Connor's Point of View

Page 2: The Grimoire That Shouldn’t Be

Connor stepped off the last basement stair, warm beer in one hand, phone in the other — flashlight on.The floorboards groaned behind him.

The air hit like a punch to the lungs.

Cold. Thick. Stinking.

Mould. Damp. Shit.

Like time and rot had been fighting for ownership and neither had won.

He moved the light across the basement: cobwebs, boxes, collapsed shelves. Shadows leaned like they were drunk.

A loud smash echoed from above.

Then another.

Peat. Obviously.

“Jesus Christ…” Connor muttered under his breath.

He ignored it. Kept moving. Careful steps.

His phone beam caught the edge of a sagging crate. Books. Warped, bloated with damp. Smelled worse up close — like someone tried to ferment a library.

Next to it: a bent, half-crushed cardboard box. He lifted the lid.

Inside — linen. Yellowed. Stiff. Stained at the edges.

It stank like wet rags left in a bin.

Connor peeled it back and froze.

A book.

But not really.

The Grimoire That Shouldn’t Be

Just a cover of bone, wood, metal, and leather strips — woven together like a relic someone tried to forget.

Inside, no stack of pages.
Just two sides:
Left Side – The Warning
Etched into the inside cover:
THE THREE GOLDEN RULES
Whatever is written shall come true.
The words fade. The wish becomes reality.

1. Whatever is written shall come true.
2. It cannot create or destroy love. (Some things go beyond magic.)
3. It cannot kill. It cannot bring back the dead.

Write carefully. Words are sacred.
There are no second chances.
Right Side – The Page
A single page — glowing, shifting, and not made of parchment.
Something ethereal.
Like fog and glass become one.
The page is embedded into the back cover.
Whatever you write disappears.
Whatever you write becomes real.
The Quill
Resting in a carved groove within the cover.
It does not roll.
It does not fall.
Gold tip
Dark wood shaft
Red feather, sharp and vibrant
Despite the materials, it’s light as air — like it wants to float.
It was made only for that one page.
Nothing else will take its ink.
And it never runs dry.

Connor stepped into the room.

Peat was already there, sprawled sideways across the sofa like he’d melted into it, scarf tied around his head like a pirate flag.

He was mid-rant, beer sloshing in his hand.

“—and then the fridge growled, right? Not like fridge noise, like... grrrrr, fridge aggression.”

Connor didn’t respond.

He crossed the room, set the book on his lap, and opened it — calmly, quietly.

Peat squinted at the glow.

“What... the shit is that?” he asked, blinking hard.

Connor: “Book. From the basement.”

Peat leaned in like he was trying to read through the beer in his hand.

“Ooooohhh... glowy book. Basement ghost diary.”

Connor: “It’s not a diary.”

Peat pointed dramatically. “Looks diary-ish. I wrote a diary once. Year Four. Mostly about ham.”

Connor said nothing.

Then—Josh came crashing in from upstairs.

Boots heavy. Face red.

Beer raised like a trophy.

He missed the last two steps, stumbled, somehow spun, and landed with a ta-da! pose.

“I. DIDN’T. SPILL. A DROP!!”

Connor didn’t even look up. “You’re a national embarrassment.”

Josh swaggered across the room like he’d just landed a plane.

“Whatcha got there? Another cursed cookbook?”

He leaned down over Connor’s shoulder, beer breath hot and way too close.

Connor: “Grimoire. Magic. Maybe real.”

Josh raised his can like a toast. “Everything’s magic if you’re pissed enough.”

Connor turned a page. “Apparently, whatever you write in it becomes real.”

Josh, squinting: “Apparently... whatever you write becomes real?”

Then laughed. “Alright, Gandalf.”

Connor ignored him.

Instead, he quietly picked up the quill, and scribbled on the edge of the page:

“Turn Josh’s beer into ice-cold Coke.”

The glowing ink faded instantly.

Josh frowned. “Oi—my beer’s cold—”

He looked down.

“Wait—why’s it Coke?”

He dropped it. It thudded and rolled.

Peat screamed laughing.

“YOU’VE BEEN CURSED BY DIET!”

Josh stared at the can, mouth open. “That was beer. I saw it. I drank it!”

Connor, deadpan: “And now it’s not.”

Peat staggered up from the couch, still laughing, pointing at the Coke like it owed him money.

“He’s got witch powers, Josh. Witch! Burn him!!”

Connor closed the book.

“I’m taking this home.”

Josh: “Wait—why?! We’ll be good!”

Peat: “I won’t even wish for nipples on my knees! Not this time!”

Connor stood.

“Because I’d like to read it without you two turning it into a sex genie or summoning haunted snacks.”

Peat: “Wait, we can summon snacks?”

Josh reached for the book. Connor moved it away.

“No. You don’t get it. You shouldn’t get it.”

Peat raised both hands. “Alright, fine. Fiiiine. Take your sexy magic book and leave.”

Josh, stumbling slightly: “Just don’t wish for taxes or boring adult shit!”

Connor opened the door.

“I’m wishing for a restraining order from both of you.”

He stepped out and slammed it shut behind him.