A Brush with History

She fingered the journal gingerly, then swiftly opened it. The odd design on the inside page lay glowing in the dark grey light, seeming to have a light of its own. Lupin shook her head, the odd stiffness in her posture growing even more pronounced. The darkness seemed to intensify around her. She took a deep breath and carefully, efficiently began to turn pages. Blank as ever they turned, riffling in the gloaming air. Lupin sat very upright, taking mechanical breaths, her face very set. Something was about to happen. She shook her head again slightly, as if contradicting something. Surely, she had no way of knowing what would happen. Suddenly, a texture sprang up beneath her fingers, one different from the pages before. These pages were smoother. She ran her fingers over the face of the left page – and there was pattern: ridges in the paper that seemed to swirl across it in no recognizable shape. Her fingertips slipped to the left lower corner, and felt something known – a triangle pointing up and above it, and N.
At that moment Lupin felt her spirits lower immeasurably. She felt completely alone and attacked and stifled. A dark fog clouded her vision for a moment, then it was gone. Startled, she drew her hand away from the journal and looked up at Uncle Mortimor. He was gazing back at her steadily, with a worried frown between his brows. Lupin put her hands into her lap, the feeling did not fade. She suddenly moved forwards and threw the journal back into its box, then slid it quickly across to Uncle Mortimor’s knees. “hide it,” she said, quickly and steadily. Something in her eyes made Uncle Mortimor rose swiftly and silently to lock it away. Lupin stood, then moving to the left of the window, deliberately she placed her open hand against the wall where she had been before. A grim look had come over her face, but she stood nevertheless, her hand pressed full against the thin clapboard wall of the posting house room.
Suddenly she felt a shudder running through the house, a shudder as if a dark liquid were surging up through the walls. Lupin stood still against the wall, her mouth set, and let the feeling flow through her – until suddenly a point of energy disrupted the slow flow of menace. A feeling of hatred. Lupin realized the inn had gone entirely silent. That was warning enough. She sprang from the wall. Uncle Mortimor had been looking at her oddly, but at her movement his gaze turned worried again. “We must leave now!” Lupin whispered. As an afterthought – “The rain has stopped.” Uncle Mortimor nodded once and turned to ready the baggage. “There is no time,” she said, very low and soft, and sitting down in her trunk, she pulled the sides closed just in time to hear four heavy sets of boots outside the door. She noticed that the rain had, indeed, stopped.
There was a boot slammed into the door latch and Lupin heard wood splintering, the door crashing against the back wall with incredible force. She dared not even blink. The stillness within her small world was dreamlike compared to the stomping of boots on the thin wood planks of the floor. She felt them reverberate up through the trunk. There was silence after they entered. Then Lupin heard the familiar tones of Uncle Mortimor’s voice, spoken in uncharacteristic harshness.
“What is the meaning of this?!” he barked.
There was no answer. Uncle Mortimor gasped as they trod further into the room and began to search through the his baggage. Lupin heard his voice again: “Hosteler!” The shout rang through the inn. “Hosteler! ” There was no answer. Lupin realized at that moment that Uncle Mortimor’s shouts were useless. The hosteler would not be coming. She tried not to shudder.
The scrape of boots sounded suddenly, moving towards Uncle Mortimor – to doubt to quiet him. Then, oddly they stopped short.