Whispers of Witchwood

Prologue

The Holloway Grimoire

Dust, Giggles, and Grandma's Not-So-Secret Secret

Achoo! Ten-year-old Emma Bradford's sneeze echoed through the attic, causing dust motes to swirl in dim light. Gross, she muttered, wiping her nose on her sleeve. I bet Indiana Jones never had to deal with evil dust bunnies.

Emma's best friend, Zoe, giggled from her perch atop a stack of boxes. Maybe that's why he always carried a whip. Dust bunny defense!

Girls? Emma's mom called from downstairs. Everything okay up there?

Fine, Mom! Emma shouted back. Just battling the forces of evil... I mean, dust!

Zoe rolled her eyes. Your mom's going to think we're crazy.

Nah, Emma grinned, she already knows that.

The two friends had been tasked with clearing Emma's late grandmother's belongings. Amidst the clutter of a life well-lived, they'd found old photo albums, a collection of apparently cursed snow globes (Do NOT shake them, Zoe!), and a truly alarming number of cat figurines.

Ooh, what's this? Zoe pointed to an ornate writing desk tucked away in a corner.

Emma approached, running her hand over the smooth wood. Grandma's desk. She used to write stories here. Her fingers found a slight indentation and a hidden drawer popped open with a soft click.

Whoa! both girls exclaimed in unison.

Inside lay a leather-bound book, its cover adorned with an intricate symbol–a quill intertwined with a sprig of herbs encircled by a cauldron.

Cool! Zoe reached for it, but Emma snatched it away.

Careful! It looks old.

Like, older than your dad's jokes, old?

Emma snorted. Nothing's that old.

As she opened the book, a gust of wind swept through the attic, extinguishing their flashlights. In the sudden darkness, a soft green glow emanated from the pages.

Um, Emma? Zoe's voice quivered. Please tell me that's just some weird glow-in-the-dark ink your grandma used.

Emma stared, transfixed, as words appeared on the page:

"To the daughter of daughters, born of Holloway blood,

When the veil grows thin, and truth becomes a flood,

Seek the grimoire in shadows deep,

Where knowledge and power eternally sleep.

In Witchwood's heart, where history lies,

Your destiny awaits, should you be wise."

The glow faded, leaving them in darkness.

Okay, Zoe whispered, that was either the coolest thing ever or the start of an awful horror movie.

Emma laughed nervously. Maybe Grandma was just really into special effects?

Their flashlights flickered back to life, revealing blank pages where the glowing words had been.

Girls! Emma's mom called again. Lemonade break!

As they scrambled down the attic stairs, Zoe nudged Emma. So... are we going to talk about the magical glowing book?

Emma hesitated, then grinned. Nah. Mom would never believe us. Besides, every hero needs a secret, right?

Zoe nodded sagely. True. But next time we face glowing books and evil dust bunnies, I'm bringing a whip.

Eleven years later...

Emma Bradford's fingers flew across the keyboard of her laptop, each taps a hammer strike in the construction of her latest article. The words flowed like a river—until they didn't. Her eyes settled on towering stacks of textbooks, their titles promising knowledge but delivering only insomnia. With a frustrated sigh, she pushed back from the desk, her chair squeaking in protest. Her gaze landed on the stack of textbooks teetering precariously on edge, each spine emblazoned with titles that promised knowledge but delivered sleepless nights.

Maybe I need a break, she muttered, rising and stretching her arms above her head. Emma's skepticism had always been a shield, protecting her from the fanciful tales that swirled around Shadowgrove University. But tonight, curiosity tugged at her like an insistent child, whispering of secrets and stories untold.

She wandered over to the bookshelf, her fingers grazing the spines until one particular volume caught her eye—an old, leather-bound tome that seemed strangely out of place among her modern texts. It was almost as if it called out to her, a siren song for her journalistic soul.

Where did you come from? she asked the book, half expecting it to answer. She pulled it out with care, feeling the weight of history in her hands. The cover was adorned with intricate Celtic knots, shimmering faintly in the lamplight.

Hello, gorgeous, she said, a smile playing on her lips as she imagined headlines of ancient discoveries and hidden histories. A frayed letter slipped out as she opened the cover and fluttered to the ground. Emma bent to retrieve it, her heart racing with the thrill of potential scoop. The parchment felt like a relic; its edges softened over time, and the indigo ink was still vivid against the creamy background.

Is this some kind of prank? she wondered aloud, unable to shake the sense that this wasn't just another dusty document. The letter addressed her, Emma Bradford, with handwriting that spoke of elegance and an era long past.

Right, because 'Ye Olde Mail Service' is known for their timely deliveries, she quipped, glancing around the room as if expecting a hidden camera crew to jump out and declare her the star of some elaborate reality show.

Her eyes skimmed over the contents, and she was trapped by words of heritage, legacy, and something called the Holloway Grimoire. A joke? A mistake? Or perhaps—Emma's rational mind balked at the thought—an invitation to a world she'd never believed existed.

Okay, Emma, she told her reflection in the mirror, either you've stumbled onto the story of the century, or you're losing your grip on reality. Her reflection seemed to smirk back at her, green eyes twinkling with mischief.

Or maybe, she continued, a wry smile forming, I'm about to become the next big witch journalist sensation. Move over, Lois Lane; make way for Emma the Witch.

Shaking her head at her absurdity, Emma returned to the Grimoire. She ran her fingertips over the pages, noting the spells and incantations written in a flowing script that seemed to dance before her eyes.

Alright, Emma, she said, looking up at her reflection in the mirror. Either you've landed on the scoop of the decade, or you've finally watched too many conspiracy theories." Her reflection seemed to smile back, eyes teasing.

Or perhaps, she continued with a smirk, I'm about to become the next big sensation in witch journalism. Step aside, Lois Lane; here comes Emma the Witch.

Laughing at her silliness, Emma turned her attention back to the Grimoire. She flipped through pages filled with friendly advice and home remedies written in a beautiful cursive script that seemed almost alive. Could this be her family secret? Was it possible she hailed from an unexceptional line of witches?

Great, she sighed with mock exasperation. Just what every hard-hitting journalist needs: a broomstick and a pointy hat. Do they come in black, or is that too cliché?

But even as she joked, a spark ignited within her. The possibility of magic, a world beyond the mundane, thrilled her more than she cared to admit. And if this were her story, her truth, then she'd chase it down with all the tenacity of a bloodhound on the scent.

Alright, Holloway Grimoire, Emma said, her voice steady as she accepted the challenge. Let's see what you've got.

With the Grimoire open before her, Emma began to read—and the walls between skepticism and belief started to crumble.

She couldn't shake the feeling that she was about to uncover something extraordinary. Little did she know that her childhood brush with magic was about to become front-page news in a world where headlines could be magical, and deadlines could prove deadly.

But first, she needed another coffee.

Her gaze drifted to the window, where the spires of Shadowgrove peeked through the ever-present mist surrounding Witchwood. The forest loomed dark and mysterious, contrasting with the campus's manicured lawns. Legend had it that the woods were home to all magical creatures – and possibly a few professors who'd gotten lost on their way to the faculty lounge.

Her mind wandered back to that day in her grandmother's attic. Is there a connection between the Holloway Grimoire, the glowing book, and the cryptic rhyme?

A movement outside the window caught her eye. For a split second, she could've sworn she saw a figure darting between the trees at the edge of Witchwood – a figure that seemed to shimmer and fade like mist.

Emma blinked, and it was gone. Great. Now, she was seeing things. She did need that coffee.

She laughed nervously, her laughter shattering the stillness in the room. Her face grew serious again, and she couldn't help but wonder. Who knew where the line between reality and magic lay in a town like Shadowgrove, with its whispered secrets and shadowy forests? And, more importantly, was she ready to find out?

Emma found sanctuary in a quiet corner of the room. A worn leather chair whispered promises of many others who'd sat and unraveled mysteries there. She sank, the cushion exhaling beneath her like it was sharing a secret.

Okay, Grimoire, she said, her voice a conspiratorial whisper, what's your story?

She opened the book again with a creak of protest, pages fluttering like the wings of a bird long-caged. Emma's eyes danced across the ancient text, but the unexpected hollow—a neat cut-out within the heart of the tome—stole her attention. Her breath hitched; she was meant to find this.

Hello, what have we here? Her words were soft, tinged with wonder. Nestled within the secret compartment lay another yellowed envelope, its edges softened by time, sealed with red wax that bore an emblem so familiar it sent shivers down her spine—the Holloway family crest.

Great, she muttered, half-amused, half-astounded, because my life wasn't resembling a fantasy cliché enough already.

The crest—a serpent entwined around a crescent moon—seemed to mock her from its waxy throne. An average person might have hesitated, but Emma Bradford was never accused of being average. Not when there were secrets to uncover and possibly a few family skeletons to drag out of historical closets.

Guess it's time to see if the Holloways left me more than just their green eyes and flair for dramatic entrances.

With the finesse of someone defusing a bomb or unwrapping a particularly fragile Christmas ornament, Emma slid a fingernail under the seal, preserving its integrity. After all, one didn't simply rip into the potential Pandora's Box of ancestral drama. That required a touch of class and at least the illusion of having one's life together.

Emma's pulse quickened, each thud in her chest a drumbeat heralding the moment of truth. Carefully, she coaxed the envelope open, her fingers trembling as if she were peeling back the layers of time itself. Within its papery embrace lay a letter, the handwriting flowing across the page like a river of ink, graceful and deliberate.

To the rightful heir of the Holloway lineage, it began, the words etched with a formality that seemed to whisper of bygone eras and hidden chambers filled with cobwebs and secrets. Emma snorted softly, an irreverent sound that bounced around the quiet corner of the café. Well, at least they didn't start with 'Once upon a time,' she mused, her green eyes dancing with amusement.

But as she continued to read, her smile faded, replaced by an expression of sheer disbelief. The words on the page told a tale that stretched credibility, weaving a narrative of her descent from an ancient witching family—The Holloways, keepers of mystical secrets and weavers of arcane spells. Her rational mind rebelled against the notion, but somewhere deep within, a spark of recognition flickered to life.

An ancient witching family, huh? And here I was thinking my inability to keep a cactus alive was due to a lack of sunlight, she whispered, the humor in her voice a thin veneer over the rising tide of wonder. Emma's gaze traced the looping letters that spoke of her magical heritage, the connection to something vast and inexplicable that thrummed in her veins like a melody waiting to be played.

Looks like journalism might have to take a backseat to... spellcasting? She chuckled, picturing herself swapping her laptop for a cauldron and her ballpoint pen for a wand. It was ludicrous, yet the weight of the letter in her hands anchored the fantasy in a startling reality.

Her astonishment grew with every line, painting pictures of a world where magic was not just the stuff of fairy tales but flesh and blood—and now, apparently, hers to claim. Emma's journalistic instincts flared her hunger for answers and understanding, propelling her. There was a story here, one far more personal than any she had pursued before, and she was determined to unravel it.

Okay, Emma, she murmured, steeling herself with a deep breath that did little to calm the fluttering in her stomach. Time to add 'amateur witch' to your resume.

She glanced back towards the table where her laptop stood open, seemingly out of place and oblivious to the seismic shift occurring mere feet away. Articles about contemporary politics seemed trivial compared to the legacy unfolding before her. Yet even as the magnitude of her discovery sank in, Emma couldn't help but wonder what this meant for her life and her chosen journalism career.

Because nothing says 'employable' quite like a Resumé starting with 'I come from a long line of witches,'" she quipped, the absurdity of it all drawing a reluctant grin. She stood up and tucked the letter into her bag—a talisman of an unknown and enchanting future.

She snapped the book shut, her fingers lingering on the worn leather cover as she digested the gravity of the situation. An ancient witching family? Her family? It sounded like the plot of a fantasy novel, yet here she was, holding proof that her life was about to stray from the well-trodden path of college assignments and predictable love interests.

Right, because journalism and witchcraft are practically siblings, she mused, sarcasm lacing her thoughts. She could already picture tomorrow's headline: 'Local Student Discovers Broomstick in Family Tree.' The idea was ludicrous enough to draw a fleeting smile to her lips.

The room around her had grown dark, and the passage outside seemed to hum with the warm chatter of the other carefree students living in her dorm. The occasional sound of footsteps passing her door ground her back to reality. Yet, her eyes, usually keen on observing the world, now gazed inward, reflecting a kaleidoscope of emotions. What did this all mean for her future? Would she trade pen and notepad for spells and potions? And how exactly did one incorporate broomstick flying into a morning routine?

Her curiosity, that insatiable beast, refused to settle. It gnawed at her, urging her to peel away the layers of her ordinary existence to reveal the extraordinary beneath. Emma reached for her bag, stowing the mystical letter next to her laptop with the half-finished article on campus politics. The contrast between the two was stark, almost comical—a reminder of the dichotomy now in her once straightforward life.

Chapter 1

Finding herself

Emma Bradford hurried across the Shadowgrove University campus, her messenger bag thumping against her hip with each brisk step. The crisp autumn air nipped at her cheeks, but she barely noticed, lost in thought as she was. It had been three days since she’d discovered the Holloway grimoire in the Enchanted Archive, and her world hadn’t stopped spinning since.

The weekend I had changed everything.

She discovered a mysterious letter and a leather-bound book in her dorm room. The mysterious letter, sealed with wax and bearing a family crest she’d never seen before, was discovered in the Book itself, and its contents had turned her world upside down: Emma Bradford, aspiring journalist, and perpetually curious student, was the latest in a long line of Holloway witches.

Watch out, Witchwood, she murmured, her wavy auburn hair catching the early morning sunlight. This journalist is about to go full sorceress.

The revelation had hit her like a thunderbolt. The Holloways, she’d learned, had been an integral part of Witchwood’s mystical tapestry for centuries. They’d been present during the infamous witch trials of the 1700s, working in secret to protect their own and maintain the delicate balance between the mundane and magical worlds.

And now, somehow, that legacy had found its way to her.

Emma’s mind whirled with questions as she walked across the university green. How had she, Emma Bradford, ended up with Holloway blood? Why hadn’t her parents ever mentioned this part of her heritage? And most pressingly, what on earth was she supposed to do with this information?

As she entered Shadowgrove University’s imposing library, her sneakers squeaked against the polished hardwood floors, echoing in the cavernous space. The scent of aged wood and musty books filled the air, a familiar comfort that now held the promise of hidden truths.

Okay, Emma, she whispered to herself, adjusting the strap of her messenger bag. Time to put those investigative skills to work.

She wove through rows of towering bookshelves, her green eyes scanning the spines of countless volumes. The library had always been her sanctuary, a maze of knowledge where she usually found solace in the soft hum of whispered research and distant chatter. Today, though, it felt like a treasure trove waiting to be plundered.

Ancestral magic, she muttered, running a hand along the books. There has to be something here.

She was ticked by hours marked only by the shifting angles of sunlight cascading through the stained-glass windows. Emma rifled through texts on witching bloodlines and magical genealogy, but the Holloways still needed to be completed. She found mentions of other prominent magical families—the Blackwoods, the Crowleys, and the Aldens—but there was barely a whisper of her newfound lineage.

Frustration began to set in as the afternoon wore on. Emma’s stomach grumbled, reminding her she’d skipped lunch fervently to uncover the truth. She slumped in her chair, rubbing her tired eyes.

Come on, ancestors, she scolded under her breath, her impatience tinged with humor. Throw me a bone here—or, you know, a dusty old scroll. I’m not picky.

A peculiar draft rustled the pages of the book she’d been leafing through as if in response to her plea. Emma’s head snapped up, her journalistic instincts on high alert. The breeze seemed to beckon her, tugging gently at her hair as it led her deeper into the library’s labyrinthine stacks.

She found herself in a shadowed alcove between two imposing bookcases, an area she’d never noticed despite her countless hours spent in the library. The air here felt different—charged with an energy that made the hair on her arms stand on end.

Hello, what’s this? Emma’s voice was barely a whisper as her eyes adjusted to the dim light. In front of her stood a section of shelves filled with volumes so ancient that they seemed to hold whispers of a time long past. A thin layer