Ink

The first time Alice saw that inkwell, she was in the old attic of her grandparents’ house, a dusty, forgotten room where time seemed to have stood still. It was tucked away in a dark corner, half-hidden under a messy pile of old books, whose yellowed pages smelled of mold and melancholy.

The bottle was small, made of thick, opaque glass, with a slightly oxidized brass cap and golden lettering along the rim that had almost completely faded, as if the years had corroded it.

Alice didn’t remember ever seeing it before, yet something about that object exuded an irresistible charm, almost as if it were calling her.

The house was a rough stone building, isolated in the Umbrian hills, which she and her younger brother, Matteo, had inherited after the sudden death of their parents.

Alice was twenty seven, Matteo twenty three. For a month and a half, they had been living there, trying to piece their lives back together and bring this tired dwelling back to life. Far from everything, with no phone signal and electricity that often left them in the dark, they had become accustomed to a suspended existence, where the sounds of nature and the creaks of the house filled the silence.

Alice, a freelance illustrator and passionate about drawing since childhood, loved to lose herself in the rooms with her sketchbook in her hands.

That morning, following her instinct rather than logic, she decided to go up to the attic to seek inspiration among her grandparents’ old belongings.

That’s how she found the jar.Without thinking too much about it, she took it with her to her room. She took one of her ink pens and dipped the tip into the dark, thick, almost viscous liquid, which looked more like tar than normal drawing ink.

She began to draw lines on the paper, guided by a force that did not seem entirely her own. What took shape was a face: thin, elongated, with deep, empty eye sockets like abysses, and an exaggerated smile, too wide to be human.

When she completed the last stroke, a drop of ink slipped from the tip of the pen onto the paper, spreading like a living stain. And then it happened: the eyes of the drawing slowly opened, and the smile widened even more. Alice was paralyzed. Her hands trembled and the pen fell to the floor.

In an instant, a wisp of dark smoke rose from the paper, snaking through the air with sinuous movements, and with it, a whisper penetrated her ears and mind: “You gave me form.”

Alice recoiled, her heart pounding. She tore the paper into a thousand pieces with feverish hands and threw it into the fireplace, where she watched it burn, hoping to erase the nightmare that had just begun. But the voice did not go away.

That night, she couldn’t sleep. Wherever she was, she heard that whisper. Increasingly insistent: “You gave me form.”Matteo immediately noticed that his sister was upset. Her gaze was distant, her movements stiff. But when he asked her what was going on, Alice just shook her head. She didn’t want to involve him.

The next morning, driven by a mixture of unease and morbid attraction, she returned to the attic. The jar was there, but completely empty. However, on the floor, there was a long black streak that looked like ink, a thin but clear trail, as if left by something that had dragged itself out. Alice’s heart raced. Without thinking, she followed the trail.

The line wound its way down the stairs, slowly descending to the lower floor, snaking through the hallway like a living, restless shadow. It reached the living room, stopping right in front of the old basement door.It had always been closed, sealed since the first days they had set foot in the house. They had tried to open it, without success. But now the lock was broken, the bolt snapped as if something had forced it from the inside.

Alice stood motionless for several long seconds. Part of her wanted to run away, call Matteo, escape from the house itself. Yet her hand moved on its own and opened the door.

The air was thick, cold, almost damp. A deep, rasping sound came from the darkness, like heavy, superhuman breathing. Alice’s eyes slowly adjusted to the darkness, and that’s when she saw it: next to an old, worm-eaten wooden wardrobe, on the wall, was writing in black ink. “THE OTHER PLACE AWAITS ME.”

Alice felt the blood freeze in her veins. She slammed the door shut and blocked it with a heavy chair. Panic scratched at her mind, but she tried to compose herself. She went back to Matteo, trying to act normal, as if nothing had happened.

That evening, while washing the dishes in the kitchen lit by a dim light bulb, Alice heard the voice again. But this time it wasn’t a distant whisper. It was right behind her.

“Your brother has a face too. Can I take it?”

The voice came out of nowhere, as thin as a whisper behind her. Alice turned abruptly, holding her breath. There was no one there. However, on the kitchen wall, imprinted with the same black, sticky substance as the ink, there was now a drawing: it was Matteo’s face, but distorted, screaming and contorted with pain.

Two wide, lifeless eyes, his mouth open in a silent scream, frozen for eternity. Alice backed away, feeling a cold shiver run down her spine.

In a state of panic and guilt, she began searching the entire house for answers. She spent hours rummaging through closets, drawers, and old trunks until, at the bottom of a dusty chest in the guest room, she found a worn volume with a leather cover darkened by time. It did not bear the author’s name. Only a title engraved in Gothic letters: “Blood and Signs.”

Opening it with trembling hands, Alice discovered that it spoke of soul ink, a dark and arcane substance used in past centuries by witches and summoners to write their grimoires. A living fluid, endowed with a will of its own. A single stroke, a simple sketch, was enough to give it form. But once started, the ink did not stop on its own: it continued to feed on the will of its creator. The creatures summoned were not mere images: they were entities, familiars, presences seeking only one thing, freedom. To gain control over that being, a sacrifice was required. A soul.

Alice slammed the book shut. Her heart was racing. She didn’t know whether to believe it, whether those pages were madness or revelation, but one thing was certain: that creature now lived in their house. She could sense it in the sounds, in the whispers that floated through the dark corridors, in the mirrors that fogged up on their own. The face she had drawn reappeared everywhere: it appeared on the walls, on shiny surfaces, even in the water in the sink. And when Matteo disappeared, Alice knew she was responsible.

She found him in the basement, in the same spot where she had first seen the words “THE OTHER PLACE AWAITS ME.” Matteo was standing there, motionless, his eyes wide and filled with terror. In front of him stood the creature, now made of flesh, or rather, liquid and bones. It had a long, jointed body made of thick, pulsating ink, as if every fiber vibrated to the rhythm of an unknown heart. Its face was identical to the first drawing. But now it was alive and completely free. Its eyes rolled, its mouth smiled. The creature slowly raised a black, translucent hand and placed it on the boy’s shoulder. “Now he is mine too.”

Alice screamed. She lunged at her brother, grabbed him by the arm, and dragged him away with all her strength. The creature didn’t react. It stood there, motionless, as if enjoying her despair, but the house reacted. It began to shake, breathing like a huge living organism. The walls swelled and bent like flesh under pressure. The paintings liquefied, the photographs faded. Every surface was invaded by dark stains, as if ink were spreading everywhere, impossible to contain.

They closed every door, barred the windows, used boards, furniture, tape, glue. But it was all useless. The ink seeped through the cracks, through the crevices in the walls, even through the light switches.

Matteo no longer spoke. His gaze was vacant, his skin pale and cold. He was breathing, yet it was as if he were not there. Alice forced him to drink and eat, tried to shake him, called him constantly. But he seemed like an empty shell, drained of all essence, as if something had torn his soul away. And every night, in his sleep, she drew.

Not with pens or pencils, but with her fingers. She traced symbols on the wall, twisted drawings, obscure marks, increasingly complex and numerous. Alice tried to erase them, scraping the paint with spatulas and sponges, but each time, under the layer of plaster, she found only more ink.

The book was clear: “To stop the creature, you must break its form. Destroying the drawing is not enough: you must eliminate the source, that is, the ink itself. But if it has already merged with the world… or with the body… then there is no salvation.”

Alice began to feel it inside herself too. When she cried, her tears were not transparent: they were dark.

Sometimes she found herself drawing without realizing it, lost in a trance, her hand moving on its own.

One evening, Matteo opened his eyes. He looked at her, but he was no longer himself. “He scares me less now. He is everything. He is everywhere. And you… you are just a mistake,” he whispered as if in a state of euphoria.

Alice gasped, feeling something break inside her, an invisible thread that until then had kept her anchored to hope. She cried, but her tears were not clear: they were dark, thick, like ink itself.

Matteo smiled at her, and that smile was identical to that of the creature. There was no longer any doubt: he was no longer her brother.

For a long moment, Alice remained motionless. Then the pain turned into a cold, lucid, and relentless determination. She decided to end it all.

She went to the garage and, with a heavy heart, took the gasoline can, the one they used to fuel the farm equipment. She went back upstairs and began to spill the liquid everywhere: on the stairs, along the corridors, on the walls smeared with symbols, on the floor still wet with ink. The acrid smell filled her nostrils, but she continued undeterred.

Matteo watched her, sitting on the sofa like an empty mannequin. He no longer spoke. He didn’t stop her.

Perhaps he was no longer even able to understand.

When every room was saturated with fuel, Alice opened the box of matches. She took one out and held it between her fingers for an eternal moment.

Then she lit it. A small, innocent flame danced on the red head. She turned to her brother. A smile crossed her face, sad, broken, full of pain and regret. But also love.

“Forgive me, Matteo. But I won’t leave you to him.” And she dropped the match.

Credit: Jonathan Ferro