The shadows of Blackfen Castle grow darker in The Grimoire Curse: Some Pages Write Themselves Part Two, by Mystery Review Crew co-founder and Author Anita Dickason. Archivist Eliza Marrow has only begun to unravel the cursed secrets hidden within the castle’s library, but the diary she discovered may hold more power than she ever imagined. In this chilling gothic short story, superstition collides with reality as whispers of bloodlines, curses, and a watchful black cat blur the line between past and present. The deeper Eliza reads, the closer she comes to awakening something that should have remained forgotten.

If you have not done so, please read The Grimoire Curse: Some Pages Write Themselves Part 1 first, before starting Part 2.

The Grimoire Curse: Some Pages Write Themselves Part Two 

The knock on the door jolted Eliza out of a nightmarish sleep. One filled with whispering paintings, howling cats, and endless ghostly hallways she couldn’t escape. 

It came again, louder this time, followed by a voice. “Miss Marrow. I’ve brought you a spot of tea.”

“Just a minute,” she cried out, her voice hoarse. Tossing back the covers, Eliza swung her legs over the side of the bed. Sunlight flooded the room, warm and reassuring, chasing away the lingering shadows of her dreams.

She opened the door.

An elderly woman walked in, balancing a tray laden with a teapot, a delicate cup, a plate of scones, and a bowl of clotted cream. The aroma was heavenly, rich and buttery. 

“I’m Henrietta. Didn’t get to meet you yesterday. My day off.” Her voice was bright, cheerful, a refreshing contrast to the reception Eliza had received when she arrived. “I’ll just set this here on the table. You can pull up a chair, and it’ll all be nice and tidy.” 

Henrietta’s gaze swept the room, landing on the suitcases. “Would you like me to unpack for you?”

“No, but thank you. I’ll do it later.”

“Come sit down, don’t want to let this get cold.” As she spoke, Henrietta moved to the bed, tossed back the covers, and pulled the sheets tight with brisk, practiced motions.

Eliza settled into the chair, filling a cup with steaming tea. She sipped, almost groaning with pleasure, before reaching for a scone.

Suspecting that Henrietta could be a font of information, Eliza casually asked, “How long have you worked here?”

Henrietta fluffed the pillows, her hands moving with the ease of routine. “Since I was a young girl,” she replied. “Place has its quirks, but it’s a good, solid structure.” 

Eliza paused before taking a bite. “Quirks?”

Henrietta chuckled. “Oh, nothing sinister. Just old-house things. Floorboards that creak, no matter where you step. Doors that stick when it rains. The usual for a castle this old.”

She paused, then added with a wink. “Though some folks say the west wing has a history, a mind of its own.” 

Her attention sharpened. Eliza leaned forward. “What’s odd about it?” She popped a piece of scone into her mouth. 

Henrietta shrugged, smoothing the bedspread. “Oh, you know how stories grow. Rumors of lights flickering, footsteps when no one’s there, pictures changing. Mind you, I can’t say so, never seen or heard anything odd, but still it’s not a place to go wandering into as it’s never been renovated.”

She patted the pillow top. “There, all tight and neat. If you’re curious, you might ask Mr. Arthur. He’s the one who keeps the records.”

“How long has he and his wife been here?”

“Before my time.” Her gaze drifted to the book lying on the table beside the bed. “And, what’s this?”

“Lady Rosemary Graham’s diary,” Eliza said. “It’s fascinating, reading about someone’s life from so many years ago.” But even as she spoke, the memory of Rosemary’s final words lingered, dark and disquieting. 

Henrietta nodded. “Aye. That one’s a mystery. Just disappeared one day. No one ever knew what happened to her.”

Eliza cocked an eyebrow. “Do you know when?” Her tone was sharper than she intended.

“Hmm … don’t rightly recall,” Henrietta admitted, then chuckled. “But don’t worry. There’s been no sightings of her in the castle.”

Eliza hesitated, then took the plunge. “Have you ever seen a cat?”

Henrietta stiffened. “Why would you be asking that?”

Not willing to admit she’d seen the cat, she said, “I catalog books. It’s why I’m here. During my research on this place, I found a reference to a legend about a cat, but nothing specific. Just a passing mention.”

Henrietta clasped her hands in front of her, her eyes drifting toward the window. “Aye, well. That’s one of the older tales. Not many speak of it.”

Eliza set her cup down. “Why not?”

Henrietta’s voice dropped. “Because it’s not just a story. Not to some. They say the cat only appears when something ancient stirs.” 

Eliza frowned. “Like an omen?”

Henrietta nodded slowly. “From the stories, it’s black as pitch, eyes like lanterns. Not a creature you’d likely mistake.”

She turned toward the door, her tone turning brisk. “But like I said, just stories. Ancient history.”

Since Henrietta’s matter-of-fact tone was reassuring, Eliza refused to dwell any further on what was obviously nothing but a bizarre coincidence. She hurried through her morning routine, dressing in warm layers. Despite the claims of a heating system, a distinct chill clung to the air. She slung her computer bag over her shoulder. 

At the bottom of the stairs, Arthur stood. “Breakfast is ready in the dining room,” he announced. 

Though she shuddered at the thought of another meal in that room, it did look different when she entered. Less haunted. 

Dropping the bag on a chair, she stepped to the sideboard and examined the dishes before filling a plate. Anxious to get started in the library, she ate quickly. 

The library was dim, the curtains drawn against the morning light. Eliza flung back the drapes, letting in the sunlight before setting her laptop on the large desk. 

She gathered several books and stacked them beside the computer, intently scrutinizing each one before logging the book’s details into her computer program. A few volumes sparked genuine excitement; rare editions, long thought to be out of print. 

Lost in the wonder of what she might uncover next, she barely noticed Arthur step into the room to announce lunch was ready. 

Unwilling to stop, she waved him off. “I’ll pass,” she said, without looking up. It wasn’t until late afternoon that she made a curious find.

On a lower shelf sat a leather-bound Bible, its spine cracked, the etched lettering nearly worn away. Carefully, she carried it to the desk. Inside, she discovered the Graham family register—meticulous entries of births, marriages, and deaths spanning generations.

Fascinated, Eliza traced the lineage, her eyes moving from one name to the next. But as she read, a ripple of disquiet stirred. Not all the deaths were recorded.

Her brow furrowed. Several women—noblewomen, no less—had no date of death. The last was Lady Rosemary. The entries stopped with her two children. Since she had disappeared, it was understandable that her death wouldn’t be recorded. But what about the others? What happened to them? 

Settling back in her chair, she stared at the Bible, its pages now steeped in mystery. One or two omissions, perhaps. But these women belonged to the aristocracy. Their lives should have been documented.

She pulled a notepad from the computer bag and began at the top. One by one, she scanned the entries, recording a name and relationship. By the time she finished, she’d uncovered thirty women. No death dates. No explanations. But what unsettled her most was that they all were tied to the ducal bloodline. And each one had lived in this castle. 

Driven by an urgency she didn’t understand, Eliza shoved back her chair. The methodical cataloging was over. Now, she hunted. Books, diaries, scraps of correspondence, anything that might uncover their fate.

Time blurred as Eliza scoured the shelves, her search growing frantic. She reached the end of a row, ready to start on the next, when she spotted a worn spine, an atlas. Lady Rosemary had mentioned one. Could it be?

Her fingers trembled as she eased the book from the shelf. Behind it, tucked into the shadows, was a small, unimpressive booklet. 

She reached for it. At the touch, a warmth spread through her fingers, pulsing faintly like a heartbeat. Part of her wanted to stop. Shove it back. Hide it. Pretend she hadn’t felt its pulse. But something older than curiosity pulled at her. 

A chill skimmed over her. The room felt different. Her gaze landed on the desk. The cat perched there, silent and still. Watching. His eyes glowed, not with light, but with knowing.

Eliza sank into the desk chair and laid the booklet in front of her. A faint burnt smell clung to the cover, cracked leather dark as blood. She blinked at what seemed to be shifting symbols. 

The air shifted, and the booklet fluttered open. The chill morphed into a premonition of foreboding.

For a moment, the page, yellowed and brittle, edges curling like old leaves, was blank. Then, letters scorched their way onto the paper, edges blackened as if burned into place. A date formed.

October 31

Her breath faltered as a horrifying thought erupted. 

October 31 

The last entry in Lady Rosemary’s diary

October 31

Samhain. The day the ancient Celts believed the barrier between the living and the dead weakened.

And today’s date—October 31. 

The air thickened, and the room seemed to close in, darker, heavier, as if the walls pressed inward.

Then, the next page turned. A faint hum rose in her ears, like distant chanting. Words burned the page. 

The Curse is laid

Those of the blood must pay

The threshold is sealed

The guardian watches

When the name binds

Blood must answer.

The portrait seals the fate

When the door closes

The soul is forever claimed 

She blinked, the apprehension stirring deep inside her. The words pulsed faintly, as if aware of her gaze. 

“Why am I able to read this?” she whispered.

She lifted her head to stare at the cat. For a moment, she felt herself sinking into his gaze.

But the odor of burning paper pulled her back. Another page had turned. Words branded the parchment, each one smoldering at the edges. 

Her mind struggled to absorb what she was seeing. Page after page of names. Thirty names—names she’d just written on a list. The last was Lady Rosemary Graham. 

Or so she thought. Then another, thirty-one, formed. Eliza Marrow.

“No!” she cried. “It’s not possible.” Yet there it was. Her name. Her fate.

Eliza’s heart slammed against her ribs. Blood roared in her ears. The book knew her. But how? 

The question echoed, but no answer came. Only the shadows. They had gathered.

They’d crept across the floor, climbed the walls, swallowing the light. Now, they seemed to cling to the edges of her mind. Nothing felt right.

Somewhere deep in the castle, a soft sound beckoned. “Eliza.”

The lilting voice curled around her, seductive and alluring.

“Yes,” she whispered, the word slipping out like a breath in a dream. 

Eliza rose, weightless, as if the air itself lifted her, drawn forward by a longing that wasn’t hers. 

The library door stood ajar. Beyond it, the hallway stretched into gloom. Something waited in the dark. Watching. Wanting. 

Eliza was no longer afraid. She stepped into the hallway.

The haunting voice called again. “Eliza.” Closer this time. 

The door to the west wing hung open. Eliza hesitated. A flicker of unease brushed her thoughts. Then she heard it again, her name, soft, familiar. It enticed her, and she walked through, unable to resist. 

The corridor loomed, drenched in shadows. Portraits of women lined the walls. The faint sound of weeping echoed. As she moved past each one, eyes watched with a grief so raw it seemed to seep from the canvas. Eyes that had seen too much. Eyes that pleaded.

The fog in her mind clouded her thoughts. But something in her gut twisted. She knew. These were the portraits of the missing women. 

“Eliza. Come.” The whisper curled through the air like smoke. 

She followed it, unaware that behind her, the corridor was darkening, narrowing.

A glow pulsed ahead, faint and beckoning. Eliza turned toward it. Her breath caught. A single portrait shimmered with light. A faint sketch etched in pale strokes, ghostly, incomplete. It was her.

Though her vision blurred, the image sharpened, line by line, feature by feature. Her own eyes. Her mouth. That small scar on her arm. 

The longer she looked, the clearer it became. The portrait was becoming her.

She looked down. A cold rush of terror surged through her. Her skin was fading, turning translucent. She was being pulled in. Not just her reflection. Her.

Soon, there would be nothing left of her in the corridor. Only what remained inside the portrait.

A warning slammed into her mind. Don’t let the door close.

It struck like lightning, jolting her from the fog that had wrapped around her thoughts. 

She turned, heart pounding, and ran. 

Ahead, the cat sat near the doorway. In the deep gloom, its eyes blazed—two beacons cutting through the dark. 

She locked onto them, her only anchor. The walls warped around her, the floor tilting beneath each step. Shadows clawed at her body, dragging at her limbs. Her pace faltered. The corridor pulsed with menace. Whatever lurked wanted her soul—and wasn’t letting go. 

The door loomed, its gap narrowing to a sliver of light. 

Eliza summoned the last of her strength and lunged, shoving it open in a final, soul-deep struggle. Her breath ragged and heart pounding, she collapsed. Behind her, the latch clicked shut.  

****

From a distance, a voice murmured. “Miss Marrow, I’ve brought your tea.”

Pulled from the depths of sleep, she blinked, amazed to see a room filled with sunlight. Her last memory was lying on the floor in front of the door leading to the west wing. 

Blurry-eyed, she wondered. How did I get here? She pulled herself into a sitting position. 

Henrietta, her eyes filled with concern, asked, “Miss, are you all right?” 

With a wry look, Eliza answered, “I’m not sure.”

“If you need anything, I’ll be back later to make the bed,” Henrietta said and left. 

Befuddled by uncertainties, Eliza ignored the tea tray. She quickly dressed and rushed down the stairs. 

At the bottom, she turned toward the west wing. Behind her, Arthur said, “Breakfast is served.”

She spun. “I want to see what’s inside the west wing.”

His face became unreadable. “It’s too dangerous.”

“Doesn’t matter. I still want to look.”

For a moment, he hesitated, then pulled a set of keys from his pocket. He strode to the door and unlocked it. 

Cautiously, Eliza pushed past him. A long, shadowy, decaying hallway stretched in front of her. Years of dirt and cobwebs clung to everything. She moved slowly, searching for something, anything that was wrong. Not a single picture graced the walls. Stunned, Eliza turned back. 

Arthur waited. Without a comment, he locked the door before striding away.

Numb with shock, Eliza bypassed the dining room, heading straight to the library. Her chest tightened with each step. There had to be some evidence of what happened. 

She paused at the threshold, heart thudding, then stepped inside. At first, everything seemed the same. Her computer was on the desk, with a familiar stack of books beside it. 

It wasn’t until Eliza drew nearer that she realized the diary and strange booklet had vanished. Though she searched frantically, there was no trace that they even existed. 

Eliza collapsed into the chair, thoughts twisting and circling, desperate for answers. Was it the nightmare from hell? Had she imagined everything that happened? Without proof, how could she believe otherwise? Was her very sanity in question? A fearful question. 

As Eliza gazed around the room, her eyes lit on the bible lying on the table. She jumped up. Her list. That would be proof. But it was gone, along with the slips of paper she had inserted inside the bible. Still, she remembered the names. They were seared into her memory. 

She carefully turned the pages until she reached the first one. Unbelieving, she stared at the entry. There was a date of death. 

Her breath caught. She quickly turned to the second, then the third.

Though her hands trembled, she checked each one. All now had a date of death, though it took a moment for the significance of the dates to register. The years differed. But the month and day didn’t. They were all the same. 

October 31

Relief washed over her. It had happened. All of it. The thirty women were free. They had gone home. She wasn’t sure how she knew, just that she did. 

Still, it didn’t answer the question—why her? Why had she escaped when the others hadn’t? Where did the warning come from? Plus, the significance that she was number thirty-one didn’t escape her notice. Did it mean she’d broken the curse?

Eliza wondered if she’d ever know. Her hand reached to close the bible. But as her gaze fell on the last page, she froze. New entries were forming, an extension of Lady Rosemary’s bloodline. The final name that appeared: Eliza Marrow. 

Stunned, she could only stare. Lady Rosemary was her ancestor. She was of the blood. Was it random chance that brought her to the castle, or fate? Another question with no answer. 

What she did know was that she had a library crammed with books to catalog.

****

The cat sat near the wall, its eyes gleaming in the shadows. It watched as it always had. With a twitch of its tail, it rose, then vanished into the wall. 

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If you enjoyed this short Halloween story, be sure to check out others by Anita Dickason by visiting our Short Story section!