As she stepped through the manor’s gates, Tocalone found the place empty and silent. The vastness of the entrance gave the space a lonely atmosphere, one that would have felt austere if not for the dark green carpet and the black lamps brightening up the walls.

  “Anyone here?!!” she shouted to whoever might be listening. Only the echo of her own voice, bouncing off the green walls, answered her.

  Secretly pleased, Tocalone bounded up the steps of the central staircase, which disappeared into the darkness of the second floor. Moving forward without her sight to guide her, she traced the black ornaments lining the hallway walls with her hand. Her room lay at the very end, guarded by two ornate light bulbs she no longer dared to switch on after one had burned out from age. Once in front of her door, she tested the handle out of sheer paranoia. It resisted her, just as she’d hoped. Relieved, Tocalone fished a rust-speckled key out of her pocket and blindly unlocked her sanctuary.

  The setting sun, even filtered through thin crimson curtains, revealed a large room covered in black cloths draped over the wall lamps, their shapes faintly visible beneath the fabric. In certain spots, the orange of the old wallpaper peeked through the vast coverings—wallpaper Tocalone knew was actually pink. A large desk, buried under towering stacks of books, leaned against the back wall, flanked to its left by an antique mirror. Tocalone had tucked her favorite photos into the mirror’s frame. Every picture showed a middle-aged woman with a bald head, always covered by a white veil. Her clothes changed each time, as did the background, but the smile remained the same in every photo.

  Tocalone shrugged off her bag and dropped heavily into her desk chair, under her mother’s silent gaze. She spent a moment studying her own reflection in the mirror, searching for even the faintest resemblance between them. But no matter how hard she looked, there was nothing to find. Her dark eyes and hair came from her father. Same for her nose and lips.

  Even the chin, she thought, tapping it in frustration.

  She allowed herself a few seconds of quiet mourning before pulling herself back together. From her bag, she pulled out her favorite book—a true grimoire, bound in aged leather. A six-pointed star gleamed gold in the fading sunlight. The page she was after featured an illustration of a seal engraved with esoteric symbols. Above the drawing, a calligraphed title read "The Eye of Mammon," a translation she had worked out herself. The ancient Hebrew text was scribbled over with so many of Tocalone’s own notes that the page was barely legible anymore. But she’d read it so often, she knew it by heart. A clean book is an unread book, Mika had told her years ago. The memory made her smile.

  Tocalone laid the open book on the floor so she could clearly see the symbol she was about to recreate, then made her way to her neatly made bed. From beneath her pillow, she produced a kitchen knife she knew was razor-sharp. Its blade shimmered with a faint orange vein in the dying daylight. Tool in hand, she returned to her desk and retrieved a jar from one of the drawers. She opened it and set it down next to a bottle of rubbing alcohol and a few sterile pads. Just in case, she tore open two pads and unscrewed the bottle cap.

  Then, gently, she rolled up her left sleeve. Scars sprang into view immediately—a forest of cuts disfiguring skin that had once been pale, in a life that felt like it belonged to someone else. Tocalone traced one of them with her fingertip and shivered despite herself.

  Come on

  Carefully, she pressed the blade against her wrist and froze. Her breathing was loud and ragged. No matter how many times she’d done this before, it never got any easier—the act always carried the same weight. Tocalone squeezed the knife’s handle until pain bit into her palm, trying to swap fear for something sharper. Another of Mika’s lessons. She lifted her gaze. Her mother smiled back from the photographs.

  “AAAHHHH!!” she screamed, dragging the blade across her wrist in one harsh stroke. A searing burn ripped through her skin, blinding her senses for an instant. Bright red blood burst out like a flood, eager to escape her veins. Tocalone dropped the knife and grabbed her forearm with her free hand, holding it above the jar to catch the rushing liquid. The container drank greedily, like a traveler who had crossed a desert, swallowing mouthful after mouthful of crimson.

  She controlled the flow as best as she could, minimizing the splatters on her desk. Once satisfied with the amount of her flesh-born paint, Tocalone brought the edges of her weeping wound to her lips, pressing them together as tightly as she could. With her half-free hand, she doused the sterile pads in alcohol, then swiftly let go of her arm and slapped the cotton onto the wound. Fresh pain clawed at her nerves, but she held firm, keeping pressure steady. The bleeding slowed, but it wasn’t until the fourth pad that the white remained unstained.

  From the still-open drawer, she fished out a bandage, applying it as delicately as her trembling fingers allowed.

  Her reflection stared back at her, drenched in sweat, features twisted with pain. She took deep, uneven breaths, trying to pull herself back to calm, never breaking eye contact with herself. Behind her, the jar—now filled to the brim with scarlet—caught the last light of the sun in its murky depths.

  Tocalone let a few moments slip by, waiting for her pulse to settle. She pushed her damp hair back from her forehead, picked up the jar, and knelt beside the open grimoire on the floor. Dipping two fingers into the blood, she began tracing the symbol from the page onto the wooden planks. Her movements, shaky and weak from blood loss, were still precise enough to form the pentagram, encircled by a chain of cabalistic runes.

  When the symbol was complete, she took out five candles, coating each one in her blood before placing them at the points of the star now painted across her floor. From the bottom drawer, she retrieved a lighter and set each wax column ablaze, until the entire room swam in flickering, dancing shadows.

  Her work finished, Tocalone took a moment to simply look at it. She remembered one of her middle school art teachers once saying that real artists pour their experiences into their creations, leaving a piece of themselves in their work. A smile tugged at her lips as she imagined that teacher’s face if they saw this.

  Tocalone, the artist-in-training. Or maybe an artist in woodwork, she thought with amusement, brushing her fingers against the floorboards.

  In the fading sunlight, she mentally reread the legend she had translated herself: An object to open the way, a subject to seal it, and in blood, they shall be bound. She met her mother’s gentle gaze one last time before reciting the incantation in ancient Hebrew.

  Immediately, the air above the symbol began to shimmer, as though an invisible flame had sparked to life—whether above or beneath the seal was impossible to tell. Slowly, something took shape out of nothing: a white eye with a blood-red pupil. Her blood. Its iris wasn’t a perfect circle, but an elongated slit, more serpentine than human. And so, the Eye of Mammon came to life, hovering right in front of her. A solitary eye, unblinking, staring at her with a gaze impossible to read.

  For a long moment, girl and eye simply stared at each other—Tocalone too afraid to move, the eye pulsing faintly in silence. She reached out a hand, trying to touch it, but the eye slipped away the instant her fingers drew close, only to reappear once she pulled back.

  “You still won’t talk to me?” she sighed.

  The eye gave no answer.

  “What? You don’t like my blood? Getting picky now?”

  Nothing.

  She repeated the incantation, first in Hebrew, then in French, but got no response. This was probably the twentieth time she’d summoned the damned thing, always ending up here—stuck. She’d tried altering the pentagram, before and after the chant. She’d tried talking to it in different languages, even writing notes on scraps of paper and holding them up. The ritual spoke of an object, but she had no clue what object it meant. Paperclip? Glove? Glass? And how was she even supposed to sacrifice an object? Just placing something in the middle of the pentagram had done nothing. Worse, she wasn’t even sure object was the right translation. Her Hebrew was more the product of enthusiasm than expertise. Sure, object paired nicely with subject, but maybe there was some nuance she’d completely missed.

  A case of theft: this story is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.

  The word sacrifice triggered two thoughts. First, the obvious—something alive, like an ox. Or a human. The Aztecs sacrificed virgins to their sun god. Am I supposed to do something like that? The thought made her stomach churn.

  An ox would have been easier, morally, but a nightmare logistically. Something smaller, maybe? Once, she’d even bought a mouse specifically to sacrifice. She’d asked the pet store for the ugliest one they had. But when the time came, she couldn’t go through with it. The mouse had lived in a cage on top of her wardrobe ever since.

  Maybe it was a metaphorical sacrifice? In that case, she was even more lost. How do you sacrifice a metaphor? Maybe it’s my sanity that has to go.

  Frustrated, Tocalone had resorted to just talking to the eye about her life, hoping maybe it had a hidden ear somewhere. Divine inspiration might strike—or maybe she’d die of old age before that happened.

  Sighing away that grim train of thought, she flipped randomly through her grimoire, skimming pages she’d already translated. The book promised to reveal the keys to reality for anyone who could interpret its content, but most of it was drawings, weird math, and half-baked medicinal recipes. The page she landed on described a concoction meant to slow bleeding—in exhaustive detail. At least that one worked. Others, like liquid luck or bottled love, had done absolutely nothing.

  The blood-red eye just kept watching her in silence.

  Her bandage was fully soaked through. She went to grab a fresh one when a voice from downstairs made her jump.

  “Tocalone!” her father called from the ground floor.

  Maybe it was the blood loss, but her temples were pounding like hell.

  “Tocalone?!” he called again, louder this time.

  Annoyed, she yanked open her door and yelled back.

  “What?!”

  “Come down, please. I need to talk to you.”

  Will he leave if I just ignore him? She kept quiet for a few seconds, but hope died quickly.

  “Tocalone?!”

  “I’m coming!” she shouted, sighing hard enough to deflate herself. She crossed to her desk, changed the bandage, then glanced at the still-floating eye.

  “Just in case,” she muttered, almost apologetic, as she grabbed a cloth and wiped away part of the seal. The eye vanished instantly, though a faint red tinge seemed to linger in the air. She blinked a few times. Gone. I’ll have to try again later, just in case I’m losing my mind.

  She stared at her reflection one last time to make sure she looked somewhat normal, then stepped out, locking her door behind her. Down the hall, back to the grand staircase. From the top of the stairs, she could see the kitchen door left ajar. A low voice was singing a melancholy tune she couldn’t quite place.

  There was something familiar about the tune, though she couldn’t quite place it. The smell of frying ham filled her nostrils, making her stomach growl against her will. Halfheartedly, she descended the stairs and crossed the white tiles until she reached the kitchen doorway.

  Her father, a broad-shouldered man with graying hair, was busy at the stove. He didn’t turn around, but somehow still knew she was there.

  “Scrambled, fried, or soft-boiled?”

  Tocalone blinked, too stunned to answer right away. When her silence stretched, he repeated:

  “Your eggs. How do you want them?”

  “I’m not hungry,” she lied, immediately betrayed by the loud rumble from her stomach.

  Her father turned to face her. They had the same dark eyes.

  He raised his eyebrows, fixing her with a stare until she gave in.

  “Fried,” she admitted, sulking.

  “Sit down,” he said, turning back to the stove.

  Out of excuses, she obeyed and took a seat. In no time at all, he placed a full American breakfast in front of her. The wall clock read 8 p.m.

  “Isn’t it a bit late for breakfast?” she asked, suspicious.

  Her father, now serving himself and bringing over a pitcher of orange juice, replied:

  “There wasn’t much else in the fridge. And a little change of routine isn’t bad, right?”

  “So that’s why you’re cooking? To shake things up?”

  “Among other reasons.”

  “Where’s Jordan?”

  “I sent the staff home. Figured it would be nice for us to have some time together.” He smiled as he said it.

  I see…

  Tocalone picked up her fork and took a bite under her father’s watchful gaze.

  “How’s school?” he asked.

  “Fine.”

  “And boys?”

  “Same.”

  “And that book you’re reading?”

  “It’s going.”

  She set her fork down, grabbed her glass of juice, and stood up.

  “I’m done. Thanks.”

  She was already turning away when her father’s voice cut through the air, sharper now.

  “Tocalone!”

  She faced him again.

  “I’m serious.”

  “Okay, let’s be serious then. My card!” she shot back.

  He looked confused, so she pressed on.

  “My credit card doesn’t work anymore. Why?!”

  This time, her father’s face twisted into a grimace.

  “Tocalone,” he said defensively, “I spoke to your teacher. She hasn’t seen you in a week.”

  “And what’s it to you?” she snapped immediately. “That’s Mom’s money. MY mom’s money!” she added, hammering the my. “You have no right to steal it!”

  “I’m your father!” he countered, indignation creeping into his voice.

  “Oh, because you made me eggs once in your life? By that logic, I’ve got a million fathers—every cafeteria cook counts. Might as well add every restaurant chef, I’m sure they’d love to hear the news.”

  That one hit home. Her father stood there, silent, visibly unsure how to recover. For the briefest second, she could’ve sworn he looked hurt. But with a single blink, the mask was back in place.

  “Your mother would’ve wanted you to work.”

  “We’re rich!” she shot back, gesturing at the manor surrounding them. “I could live a hundred years and never go broke. I don’t need to waste my time—especially at some trash school.”

  “That’s not your decision to make,” he countered. “As long as you’re a minor, you’re my responsibility.”

  Tocalone laughed right in his face.

  “Guess we’re not speaking the same French.”

  That finally got her what she wanted—her father’s temper flaring.

  “Enough!” he raised his voice. “Until you’re of age and as long as you live under my roof, you’ll do as I say and go to school. Insult me, disrespect me, hate me if you want. But you will listen.”

  For a second, she was stunned into silence. Then, she recovered—her mind exploding with insults like fireworks fired in revenge.

  “You know what? I don’t even hate you!” she snapped, already storming toward the door. Then, with a glare sharp enough to cut glass, she added:

  “It’s kinda hard to hate someone who’s never there!”

  And with that, she was gone, not even waiting to see his reaction. She heard him calling after her, but she ignored it completely. Back in the entrance hall, she thought about grabbing her book but decided against it. Instead, she stepped out of the manor, slamming the door behind her.

  Outside, the night breeze hit her face, cooling her anger just a little. That’s when reality kicked in—she’d forgotten to press for her credit card, and she didn’t have any cash on her either. Going back now would mean losing face, and besides, she doubted he’d give it to her even if she begged.

  It’s hard to hate someone you don’t care about. That’s what I should’ve said. Why is it the perfect line only shows up after it’s too late?

  She realized she was biting her lip and forced herself to stop.

  What would her mother think if she were still here? Would she be the understanding, gentle woman Tocalone liked to imagine for comfort? Or would she be furious to see her family tearing itself apart like this?

  Drowning in those dark thoughts, she grabbed one of the bikes lying in the courtyard and hopped on. Without thinking, she pedaled straight toward the village, though she couldn’t have said what exactly she was looking for.