Nesting: Demonic Games Series Book 1

Chapter 6

Dust covered every surface in the overly stacked storage room. Mihail’s every movement stirred it up until it hung in the air like fog. It wasn’t enough to deter him as he explored the massive array of items around him. Bunica Draciana hadn’t lied. Grandfather’s collection was extensive. Unlike Mihail, his grandfather had forgone frames to keep his samples organized in leather bound books. The dried flowers and leaves filled the pages, each one neatly labeled with their Latin names and the location of their collection. It was the first time he had ever seen his grandfather’s handwriting. There was something about seeing the swirls of ink on the aged paper that made the man real. Not just a vague concept of a man who shared his name. But someone of flesh and blood.

At first, Mihail had been hesitant to go into another storage room after yesterday’s encounters. But the collection, coupled with Bunica Draciana’s encouragement, had lured him in. Even so, he hadn’t let her leave until he was sure there was nothing the ghosts could hold against him. He had done the washing up and ensured that she hadn’t needed anything. He had permission to be there and everything he said was kind and courteous. Time had passed swiftly while he was engrossed in the books, and it was only the sudden beep of his phone’s battery warning that made him look up.

Probably should get back to moving that stuff in the kitchen, he reluctantly acknowledged. Not to mention that they had yet to have the possibly awkward conversation about what help she needed most around this place. Not entirely sure he could find his way back here, he piled up some of the books to take back to his room and got to his feet. Pins and needles flushed down his numb legs, making him stagger slightly. He dusted himself off, each brush sending more dust careening into the air. His mouth twisted in disgust.

The music coming from his phone wasn’t loud enough to drown out the sound of boxes suddenly shifting over stone. Mihail snapped his head up. Everything was still. Crouching low, he picked up the pile of the books and collected his phone. He didn’t bother to turn it off. If the ghosts had decided that he shouldn’t be here, he was going to get out as quickly as possible. The door was on the far side of the room and only came into view when he rounded a few standalone closets. It was opened wide, offering a glimpse of the hallway, and he rushed towards it. He only got a few steps before the sliding sound came again. A heavy wooden trunk swept across the room to block his path. Leaping back, he tightened his grip on the books, the edges digging into the cut on his hand. Hot blood seeped into his bandage, but he ignored it. With quick glances, he searched for another exit. There was nothing.

With a resounding crack, the trunk hurtled towards him. Mihail ducked. It sailed over his head, close enough that the edges scraped across the top of his scalp, and smashed against the cabinet behind him. Landing hard atop the books, he covered his head and tried to ignore the painful twinge that snapped across his ribs. The contents of the trunk rained down upon him like hail. Sheets of paper and scattered clothes. He didn’t dare move until long after the last blow. Caught between the books and his chest, his phone’s rendition of Beethoven became a muffled whisper. It was still the only sound in the room. Slowly, he lifted his hand and pulled aside the jacket that had landed upon him. Loose papers slipped off of him as he began to move. The childish pictures, each one made with crayons or paints, caught his attention. The hundreds of pages had one singular theme. A woman in blue with small red eyes. Like the one on the Russian nesting doll.

Mihail gathered the pages into a loose stack and began to flip through them. Ice water filled his stomach as he noticed his own name written in the corner. I drew these? His movements became erratic as he flipped through the sheets. Sitting back on his knees, Mihail grabbed another stack. It didn’t matter what he had drawn; the woman was always there. There was something familiar about her. Something that tickled on the edges of his awareness. Page after page, the same woman stared back at him, the sight so hypnotic that he almost missed that the signature had changed. Iuliana. Mom?