In the 19th session of our writer’s group, magical realism was the topic. The writing prompt had words/phrases which could be used singly or in combination to create fiction. The phrases to choose from: Time’s garden, enchanted bookstore, the painters touch, song of the sea, the heirloom necklace, the forgotten door, whispering paintings, the mirror’s reflection, a cup of stars, rain of memories and music of the heart.

The following was my contribution.

They were at it again, the paintings, whispering in the dark. I smiled. It didn’t scare me any longer, not as it did when I moved here for the first time twenty years ago. Now I was home, where I belonged, with them.

I still remember how I had shivered under the quilts that first night, and the icy winds howling outside wasn’t the reason. It was from pure terror hearing the paintings converse in low tones.
“Do you think she knows?” I heard one say.
“I am glad she is here!” Another whispered.
“Shhhh!” That was a third, “Don’t scare her. She has just arrived!”
“But she needs to know!”
“She belongs here!” It went on till someone intervened.
“Shut up!” There came a hoarse and authoritative whisper from the hall outside. “Give her time!” There was finality in its tone.

There was silence after that, in spite I didn’t sleep a wink. The rhythmic song of the sea from afar gave me some solace in the early morning hours. Not for long. As I walked from room to room, checking out my new abode, bequeathed by an unknown benefactor who had passed away recently, I heard them again. But this time they were more discreet in their exchanges and all I could catch was my name in snatches of conversation.

Huh! They knew me!

Sitting in front of the fire after a cold lunch that appeared as if by magic on the kitchen table, I fell into a troubled sleep.

“It’s in the book!” someone hissed, Too loud. And I woke up with a start.

Book? What was in the book? Which book? I pretended to sleep, hoping to catch more. But the damn paintings for some reason had stopped whispering!

Determined to get to the bottom of things before nightfall, obviously I didn’t want to spend another scary night, I decided to start searching for THE book.

Where could I start? The library, of course.

The library had thousands of books but in a glass cage on the centre table was an old book with sepia tinted pages. There was no way to get at it that I could see other than breaking the glass. A tiny iron hammer was conveniently placed next to it.

The tinkle of the breaking glass seemed deafening to my ears. I swear that I could hear cheers of applause from the paintings even through it. I pulled the book towards me. There it was in gold letters, my name on its very first page and ‘her story’ beneath it in smaller letters.

With trepidation I slowly pulled the book towards me and turned the page. Chapter 1 was on top of the first page, written in a beautiful hand, and beneath it, Once upon a time…. I slowly started reading.

©️ Shail Mohan 2024

Note: My friends, the fellow writers, were of the opinion that this could only be a prologue. The story is yet to come and that I needed to write it soon. Umm…. Let me see. Only time can tell if anything comes of it 😉