Uncanny

As we gather around the wooden table, the fragrant smoke from the grill swirls around us, infusing the air with an enticing aroma. For a while, we let the heaviness of Alek’s revelation of painful memories dissipate.

Liam steps up to it, his capable hands taking over the grill with a newfound sense of purpose.

“Mind if I take over the grill for a bit, Aleksander?” Liam offers, his voice brimming with enthusiasm.

Aleksander, guided by a gentle insistence, eases into a deck chair, the lines etched on his face softening with each moment of rest. It’s a respite from the weight of his memories, a chance for the atmosphere to lighten.

Aleksander’s eyes light up with amusement as I pull out my notes from my back pocket. His laughter mingling with the gentle rustling of leaves in the garden. I’m relieved to see him back in his pleasant vibe so quickly.

“You’ve certainly come prepared,” he chuckles, glancing from the notes to me and back again. “Now I know why Professor O’Leary speaks highly of you, Olivia,” he says. “You’re a dauntless learner.”

“Well, I wanted to make the most of this opportunity,” I admit, a touch of nervousness in my voice. “The book has intrigued me, and I have so many questions.”

Liam, now tending to the grill with a newfound sense of purpose, looks up and grins. “That’s the spirit. Let’s dive right into the book.”

The first question spills from my lips, curiosity lacing every word. “I noticed something peculiar in the narrative. The point of view shifts abruptly from third person to first person. Was that intentional, or perhaps a translation quirk?”

Alek leans forward, his eyes twinkling with an air of mischief. “Ah, you’ve caught that, have you? It’s not a flaw in translation, my dear. The author may have opted to play with perspectives, giving the story a unique texture.” He scratches the back of his neck. “As far as I know… I’ve translated it exactly as it was written, including the shift in POV. But I didn’t write the original words… whether it was a flaw or creatively intended, I haven’t got the slightest idea.”

Another riddle in the chain of riddles. His revelation sparks a fresh wave of questions, each one unfurling like a thread in the tapestry of this enigmatic tale. The atmosphere in the garden hums with intellectual curiosity and the promise of new discovery.

Alek’s gaze shifts to my notes, and a sudden gasp escapes his lips. “Holy sniveling horses! Now that is bizarre. Your handwriting looks exactly like my mother’s, Liv.”

Liam glances over, intrigue in his eyes. “What?”

Alek retrieves a notebook from the pile, its pages carefully preserved in clear plastic. He holds it up for us to see a tangible connection to Celine’s legacy.

“Take a look at this,” he says, his voice filled with a sense of wonder. “This is one of my mother’s notebooks. Tell me if her handwriting isn’t similar to yours, Liv.”

His shock at the resemblance between my handwriting and Hannah’s catches me off guard. I’ve never considered my penmanship to be anything remarkable, and yet, there it is, a striking resemblance.

The sight of the familiar script sends a shiver down my spine. The similarity is uncanny, as though Hannah’s presence lingers in the very fibers of these pages. It’s so surreal.

But is there an actual connection between Celine’s and my handwriting?

I clear my throat. “It could be nothing but a strange coincidence, right?”

“True… but the element of strangeness is staggering,” Alek chuckles.

“What’s strange? What are you talking about?” O’Leary’s gruff voice interrupts, curiosity dancing in his eyes as he navigates the stone steps in the garden.

The garden, now bathed in the warm glow of the sun, comes to life with Professor O’Leary. Alek meets his arrival with a mixture of jest and welcome, infusing the air with an easy camaraderie that belies their age.

Alek, the gracious host, greets O’Leary with a playful jab. “Oh, there’s the man of the late hour. I can imagine the traffic out there on this lazy Sunday morning. It must be bumper to bumper, huh? Ain’t that strange?” His teasing tone sets the stage for a lighthearted gathering. The banter flows effortlessly, a testament to years of friendship.

As O’Leary settles in, I offer a warm greeting, genuinely pleased to see him. “Hello, Professor. Glad you made it.”

O’Leary, with his trademark grin, launches into an amusing explanation for his tardiness. “Sorry to have kept you waiting… my wife Emily won’t let me leave until I take the dogs out for a walk and water the plants and fix the noisy pipes… otherwise, I’d be sleeping in the shed tonight.” He chuckles. It’s a slice of his everyday life, shared with an air of affectionate exasperation.

“Aww, you should have taken Emily with you. There’s more than enough barbecue for all of us,” Alek suggests, extending the invitation.

O’Leary’s response is a comical wince. “Emily hates going out on Sundays, except to attend church, which is nine steps away from our house. Doing anything more than that makes her knees ache and her shoulders freeze. And I hate the smell of Bengay on my fingers when she asks for a massage. That’s why I’m here by myself.”

Alek seizes the opportunity to tease his friend further. “Wow, that’s a long but interesting explanation on why you’re late, old man.”

Amid their playful banter, Liam and I exchange amused glances. These two men, both steeped in the wisdom of age, have a knack for finding humor in the everyday.

O’Leary, with a sly smile, glances at Liam. “Blackthorn! You’re here, too?”

Liam raises an eyebrow, his tone light. “Why not? Aleksander invited us, remember?”

O’Leary, his expression filled with mock suspicion, retorts, “Yeah? Why are you suddenly hanging around Olivia? She’s an excellent student, alright? Don’t influence her into your devil-may-care world, or—”

I interject, eager to clarify the situation. “No, Professor. Nothing like that is happening. Besides, I’m not allowing myself to be influenced by anyone. Liam and I just share a mutual interest in Hannah’s book.”

Liam clears his throat, offering a cryptic explanation. “That’s right. Actually, Liv steers me into putting more work into my studies. We’re research partners.”

I cast a quizzical glance in his direction, silently wondering about his statement. Professor O’Leary, seemingly satisfied with our response, nods approvingly.

“Good... good...” O’Leary affirms, his gaze now fixed on me. “Liam’s father, Ernest Blackthorn, and I were good friends back in college. At Columbia. But our paths diverged when I pursued teaching and he... well... made it big in the real estate business.” He chuckles, reminiscing. “Then, when Liam got into Columbia, he asked me to take care of his son—”

Liam interjects with a cheeky grin. “And the Professor’s first act of taking care of me was to flunk me in English 101.”

The revelation sparks laughter among us, filling the garden with a shared moment of camaraderie and light-heartedness. The sun continues its journey across the sky, casting long shadows and painting the scene with a golden hue as we delve into the heart of Hannah’s book, ‘Magical Beasts of the Endless’.

Amidst the animated conversation and the tantalizing aroma of fruity desserts filling the air, I seize the opportunity to excuse myself and freshen up.

“The powder room is tucked away behind the stairs,” Alek says. “You might not see it outright, but it’s just there. You’re welcome to explore the house, dear.”

Alek’s directions to the powder room are helpful, and I follow them with ease. The cozy atmosphere of the house is a stark contrast to the mysteries that surround us, but it’s a welcome respite.

As I soap my hands in the sink, I steal a glance at the grand mirror before me. For an instant, in a mere blink of an eye, I see a face that isn’t mine. In that brief, heart-stopping moment, Celine’s visage stares back at me, her features hauntingly familiar from the photographs. My heart skips a beat, and I recoil from the sink, inadvertently splashing water on the floor.

With hesitant curiosity, I peer into the mirror once more, only to find my own reflection staring back at me. It’s as if the fleeting apparition of Celine never occurred. I let out a shaky breath, chalking it up to the weight of my obsession with Hannah and her enigmatic story. The line between reality and imagination blurs in my mind, and I silently berate myself for succumbing to flights of fancy.

Stepping out of the powder room, my gaze is drawn to the mantle and the marble urn that graces it. It exudes an air of mystique, inviting me closer. My fingers, driven by nothing more than curiosity, lightly touch the stone pendant hanging around the urn’s neck.

In that moment, an electric shock courses through my finger and surges through my entire body. It’s as though I’ve been struck by a bolt of lightning, and the world around me spirals into darkness.

And then, like a candle extinguished, everything fades to black, swallowing me whole.