Confessions of a Demonically Possessed Librarian

Part 5 - The Diabolical Plotting of a Dropped Off Daisy

"Well Fuck."

I gather up the hem of my Georgette dress and slip off my flats. Wasn't expecting to be walking through the woods tonight. Barefoot sucks but the shoes are white floral lace, as comfortable as they are, they'd get real fucked up if they get dragged through the underbrush.

Pain in the ass.

How dare that shitbag librarian question my life choices?! Basically, throwing me out of his car to make my way home alone, at night! Of course, I'm not exactly helpless, but he isn't to know that.

Trying to settle myself, I slow my pace and pay attention to the feeling of soil and dead leaves on my bare feet. The decay of centuries passing under my soles. The comforting cycle of things dying and being reborn anew.

Branches scrape against my straw hat, adorned with Datura flowers woven into the band. It feels like the forest is trying to reclaim me. To drag me down into the mud and make me a part of its ancient process. That is not the fate meant for me.

Breathing in the July air I can sense the stillness of the night. Not many living things are wanting to wander the woods near the house. Creatures of instinct know better.

Anyone with any sense would regard the old house with at least a healthy suspicion. Even most dim-witted humans in this dead-end town steer clear. All except that old crazy Ralph, who seems bent on meddling in my affairs. He'll be dealt with soon enough.

With the sheer amount of death that surrounds all of us, most with even an ounce of curiosity have surely asked why there are not more places of spiritual significance. Why so many accounts of ghosts and visitations are proven false or down to attention seekers and the delusional.

The answer is a simple one.

Supernatural forces are fuel.

Fuel for people like me anyway.

The more conspicuous of my kind have claimed great power over the spiritual realm. Mediums and exorcists, psychics and clairvoyants, warlocks and witches. They all use the dead for their own gain. Usually this garners too much interest from the laypeople, and they are either disproven and subject to humiliation, or worse exiled or burned at the stake.

It's no wonder most chose to "be exposed" rather than display their actual power to these heathens. While puny on their own, enough together could spell curtains for even the most adept conjurer. Personally, none of these outcome's sound all that appealing.

Easier to be discounted from the get-go. A foolish woman chasing ghosts where there are none.

The joke is on them. The reason no one can find evidence of the supernatural after I vacate a property is because I've already absorbed all there was to offer. I drink their paranormal investigation milkshake; I drink it all up!

From town to town, house to house, story to story. Middle America is a smorgasbord of hotspots ripe for the picking. The Brigg's place is my main course though, the meal to end all meals. And yes, this time there will be blood.

Sacrifice was necessary when dealing with a job this big. The whispers of the townsfolk of Depletion weren't inaccurate. This place was brimming with all forms of ghosts and ghoulies. A source of fright for most, or morbid curiosity as was my cover. In reality this was like striking oil in the middle of the desert. A claim to call my own that could make me rich! The only cost involved was supposed to be my useless, layabout brother.

The cry-baby had been tagging along with me for years. Blissfully unaware and only serving to get in the way if anything. Still, a woman on her own moving into a house on the edge of town could draw more attention than it had been worth before. So, I kept him around as a cover.