12:43. Saturday. I was sprawled face down on the table. My heart had ceased to beat. My blood splattered across the plate in front of me. The chocolate croissant was probably still warm. It's a shame. I was looking forward to it.
Let's rewind a bit.
12:30. I walked into the café. What had started as a need for a change of scenery had turned into a habit. It wasn't like there was anything special about this café in particular, one of many of the same chain in the city. A few metal tables stood outside, shaded by cloth umbrellas from the sunshine. Once inside, you could observe some the monotonous slew of students slaving over their laptops and assignments, the occasional artist curled up in the corner people watching, working adults on their break, and the families, likely on vacation, stopping by and picking up a coffee before moving on to a more tourist friendly part of the city. All was observed disinterestedly by employees who looked like they'd rather be anywhere but here.
Going up to the counter, I ordered a coffee and a chocolate croissant from the barista with the dead-inside look in her eye. She asked for a name and I'd answered, quickly leaving to get a table. It's the most I'd interacted with anyone all day. It didn't matter at the moment, but it would eventually. To think, my last words were "chocolate croissant."
I chose a table by the window, brushing off crumbs left by the last person there. As I waited for my order, I opened my laptop. To my chagrin, the Word document titled "Essay" was still devoid of text. My fingers hovered above the keys for a moment, before I rested them on the table. I was going to need coffee to get through this.
Like a god answering my unspoken prayers, the girl at the counter called my name. I grabbed my laptop, tucking it under my arm. Logically, I knew that no one was going to steal it in the fifteen seconds it took to get up from my seat, but I'm not the type of person who can resist those small illogical actions.
Going up to the counter, I took the coffee, warmth seeping through the styrofoam cup, in one hand and my croissant in the other, focused on not dropping them or my laptop as I headed back to my seat. Stood in front of my table I placed both down, then reached for the laptop under my arm. The bell on the café door behind me jingled, but I paid it no attention.
That is, until I heard a click from a few feet behind me. Before I could turn, there was an explosion of pain in the back of my head. I tipped forward like a drunk, dropping my laptop to the ground, collapsing onto the table. 12:43. It's at this moment that my heart stopped. My face on the table, my blood on the croissant, unaware of the chaos that unfolded from there on. My world went dark.
...
Something is wrong. I'm lying on my back, resting on what feels like... grass? I open my eyes to the sight of a starry sky. Okay, that's strange. Wasn't I inside? Trying to think about it makes my head hurt.
I sit up, my loose hair falling over my right eye, observing my darkened surroundings. The sky is dark, trees almost bare, with their remaining leaves shuddering in the fall breeze. Closer to the ground, stone headstones surround me, but it's too dark to see what's inscribed on them. I'm in a graveyard apparently. That's not very reassuring. What I notice next is that next to where I'm sitting is an open grave.
Logically, I know it's only six feet deep, but it feels like a yawning abyss. I scramble back from it, but my back hits something. I turn.
It's a coffin. I shy back a little, but on a closer look, it appears to be empty. I let out a sigh of relief. Until I realize. Open grave, empty coffin, what's missing here?
The corpse, of course. My breath quickens, my heart beating erratically in my chest. I shoot to my feet; a dress I know I wasn't wearing at the café brushes against my knees in the breeze. Backing up until the backs of my knees hit a different gravestone. I slowly move my eyes to the grave, but somehow I know what I'm going to see. There's no rotting corpse, just an open coffin and an open grave, a pile of upturned dirt to the side.
A sharp pain radiates from my head once again, seeming to originate from behind my right eye. I brush my hair out from in front of it. However, I still can't see from that side. My hand travels to my eye socket, and I gently move my finger over where my eyelid is supposed to be. It hits open air. So I don't have an eye. Alright. Surprisingly, I'm not freaking out. Yet. The shock is going to wear off any minute now, so I take advantage of that to investigate the scene around me.
Looking closer at the grass, a circle seems to be drawn in the same type of chalk that's used for sports fields. As I pace around towards the pile of dirt on the opposite side of the hole from the coffin, I notice there are symbols written on the outside of the circle, though none that I recognize. I avoid stepping on them, even though it's apparent that whatever spell this was set up for is no longer in progress. By now I have an idea of what happened here, but I push it aside. If I entertain it any longer I'm probably going to faint. Or cry.
Finally, I reach the pile of earth, and sitting on it, open and face down in the dirt, is a book. I pick it up, feeling the cover and spine. Its small, unassuming, like an old dime novel that one would pick up at a used book store, only to leave its dog-eared pages and damaged spine on a coffee table, forgotten, once something more interesting comes along. I shake it a little to get dirt off the pages, and squint at the cover in the dark. Superimposed over an illustration of a magic circle, is a title I've only seen in news segments or dark corners of the internet. Raising the Dead for Fun and Profit a book that was banned years ago for teaching necromancy, magic's only forbidden discipline. That's...
I think the shock's wearing off. My brain's running a mile a minute, trying to put the pieces together. So I died. And now I'm alive! But my eye is gone? Who took it? Come to think of it, who killed me in the first place? Who brought me back? Do dead people still need to breathe? Apparently, because I've forgotten to for the last few seconds, and my body is screaming at me. I suck in a deep breath, then let it out slowly, staring at the ground in front of me and gripping the book tightly in my hands.
First things first. I need to get out of here. Who knows what people would do if they saw some girl next to a dug up grave clutching the most illegal book in existence. Actually, I do. They'd call the police.
I take one last look at the grave, but there's nothing else I can do. I walk away, towards the fence I can barely make out in the gloom. The graveyard is silent, still. The wind has stopped for now, but I think I preferred it. I suddenly feel out of place, a beating heart, breathing lungs, in this place of silence and rest. I speed up, resisting the temptation to look over my shoulder.
When I finally reach the wrought-iron fence, I peer outside through the bars. Unfortunately, I don't recognize the wooded street outside. I silently curse myself for never exploring the city any further than the college campus and the nearest café. To my credit though, I thought I'd have more time, having just moved. I sigh, and move along the fence until I reach the gate. To my relief, it's unlocked. It opens with a squeak, and I step out onto the sidewalk.
It looks as though the graveyard is located on the outskirts of the city. Not very shady, but definitely not what you would call upper-class. To my left, I can see a park with trees on its edge, and to my right and front are rows of medium-sized houses. While I stand in contemplation, wondering if there was a way for me to get back into my dorm, if my stuff is even still there, a breeze blows through the street, picking up leaves and a few pieces of trash.
Something hits my leg, and I lean down to brush it off, but upon a closer look, I see it's a newspaper, new from the looks of it. I lift it up, and place "Raising the Dead for Fun and Profit" under my arm so I can hold it with both hands. The date at the top informs me that it's been a week since my last memory of my trip to the café. My essay is late. The thought brings out a hysterical giggle, because I know now, that essay's never going to be turned in. Not when my very existence violates both law and the natural order. A single line of tears is streaming down my face by now, landing with a soft plop on the paper. Before I can wake up the entire neighborhood with a combination of laughter and violent sobbing, my eye falls to the headline, and I fall silent again.
MAN JAILED FOR MURDER OF STUDENT IN ROBBERY GONE WRONG
On September 18th, one week ago, in coffee shop near the university, a
student was fatally shot in the head by a robber who then proceeded to
hold up the cashier at gunpoint, demanding the money in the cash
register. Luckily for the shop, a nearby police-mage saw what was
happening and cast a sleeping spell on the criminal from outside the shop.
The robber was arrested, but unfortunately it was too late for the injured
student. Ashley Escamilla, mage and student, was pronounced dead on the scene
by paramedics. We give our condolences to her family and wish them
the best.
Well that's that I guess. No one I knew, no big conspiracy, just a robber who wanted to look intimidating. It's somewhat anticlimactic, actually, if I one could even say that about their own murder. I reach up to my one working eye, only to find I've run out of tears. I feel like I need to do something, be somewhere, but what's left for me to do? My family thinks I'm dead. Hell, they're probably the ones who planned the funeral.
I pick a random direction and walk, flipping violently through the newspaper as I go, anything to distract myself. Sports, community events, a local junior mage competition. I haven't missed much apparently. I flip past the comics and crossword, back to the classified ads. There's the usual fare, coven memberships, bake sales, people selling old junk for prices both too cheap and too exorbitant. Just as I'm about to toss the whole thing, or maybe ter it to shreds, I happen to catch a glance of a small ad at the bottom of the page.
It's small, not the kind of thing that immediately catches one's eye, but the small logo is very distinctive. Some sort of flower, rendered entirely in silhouette. The text on the ad reads:
June Marigold, Private Mage Detective
Have you been put under a spell but can't prove
it? Haunted by malevolent yokai? Does the vision
of a black dog always appear out of the corner of
your eye? We here at the Marigold agency are
uniquely qualified to solve your magical mysteries.
Client confidentially guaranteed.
Find us at 848-213 Verity St. Phantombelle City
Well it couldn't hurt right? Not like I've got anything to lose.