The Book: Chapter 18

Alice sat in her car outside the terraced house in Ulverston. She felt the book’s menace pressing against her from inside the bag. It knew she was testing its power.

The website promised discretion, understanding, and guidance for people troubled by unseen forces.

She stared at the all-seeing-eye decal on the front door and didn’t have a great feeling about this. Let him have the answers to make sense of my nightmare, she thought.

She locked the car, grabbed her bag, and knocked on the door before she could change her mind. If the hospital found out about the two appointments she’d set up that day, it would only draw more negative attention to her. It would be too much for them to see she was doing this to rid the unit of a great evil.

‘Mr Earl?’ she asked when the door was answered.

The man was in his sixties, his thinning grey hair and deeply lined face betraying years of communion with the dead. Alice supposed it would take a lot out of a human being. It was bad enough coping with the living without having a whole other realm to contemplate over your cornflakes.

He led her inside and offered to take her jacket. ‘I believe we discussed my charge,’ he said, coughing into his hand.

‘Yes, of course.’ Alice juggled her bag and her purse. She took fifty pounds out and handed it over.

His movements were precise as he counted the three notes. She noticed that he watched her, carefully. Everything he did was measured. She was a doctor of psychiatry and was used to analysing people, so it amused her when she saw him cold-reading her. As he ushered her farther into his house, the scent of burning sage mingled with the aroma of incense and furniture polish.

He offered her some water, and she declined, though a decent cup of tea wouldn’t have gone amiss. She swallowed. Her throat was dry and her palms felt sweaty. Mr Earl took her into a room he called the parlour and indicated a seat at a circular dark wood table. They sat beside each other with his chair angled towards hers so he could stare into her eyes. He took her hands and rubbed his thumbs over the backs, closing his eyes. Most men would offer wine with such intimacy, she thought and had to smother the smile that threatened to turn into a giggle at the absurdity.

The table was covered in a magenta-coloured cloth embroidered with strange symbols. She stared at them, and the man made odd noises and grunted a few times as though he was answering a question, or taking on information from a third party. Alice felt both uncomfortable and ridiculous. She wanted to speak, but he released her hands and waved her voice away. ‘You have something to show me?’

She needed to explain, but he wafted his hand again to silence her and motioned to the bag.

She put the book in front of him and the medium folded his hands together, studying her through shrewd eyes. He took the book and opened several pages, reading a few words on each. Then he closed his eyes, inhaling the leather. ‘Tell me why you’re here,’ he said.

‘I need to know what it is.’

 Mr Earl lifted the book closer to his face. His fingertips brushed the cover and he seemed to be in a state of ecstasy. Alice shifted uncomfortably in her seat as his eyes shot open. His demeanour changed in an instant. He gagged and as he lifted his head with his eyes bugging, she saw blood flowing from his nostrils. He dropped the book, yanking his hand away as if it had burnt him and searched his pockets for a tissue. Finding one, crumpled and used, he pressed it to his nose. His face was twisted in horror.

‘Where did you get this?’

Alice swallowed. ‘I bought it in a job lot. I think it’s possessed. It writes things before they happen.’

The man shoved his chair back, standing so quickly that it scraped across the floor leaving marks in the laminate. His expression was clear to read and Alice saw naked fear.

‘I want you to leave. I can’t help you,’ he said. ‘Take it and go.’

‘What do you see? You have to tell me something. What is it?’

‘It’s cursed, that’s what it is.’

Blood had drenched the tissue and spread over his hands as he opened the door. She gathered her things. ‘You need to pinch your nose to stem the bleeding,’ she said.

He ignored her. ‘How dare you bring that into my home. You shouldn’t have come.’

‘I’m sorry. I didn’t know what else to do.’

‘Take your money and leave.’

He shoved the notes into her hand, leading her to the front door, which he opened wide.

Stunned, Alice stumbled onto the street and the door slammed behind her.

She got into her car and replayed the last ten minutes. As she looked back, the curtains of Mr Earl’s house twitched. He was watching her—but behind him, just for a moment, she saw another figure. She blinked, and it was gone before the curtains dropped into place. The book sat on the passenger seat in her bag. She felt its mood. It wasn’t bothered about the rejection.

Alice’s first appointment had shaken her, and she hadn’t learnt anything new. She almost gave up, but the book was laughing at her. She wouldn’t let it win and drove to her second meeting.

The university building was beautiful but its columns and heavy oak doors made Alice feel like an intruder. It had been years since she’d set foot in a university. The last time involved tequila and a very questionable essay on Freudian theory. She followed the receptionist’s directions to the correct department and found the professor’s office on the third floor. The door stated its intention and was marked Dr Solène Desrosiers – Department of Anthropology.

Alice knocked.

‘Entrez.’

A lady in her fifties was at a desk, surrounded by bookshelves overflowing with texts on folklore and religion. Dr Desrosiers was a striking woman—tall, with high cheekbones, pitch skin, and sharp eyes that looked inside Alice.

‘Dr Grant?’

She gestured for her to sit.

‘Thank you for seeing me.’

‘It’s a pleasure, I’m sure. Your request was vague, but it intrigued me. You have an interest in voodoo?’

Her pronunciation of the word had a French intonation that made Alice hesitate before putting the book on the desk between them. But she needed answers and shoved it forward like a cursed fruitcake regifted at Christmas ‘Not voodoo specifically. I’m looking for any explanation to tell me what this is.’

The professor raised an eyebrow and, unlike the medium, didn’t flinch when she touched the cover. Her expression was unreadable. ‘Tell me what you know.’

Alice recounted everything and the doctor of anthropology didn’t interrupt as Alice told her how the book wrote things before they happened. She detailed how it had tormented her, and predicted a man’s death in detail.

‘You say it writes the future? It is not unheard of. In Voodoo, the loa spirits can possess objects and imbue them with power. But this sounds like something else.’

‘What?’

Desrosiers tapped the desk. ‘Voodoo is more than dolls and curses. It blends West African traditions with Catholicism—complex, ancient, and often misrepresented. It has evolved and has been shaped by history and oppression. The true Voodooist doesn’t hex people for revenge.’

Something in her tone piqued Alice’s interest. ‘However?’ she asked.

‘However,’ the doctor smiled. ’There are dark branches, as there are in any belief system. Bokors—you’d recognise them as sorcerers—deal in sinister aspects. The powerful ones can create pwen. These are enchanted objects with a specific purpose. Some bring luck, others ruin. An object like this? If it’s been crafted with intent, it will almost certainly shape fate.’

Alice shuddered. ‘So it’s real?’

Desrosiers nodded. ‘Possibly. A cursed item brings misfortune. An enchanted one bends the world to its will. And this one is magnificent. It has its origin in mischief. And that is not the playful word it has morphed into through Western playrooms. It is ancient and  evil.’

‘How do I stop it?’

The professor hesitated, and her demeanour cracked. ‘Destroying an object like this isn’t enough. It needs to be cleansed through ritual.’

‘Can you do it?’

Desrosier’s smile wasn’t reassuring. ‘I have studied Voodoo extensively. I’ve written books on its history and cultural significance. But practice it? No, I have never performed a ritual.’

Alice saw how she turned from her too fast and the way her fingers twitched against the desk. She was lying.

‘Please help me,’ Alice said.

The professor didn’t answer, but bored into her core, assessing her. She ran her hand across the book’s surface and said, ‘It’s such a powerful thing.’ The woman looked at Alice. Her expression was cunning and filled with avarice.

Alice read the look and leapt. Her desperation flared. ‘Take it. Please. I don’t want it.’

‘Your book may not want to come.’

‘Please. I can’t have it near me.’

Dr Desrosier’s fingers curled around the book’s spine and Alice saw hunger in her face.

‘Yes,’ she said. ‘I will take it.’

Alice burst into tears but noticed the professor’s hands clutching the book too tightly. The satisfied smile of a winner played Twister on her lips.

Alice should warn her.

She said nothing.

‘This will herald the end of your troubles,’ Dr Desrosiers said.

And Alice wanted to believe her.

 

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