“Hey kiddo, dinner’s ready,” Martha’s dad said, poking his head out of the sliding glass door onto the deck where Martha was reading.

“’K,” she said, marking her spot with a bookmark.

“Storm’s coming,” her dad observed.

“Hm?” Martha said, looking up. Sure enough, on the horizon a tall stack of clouds stood at the edge of the blue skies. They advanced slowly, but perceptively. Martha thought of a 19th century army led by a frontline of gigantic white stallions, charging into battle. Pulses of thunder proceeded them.

“Looks like we’re eating inside,” Martha added.

“Why don’t we move the chairs, just to be safe?” he said.

Martha put her book down on the table, picked up one of their six outdoor chairs and followed her dad down the few steps of the deck, which was just tall enough for the chairs to fit under. Apparently, before Martha was born and at their old house, there had been a storm that had been so powerful that it had blown one of their deck chairs into a window, cracking it. Martha had a hard time imaging any force of nature moving these chairs, which were as wide and clumsy as they were heavy, but her dad was paranoid all the same.

He moved at twice the pace as her and they had the chairs and patio umbrella stashed away in mere minutes. As Martha walked up the stairs from her final trip, a cool wind rushed past her, sweeping away the heavy, humid air from the day. A thick splat of water hit the deck by her feet, the dark stain from the sky randomly and quickly staining the deck. She reached for her book and huddled over it as a cold drop hit her on the top of the head right on her part, sending a shiver down her spin. She dove inside.

Fluffy was at the other end of the sliding glass door, staring at the falling rain with great interest. Martha wondered if it was a morbid fascination for him, as he hated being wet, but every storm he plopped himself at a window where he could watch it roll by. She leaned over to pet him between the ears, but he dodged her pets; he was on edge.

Martha took her place at their table as the wind slapped the side of their house and dark sheets of rain obscured her view of the yard. But, inside, it was warm and calm. Her parents had made chicken fajitas and the spread of toppings dotted the table. Martha loved when she could assemble her own meal.

Martha listened to her parents talk about whatever it was that their places of work were doing now that was so egregious. Neither of them cared much for their bosses or their decision making and, as of late, it seemed to have gotten worse. She focused on enjoying her fajitas. She had a remarkable ability to tune her parents out, developed over years of boring family meals and drives.

“….Martha,” her mom said.

“Oh, what?” Martha said.

“How was your day today?” her mom asked, using a tone that implied that she was repeating herself.

Martha shrugged. “Fine.”

“How’s your book?”

Martha glanced at the library book on the counter. It had been on the best seller table at the library and had been highlighted on all the book blogs and Instagram accounts that she followed. So far it had been a little too…highfalutin…or something. She didn’t know, but she felt like it was just one click too much, like the author was just a little smarter than her. Everyone said it was a beautiful read, but it took forever for anything to happen and some of the words made her feel dumb.

“It’s okay,” she said to her mom. “I think it might be a little over my head.”

“Hmmm. I was worried about that with this one, at least what I’ve heard of it. But hang in there. If it’s hard to read, that tells me that you’re pushing yourself. You get through this one, and the next one will be easier.”

Martha shrugged, unsure if it was worth it, but she also disliked abandoning books halfway through. It was like cutting someone off when they were talking; it felt rude and disingenuous.

“Speaking of books,” Martha’s dad said. “Martha found quite the doosy today at the antique store.”

“That’s right,” her mom said. “Did you find that door thing-a-ma-bob?”

“Yeah, I’ll install it tomorrow when you girls are out,” her dad said. The two of them were going to go into the city to run some errands.

“And you said something about a book?”

“Yeah. In that huge antique store she found me an old carpentry book. And there’s an entire chapter on making doors – and installing locks and handles.” He turned his attention to Martha. “I swear. I don’t know how you do it, but you have a knack for finding the exact right thing at the exact right time!”

Martha was confused. The old book that she found that afternoon was about spotting valuable old books. Not carpentry. Had she put it down at some point and picked up the wrong one?

No…No. It had never left her hands until she’d given it to her dad.

She looked at Fluffy, who she thought had something to do with all this, given that he’d pointed to it with his tail and all. He was still fixated on the rain.

“Martha. Martha! You whooo!”

“Oh, yeah, Dad. Sorry,” she said.

“Can you leave it out before you go tomorrow?”

“I thought you were going to just YouTube it,” her mom said.

“What’s the fun in that?” he replied. “Especially when I have an old book on it?”

“Yeah, sure,” Martha said and paused for a moment. “Can I please be excused?”

“You okay honey?” her mom said. Her mom always noticed when her mood shifted.

“Yeah I just…I’m just done eating.”

“Okay.”

Martha took her plate to the kitchen and put it in the dishwasher before going down the hallway into her room. Fluffy darted in as she closed the door, almost catching his tail.

She pulled the book out of the plastic bag. It felt even heavier than last time.

She flipped it around in her hands. It was the same cover; brown, old and worn. Nameless, authorless, imageless. She flipped to the first page.

Murry’s Guide to a Life Well Lived

By Walter Murry, MD

She looked down at fluffy.

“Meow,” he said.

“Did you mean for me to have this?” she asked.

He rubbed his little forehead on her leg affectionately.

“Why? I’m not reading this Murry’s Guide, or whatever. What is this thing? Why does it keep changing?”

Fluffy stared up at her unblinking, waiting for her to figure it out on her own.

But she didn’t want to figure it out. The book freaked her out. It was clearly possessed by something. Whatever it was, she wanted nothing to do with it.

She waived her hand to open her closet and waived it again to lift up a pile of old clothes that had collected on the floor. She tossed the book onto the hardwood next to a weathered looking yellow envelope. Sitting on the floor in the relative dark, she watched as the book deflated, like a bodybuilder unflexing.

She stared for a minute, annoyed, at the book and the envelope. She couldn’t believe it. Most teenagers (she assumed) hid drugs and diaries and love letters in their closets. She was now hiding multiple magical artifacts: an envelope that never stayed at the house it was addressed to (eventually she’d given up trying to leave it at the neighbor’s house and tossed it in the closet instead where, thankfully, it stayed still) and now a book that seemed to change every time she picked it up.

She waived her hand again to release the spell on her pile of laundry and they fell back to the floor in a disorderly pile, closed the closet door with a waive of her hand, and then twisted her wrist, causing the closet door to jam.

She went back out into the living room to watch TV. She could hear it now, her dad looking for the book tomorrow after they’d left. He’d text her, asking where it was at, and she’d tell him she was sorry, she forgot, and that it was somewhere in her room. He’d try the closet door, but it would be jammed. He’d get all grumbly, spend about 5 seconds in her messy room, get even more grumbly, give up and watch the YouTube clip. He will have forgotten about it, or at least will have let it go, by the time they got home.

Maybe she should bring this up with Ms. Douglas next Tuesday at their next coffee meet up. This and the package and the invisible table in the attic that wasn’t invisible to Martha.

She was compiling quite the list.

Or, maybe it could wait another week. Or two. The items were locked away behind a magically-sealed door, after all. It was the first time Martha had willingly used magic on her own, afraid that that weird package actually had a mind of its own. And, she fancied, the spell had been quite good.

She hadn’t wanted to, but she didn’t want magical items in her closet either. She knew that she had to fight fire with fire; possessed demon books and packages with magically jammed doors.