Damaged sight

Bill didn’t believe in magic but knew his father did, at least, when he was alive that is. Bill sat staring at the spell he had been working on deciphering for the past few years and only now was it complete. At the reading of his father’s will, Bill was charged with keeping the spell a secret and challenged to complete it. He knew his father was trying to reach out one last time and convince his son that he was not crazy. It took a lot of patience and lots of letter writing with bits and pieces to be deciphered, but not the whole spell-that was his and his alone. The best he could figure, the spell was meant to help him see and if he worded it right, he would see like his father did. Bill wasn’t one to do things by half; no, he was one to do things with all his heart, or at least, his very best effort.

Cleansing his house was one of the first things to be done. The modern way was to get out the normal household cleaners and clean from top to bottom. He didn’t understand the why’s of it but it was important to not think about the cleaning when he was done. Why was not thinking about a done job important? Bill shook his head trying to clear the thought from his mind. Something about this project of his was making him believe in magic. Was it his trembling hand? Was it the darkness which seemed to descend on him like a weight? Was it the storm outside brewing, staring at him with its ugly face?

Completing the spell was emotionally taxing. Just when he thought it was done and he could put this whole thing behind him, sight came to him, though blurred from the tears in his eyes. The fear in him was rising until it seemed his heart could take no more. Each breath tore through his throat without end. He saw creatures with names of power written upon them. For each angelic name, there was a demonic name made up of nearly the whole angelic name, but incomplete. Some sort of understanding came with his newfound sight but it was quickly lost after beating his head to the wall in tune to his heart.

It’s true that once you pick the magic up you can never be the same again because it touches something deep within you. Bill would spend the rest of his life praying, wishing he was an unbeliever. Though he never attempted the practice again, he would forever see more into the shape of things than most. That tree, was it a hand clawing at the brewing storm? He didn’t want to ask his father.