Hex Me Not - Chapter 1: Phoebe

The first thing I learned about silence was that it could be louder than screaming.

It lived in the hallways, in the moment after someone shoved me into a locker and the metal rang cold against my spine while their laughter faded down the corridor without anyone stopping to look back.

It lingered in the classroom, in the beat where the teacher's eyes skated over the whispers curling behind raised hands, choosing not to see them. It followed me all the way home through the rain, where even the creaking floorboards seemed to pity the girl with snow-white hair and crimson eyes.

I was born with albinism. To strangers, I was a curiosity — something to stare at on the street, to ask polite, invasive questions about. To my classmates, I was simply a target. The names changed depending on the week — Ghost. Vampire. Witch. — but the laughter that followed them never did.

I tightened the sleeves of my oversized cardigan around my hands and walked home through the downpour, toward the small house I shared with my grandmother.

The clouds had swallowed what was left of the afternoon sun, dimming the world just enough that my sensitive eyes finally stopped aching. At least the rain could not stare.

I unlocked the front door. "I'm home." No answer came — my grandmother would not be back from work until late evening.

The house greeted me the way it always did: familiar creaks underfoot, the papery scent of old books settling over everything like dust.

I dropped my schoolbag beside the stairs, and a folded piece of paper slipped loose from one of its pockets. I unfolded it. Freak. One word, written in thick black marker, pressed so hard into the paper it had nearly torn through. I stared at it for a long moment before crumpling it into a tight ball and throwing it into the fireplace. I had stopped crying months ago. Maybe longer.

That night, thunder rolled across the sky like distant drums, and the electricity flickered — once, twice — before settling again. I climbed up to the attic, searching for an old blanket my grandmother had mentioned, dust drifting lazily through the pale light of a single bulb.

Boxes were stacked floor to ceiling around me: broken clocks with their hands frozen mid-hour, chipped picture frames, a rocking chair missing one arm and leaning permanently to one side.

Then, tucked into the corner, half-hidden behind everything else — a wooden box.

Unlike the clutter surrounding it, the box was spotless, its polished surface carved with twisting vines, crescent moons, and symbols I did not recognize. There was no lock, only a tiny brass latch, cool beneath my fingers. Curiosity won. Click.

Inside rested a weathered Ouija board, its letters painted in faded silver, and a planchette carved from dark wood, smooth enough to catch and hold the dim light. Tucked beneath it was a yellowed note, the ink gone the color of tea stains: Do not use.

I frowned. "Grandma really likes old horror props." I almost laughed. I sighed and tucked the note back inside, taking the board out to see if I could sell it at the thrift store.

The lights flickered again — and this time, they went out completely. Darkness swallowed the attic whole. Only the rain remained, hammering the roof above me. I pulled my phone out from my pocket, clicked on the flashlight, and the beam landed on the board.

For a split second, I could have sworn the planchette was not where I had left it. I blinked. It had not moved. ...Right?

A cold draft brushed across the back of my neck, and every hair on my arms stood on end. Someone whispered — a single word, barely more than breath. "...Hello."

I spun around. The attic was empty. My breathing grew shallow. "It's just the wind," I told myself, though I did not believe it. I picked up the board, intending to shut it back inside its box.

The planchette slid across the wood on its own, slow and deliberate, one letter at a time. H. I. I froze. "No..." My flashlight flickered again, and the attic fell utterly silent, as if even the storm outside were holding its breath.

Then the board spelled one final word.

PHOEBE.

I hadn't told it my name.

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