The Pangolin Post

By Emily Leclerc

My childhood bedroom looked like something out of a movie. A cozy room with soft blue walls, a plethora of stuffed animals, books stacked up taller than me in the corners. My desk overflowed with art supplies and even more books. Dripping from the ceiling was a swath of gauzy fabric that cocooned the bed. All of it tied together by a deep plush carpet. It was a room to be envied.

I spent my childhood hiding in my closet.

I had to be careful. Only one stuffed animal, one book at a time. I cleared out a hidden bottom shelf to hold my favorite sketch books. I pulled in a small furry rug from the foot of the bed that wouldn’t be missed. That muffled the screams.

Sounds terrible, doesn’t it? It wasn’t always.

I hosted tea parties in that closet. Went on adventures. I rode horses, tamed dragons, and explored long forgotten lands filled with exotic creatures. Had long whispered conversations with invisible friends. I sketched and read and daydreamed. It was my lair, my cave, my castle. All tucked beneath the clothes hung meticulously. The safest place in the house.

As I grew older, the closet grew smaller, the bedroom less soft. I couldn’t hide as easily as I once had. I briefly thought about going to school for makeup because I had become so good at covering bruises, but Mother said that it wasn’t a respectable career.

As time passed, books and sketch pads, all hard edges and stiff pages, replaced the plushies. The gauzy fabric that haloed the bed darkened, and the walls unfurled into layers and layers of paint. Strangely, I was allowed to draw and paint on the walls. I was never sure why that was okay.

Eventually, Mother removed the closet doors, and I couldn’t hide there anymore. I had to bury myself in a book or sketch to avoid at least some interaction.

One day, a book wrapped in stained, yellow newspaper and scratchy twine appeared on the front porch. My name was on it, but no other information to tell where it came from or who had sent it.

I scurried off with it before anyone could say anything.

I spent that night reading every page, even staying up past when the yelling stopped. It was a strange book full of summoning rituals and dark magics. I didn’t believe any of it, but it was fascinating to learn about. It was clearly handwritten, and the information gathered from across the world. It was lovingly bound in leather with intricate carvings spanning the covers.

I took the book with me everywhere, both for fear that it would be gone from my room when I got home and so I could re-read it as I had time. Its rituals gave me space to believe in something different, in the possibility of something more.

Of escape.

I don’t remember the final straw that pushed me to try one of the rituals, but the decision came several weeks after they had sent me home from the hospital.

I was done suffering.

Late one night, I crawled out of bed. The walls were black in the darkness, the towers of books creating deep shadows. I had pilfered everything that I needed over many weeks, storing it under a loose floorboard underneath my bed. Several years ago, Mother had ripped out the soft fluffy carpets after I got into trouble at school. It wasn’t worth trying to tell anyone what was happening at home.

Complex circles and sigils slowly took shape beneath my hand. The white chalk lines scrawled across near the entire floor. The size of it surprised me, but I followed every instruction in the book. Lines drawn in a particular fashion. Candles lit at specific points. Certain herbs crushed into the middle. A drop of blood added at specific points.

Everything by the book.

I whispered lilting phrases into the blackness. The last syllable had barely faded when black smoke plumed from the center of the circle. A hazy outline formed something tall and horned. Deep red eyes glowed from its face.

“We’ve been waiting for you to call,” it said in a rumble so deep the house shook.

“I’m glad I finally did,” I said and smiled. “I need your help with something.”

Anyway, now I’m the ruler of hell.