Step into the eerie world of gothic mystery with The Grimoire Curse: Some Pages Write Themselves by the Mystery Review Crew’s own Author Anita Dickason. This chilling, haunted castle short story begins at the foreboding Blackfen Castle, where archivist Eliza Marrow discovers that some books hold more than history—they hold secrets that refuse to stay silent. With supernatural suspense, a mysterious black cat, and whispers of curses, The Grimoire Curse is a darkly atmospheric tale where every shadow hides a secret and the castle itself may be awake.

The Grimoire Curse: Some Pages Write Themselves Part One

With a shiver, Eliza Marrow edged closer to the fireplace. Outside, the wind shrieked and howled, battering the stone walls. Yet nary a ripple stirred the heavy drapes. She figured the chill was due more to her frayed nerves than the room. Still, Eliza turned, welcoming the warmth of the fire across her back, hoping it would chase away the unease crawling along her spine.

Her eyes flitted across the sitting room, skimming over the worn furnishings. To call them antiques would be generous. But her gaze paused at the sight of an enormous black cat sitting on a table tucked into a shadowy corner. The elegant figure was a sharp contrast to the room’s threadbare gloom. 

Curious, she moved closer, tentatively reaching out her hand. A gleam, so potent it whispered, touch me if you dare, sparked in the cat’s eyes. She jerked her hand away, quickly stepping back. What she thought was a porcelain statue was very much alive. 

With another wary look at the creature, Eliza moved back to the fireplace. How much longer would she be kept waiting? The butler who answered the door had been less than cordial. Much to her dismay, she had to show him the letter from the castle’s new owner before he reluctantly advised he’d have a bedroom prepared and escorted her through a shadowed corridor to the sitting room.

An archivist, Eliza had been commissioned to catalog the Blackfen castle library. The new owner, Henry Giles, a London real estate magnate with visions of grandeur, intended to transform the estate into a tourist attraction. Her supervisor at Trinity College in Dublin recommended her after receiving Giles’ letter of inquiry. Eliza had accepted the offer without hesitation. The Blackfen’s library, undocumented and rumored to house rare editions, was the kind of assignment she’d dreamed of.

Yet, the reception, confused and borderline dismissive, added to the strangeness she’d already felt.

The first sliver of unease crept in, subtle but persistent, when she turned onto the long, winding drive. While she’d seen pictures of the castle, none conveyed the sense of utter isolation. The land was raw and wind-scoured, dotted with jagged stones and tufts of grass. The sky hung low, a leaden grey that mirrored the desolation of the land. 

Stark and bleak, the castle loomed atop the cliffs. Weathered stone and dark windows gave the impression that time hadn’t just passed. It had eroded any redeeming features. And what little Eliza had seen of the inside of the castle did little to alleviate her apprehension. 

The creak of the door snapped her from the thought. She spun.

Arthur, the butler, his posture rigid with formality, stood in the doorway. “Miss Marrow, your room is ready. I took the liberty of having your bags brought in.”

Grateful to escape a trek into the cold, Eliza managed a small smile. “Thank you,” she murmured, reaching for her backpack. Her fingers brushed the strap, then paused, glancing toward the corner. “Where’d it go?”

“To what are you referring?” Arthur asked.

“The cat. It was sitting on top of that table.” She glanced around, half expecting to see the animal slinking across the floor.

Arthur stiffened. His eyes narrowed with a grim expression. “Miss, there is no cat in the castle.”

“But …”

“I’ll show you to your room,” he interrupted, already walking out without looking back.

After casting another puzzled look around the room, Eliza followed him, their footsteps echoing on the wide staircase. 

Her gaze drifted upward to the arched, vaulted ceiling, then along the stone walls. Awed by the sheer size, Eliza asked, “How many people work here?”

“Three,” Arthur replied, his tone just shy of rude. “My wife, Mrs. Gable, is the cook. There’s the maid, Henrietta, and a gardener.” 

“Only three?” she responded, surprise threading through her voice.

He answered sharply, bristling at the question. “There’s been no need for more staff.” 

Eliza wrinkled her nose. With only three staff, what she’d encountered so far made sense. No one had time, or perhaps a reason, to care for all this. She found herself wondering about the condition of the library.

Arthur stopped before an open door. “This is your room. You need to stay in the east wing. The west wing …” he hesitated, “is unstable. Dangerous.”

Eliza nodded, only half listening. Her mind had already drifted to why she was here. “I’d like to see the library. Where is it?”

“Turn right at the bottom of the stairs. The dining room and library are on the east side of the main hall.” His answer was curt. Without waiting for her response, he turned and walked away.

She glanced around the spacious room with its shabby drapes and furniture. Her two suitcases and computer bag rested beside a grand canopy bed draped in faded linens. Unpacking could wait. 

Eliza slipped into the hallway, closing the door behind her with a quiet click. She hurried down the stairs. Following Arthur’s directions, she turned right into a long corridor. Ahead, light and voices spilled from an open doorway. Her steps slowed. 

A woman said, “Arthur, how could she? She doesn’t have the blood.”

“It’s odd,” he admitted.

 “I’m telling you it could be dangerous.”

Arthur’s voice rumbled, his tone low and dismissive. “She’s just here to catalog the library.” 

The woman persisted. Her voice rose, harsh with fear. “But Arthur! She saw the cat!” 

Eliza’s gaze darted around, not wanting to be caught eavesdropping. A side door caught her eye. She slipped inside a small room and eased the door shut. Pressing her ear to the wood, she held her breath until the footsteps faded away.

She stepped out, her mind spinning from the strange conversation. Why would her presence be dangerous? And the cryptic remarks about blood and the cat were enough to raise the hairs on anyone’s neck. 

Still caught in the swirl of questions, Eliza passed the open doorway to the dining room with only a glance. The next door she opened stopped her cold. The peculiar conversation vanished from her thoughts, eclipsed by the grandeur before her. 

She’d read plenty about the Blackfen library, but nothing had prepared her for this. Light, dulled by grime, seeped through windows, casting scattered shadows across threadbare rugs. The musty air hung heavy, thick with the scent of dust and aging books. A large desk, chairs, tables, and lamps were scattered about. But it was books that held her attention. Crammed onto shelves, they soared to the vaulted ceiling—hundreds, maybe thousands. Spellbound, Eliza slowly moved deeper into the room.

A sudden stirring of the air raised goosebumps along Eliza’s arms. She turned. 

The cat sat beside the open door, his unnerving eyes locked on her.

“Well, where’d you disappear to?” she murmured. “And why did Arthur act like you don’t exist? You look real enough to me.”

The only response was a slight twitch of the tail. 

“Great, Eliza. Now, you’re talking to a cat. Worse. Expecting an answer.” She sighed. Maybe the best course was to ignore him. 

She wandered along the shelves, scanning titles. Many were familiar, but even with this quick perusal, she spotted several rare editions. 

As she reached for one, a thud sounded. She twisted. A book lay on the floor. The cat sat beside it, motionless. 

She hadn’t heard the animal move. “You’re a quiet one, aren’t you?” 

Eliza stepped closer, eyeing a space on the shelf. Then the book. Then the cat. 

“This is weird,” she murmured. “How’d it end up on the floor?”

She bent, picking it up, with another glance at the cat. “Know anything about it?”

The cat blinked once. Slowly.

Drawn by a flicker of curiosity, Eliza turned to the book. She brushed dust from its worn cover and opened it. Across the first page, in elegant cursive, a date, 1865, and a name. Rosemary Graham, Duchess of Blackfen. 

She settled into a nearby chair. The hush of the library wrapped around her as she began to read. Unnoticed, time slipped away, while she carefully turned crumbling pages filled with mundane household entries and social notes that began after her marriage to Hartley Graham, Duke of Blackfen. 

From the doorway, a throat cleared. “Dinner is served,” Arthur said.

His voice startled her, jolting her from the pages of the book. “I didn’t realize it was getting so late.” Eliza glanced down. The cat had vanished. Again.

Arthur’s expression remained unreadable. “Is there a problem?”   

She hesitated, then decided against mentioning the cat. “No. It’s easy to get caught up in all these books.”

“The Masters of Blackfen have always been avid collectors,” Arthur admitted.

Eliza rose, tucking the diary under her arm.

Arthur’s eyes narrowed as he glanced at the book. “Miss, I’m sure there are other books that would interest you more. I’ll put it back on the shelf.”

“No,” she said, her voice firmer than she expected. “I’ll keep it.”

His lips thinned. A flicker of something indecipherable flashed in his eyes, but Arthur said nothing.

As he escorted her to the dining room, Eliza found herself questioning his reticence. Was he trying to keep her from reading it? The book seemed harmless enough.

When Eliza entered the dining room, it felt like another step back in time. In its heyday, the room must have been elegant, even grand. Now, the cavernous space, with its corners steeped in shadows, exuded an aura of haunted stillness. 

Overhead, thick beams loomed, and dirt-encrusted chandeliers did little to chase the gloom. A candelabra graced the long table that could easily seat dozens. Flames danced, stirred by a draft she couldn’t feel. The portraits, their eyes catching the candlelight, seemed to follow her every movement. 

Throughout the meal, her nape prickled. And it wasn’t just the room that was unnerving. Arthur’s eyes kept drifting to the book she’d laid beside her plate. 

“Is something wrong?” she finally asked, her hand sliding over the cover as if to shield it from view.

He hesitated. “Some volumes are best left unread.”

She raised an eyebrow. “It’s just a diary.”

“So it seems,” he said, and turned away.

Eliza rose. Disturbed by Arthur’s attitude, her fingers brushed the cover before she picked it up. She turned it over, inspecting the spine, the frayed edges. Nothing unusual. And yet … a whisper of anticipation shimmered through her. As if the book had been waiting.

With a shake of her shoulders, she tossed off the fanciful thoughts. No doubt stirred by the room’s gloomy atmosphere. For a moment, she debated whether to return to the library or retreat to her room. The library, with its many secrets, won out.

Seated once again in the high-backed chair, she opened the diary. Drawn deeper into Rosemary’s world, Eliza read slowly, hanging on to every word. But the mood soon shifted. Subtle at first,  then unmistakably dark and fearful. Pages stirred, as if nudged by unseen fingers, echoing the haunting, erratic words. Then came the one that made her pause. 

October 29, 1865

I found an old book today, hidden behind the atlas. It was warm to the touch, unnaturally so. I held it for a long while before opening it, though I cannot say why I hesitated.

And now I cannot forget the strange words. A name was scrawled on a page with others. Mine—but I did not write it.

Eliza’s pulse quickened as she read the words. Despite the unease curling in her chest, a strange, almost compulsive urge pushed her to turn the page. 

October 30, 1865

I dreamt the west wing door was open. Inside, the portrait waited. I had not seen it before. I was in it.

He sat at my feet, just as he does now. Watching. Always watching.

I slipped out before the door closed. I will not tell the others. They would not believe me. I think the castle is awake.

The next entry didn’t just unsettle her. It sent chills racing down her spine.

October 31, 1865

The door is open. I hear my name. 

I do not want to enter, but I am afraid I cannot stop myself.

Eliza turned the page. Blank. Another—blank. October 31st was Rosemary’s last entry. She stared at the empty page. The silence felt louder than words. Then she looked up, and fear seized her like a hand around her throat. 

The room had darkened. Shadows pooled like a heavy blanket, their tendrils crawling up the walls. The cat watched, motionless in the greyness. Its large eyes gleamed, unblinking, unnatural. 

Danger surged, undeniable, electric. Eliza had to get out. She lurched to her feet, clutching the book. Something, unspoken, insistent, made her hold on.

As she raced up the stairs, a crawling sensation crept under her skin. Someone or something was watching. 

She threw open the door and slammed it shut. Her hand trembled on the lock. A fragile barrier, but it was all she had. 

After hurriedly opening a suitcase, Eliza pulled out an oversized T-shirt. She quickly undressed, then dove into bed. Huddled under the covers, she shivered, unable to stop the relentless echo of Rosemary’s words.

The castle is awake.

Check back next week to see what happens next in The Grimoire Curse: Some Pages Write Themselves Part 2

About the Author of The Grimoire Curse Anita Dickason