, but what if this girl is something else. She did not appear to be something else. But how could you possibly know, she had been chosen by the nymphomaniac, necrophiliac Johnson's and was entrusted with guarding their fortress of ancient relics. For a final time the question flashed like a camera lense taking a perfect sadistic portrait of your inner compass.
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