Chapter I

The room is engulfed in darkness. No moon shining outside, no lights, nothing. I’m lying in my bed, eyes closed, waiting. Sure enough, a few seconds later I hear my mother coming to my room, checking if I am asleep. She opens the door as silent as she could, but the old wood still creaks. Even though I can’t see anything, I can still feel her wincing at the sound, fearing that she would wake me up. I’m constraining myself to remain silent, to not move, not make a sound, I’m even afraid to blink. After a few seconds of staying in the doorway, she seems to be satisfied with my regular breath. She steps outside of the room and closes the door. I hear the voice of my father whispering outside.
“Is he sleeping?”
Yeah, he’s finally asleep. I’m starting to worry, though. Every night in the past two weeks he’s been staying up late, reading some old books he’s found in the attic. Every time I’m asking him what he’s reading, he’s hiding the book under the blanket saying <nothing, Ma.>”
I can hear my father laughing softly.
“Ah yes, I remember being his age. I’m pretty sure I know what he’s reading. He’s probably some old Playboys or Hustlers and he’s… you know. Maturing. Doing the things the boys his age are usually doing at his age.”
“You mean he’s reading some porn magazines?” I hear my mother rising the tone, a little surprised.
“Well, I guess we should start getting used to him growing up. Shit, I was almost thinking he’s researching some satanistic rituals there,” said my mother, her tone slightly amused.
“Come on, let’s get back to sleep. That is, if you want to sleep,” the tone in my fathers voice unmistakable.
“Well then, let’s see what you got, old boy,” I hear my mother laughing. I hear them making some kissing noises, talking softly – even though I can’t make out words anymore – and then I hear the door at their room closing.
Crap. I need to find a way to get this images out of my head. Gross.
Most teenage kids prefer not to think of what their parents are doing in their dormitory and believe me, I wouldn’t if my parents weren’t be so bloody obvious sometimes. Of course, they think I’m sleeping but still. They could have this kind of discussions in their room.
Double crap. They also think I’m fapping every night.
But they are wrong. These aren’t Playboys. I’ve found my dad’s old stash and nicked some magazines and he was never the wiser. Hypocrite. That what I am reading is far more interesting then some cheap porn magazines. Far more dangerous. My mom wasn’t entirely wrong. Except for the fact that these aren’t satanistic rituals, they are more like spiritual books, if one could call them that way. No. The correct word would be spiritism books.
Books about demons, ghosts, spirits and other so called fantastical beings. Beings of whom our parents always told us they do not exist. Just fairytales.
Yeah, right. The problem with these books was that they would describe these beings so detailed, so precisely that they would make anyone believe in the slight possibility of their existing. And these books weren’t horror stories. They simply – or not so simply – described what these beings are and how to contact them. Sophisticated summoning rituals. Dangers that would lie ahead if someone were foolish enough to attempt to conjure them.