text: When a person dies, part of their spirit transfers to their most-beloved possession. While cleaning your great-grandmother’s attic, looking for hers, you find an old amulet. An elderly, sweet voice echoes through the empty attic, “Who wants lasagna?” “But that can’t be Nana Jones,” you think, “I’ve never seen her cook anything as long as I’ve been alive.” You return the amulet to the hand-carved antique trunk, drifting into thought. Nana Jones always told the best stories, the way that made you feel you were really there. From sword fights with mythical sea-monsters on old sailing ships to enchanting parties reminiscent of the Great Gatsby, she could keep you bound for hours, enthralled by her words. A voice, mumbling something about hauling closer to the wind, brings you back to the attic, as your hand brushes against a heavily patinaed object you’re pretty sure is a sextant. As you take hold of the tool, the same gruff voice echoes in your head, “that bloody sea-witch, she was the death of me and my crew.” You quickly drop the sextant, shocked by the statement, but just as sure it is not her spirit inside. As it hits the bottom of the chest, the dim droplight glistens faintly off the emerald of an old gold hairpin. Turning it over in your hand, you hear the voice of an actress you remember from those black-and-white movies your Nana always used to watch. “When he left me for that hussy, I thought it couldn’t get any worse, but that witch even managed to convince the detective it was a suicide. Me, in the prime of my life, the bee’s knees, top of the world in Hollywood, who’d believe that?” A feeling of dread fills you as you contemplate the totems, placing the hairpin back in the mahogany box. As you close the box and fumble with the clasp, you notice the engraved circle of moon phases seems to glow with a strange light. “These drop lights are getting to me,” you think, shaking your head. A little past the trunk, you find an old photo album, and blow the dust off the cover before wiping it with your sleeve. On the cover is a picture of your great-grandparents on their wedding day, the sepia-toned image giving her dress a dark color, your great-grandfather entranced by her beauty. As you flip through the pages, you see more pictures of them together, she radiating beauty, he full of blissful adoration. You are looking at the photo of the couple jumping over a broom like they used to do back then, when across the attic, you hear a thump! It is a large, heavy-looking book bound in dark leather. Getting closer you notice it is engraved with an encircled star, the same barely-visible glow coming from its grooves. Carefully unbuckling the leather strap, you can almost hear your great-grandmother telling you about pirates and parties, of banshees and sirens. Turning to the first page you see your great-grandmother’s signed by what seems to be a poem written at each point of an inverted star. You read it aloud, unsure of the order: “Is Death restrained for Hellish spawn A dark refrain, a beldam’s thorn? What’s devel made, which angels scorn, Shall never fade, its soul forsworn, Through words arcane, is seldom mourned.” As you finish, a strong gust of wind blows out through the small dormer window at the end of the attic rustling the pages. You hear Nana’s voice clear as crystal, like she’s in the room with you, “Thanks for the help, dearie!” You turn your head to see your great-grandmother, young as her wedding day, standing in front of you. “A good start,” she whispers, “but there’s still much to learn before you meet Lord Lucifer.