Scribble

Written by -M & Illustrated by -S

Holly Keane was digging into the dirt, the wooden handle of the shovel burning her bare palms as they reddened, broke skin, and acquired too many blisters to count. She was only one foot deep into the dirt, and it thankfully had rained yesterday, which made the soil only slightly easier to maneuver. Holly’s arms were already aching, her muscles unprepared for such labor, and the first layer of her blouse clung into her like a second skin, she sweated so much. Her brown hair curved and curled around her temples, and she felt like she would be sick. By how hot she felt, how feverish, she didn’t think she could go on much longer.

“You can’t stop.”

She stepped out of her little dig-site, shaking, and vomited. Holly groaned when some of her muddled bits of last night’s dinner (lasagna and French bread), slipped into the hole. It was disgusting. She felt disgusting.

“Continue. You cannot stop.”

Holly picked up the piece of paper from the ground (she had placed a pebble on its lefthand corner side to ensure it didn’t fly away in any breeze, but it was a warm, still night) and glared at the scribble she had drawn one, no, two hours beforehand. It had already been two hours. The scribble, because Holly couldn’t in all honestly call it a proper drawing, looked sort of like a crow, but a very badly drawn one, with a crooked beak, duck feet for legs – what were duck feet called? Webbed feet? Padded feet?

But the worse thing about Scribble was that one eye was much larger than the other (the right one). Scribble was supposed to be a close rendition of the first familiar ever, a powerful crow from the infamous Morgana Le Fey’s murder (as in, flock of crows). Of course, Morgana never shared the familiar’s name, because that would too personal, and if another witch learned your familiar’s name, it could be deadly.

But Holly had always been terrible at drawing. There were extra blank pages in the back of the Weeping Book, and that was where the instructions had said to draw the image, but it really looked nothing like the fiercely magnificent king of crows that graced one of the book’s only double-spread illustrations in shades of haunting blacks and greys. No, her Scribble looked more like a child’s first attempt at doodling a bird (and certainly not any specific kind of bird, much less a crow).

But Holly was quick to give herself some slack. After all, she had to draw the familiar in her own blood. It had been as red as the blood on palm, but the edges of the crow were turning a coppery brown, the blood all dry on the paper.

“Did your ears stop working? You must continue.”

Holly knew the instructions were to draw this familiar, and it would guide her through the next steps in the process of becoming a witch, but she didn’t think her a crude drawing of the bird would be so snide and authoritative. Maybe he’s just angry he didn’t come out right, she thought, not completely unsympathetic, but she always wore patience thin.

“Can you tell me why I’ve got to use a shovel? I know you said I must ‘feed the earth,’ – you’ve said it at least ten times before I even had a body to bury – but dragging the body outside was already a lot. You do know bodies weigh more dead, don’t you? And she was at least over a hundred and fifty pounds, alive and kicking. Why I can’t hide the body, call in someone to dig a hole, and then ‘feed the earth,’ as you say?”

The bigger eye on the crow narrowed as the smaller one blinked.

I knew it, Holly thought. Scribble was one hundred percent angry about his general make-up. To be fair, she never claimed to have any artistry skills, so it wasn’t entirely her fault. St. Helena’s Boarding School for Girls made art an elective course, so of course Holly would skip anything elective in favor of more free time. And it’s not like she used her free time unwisely. Holly had poured hours and hours into the Weeping Book. She even had to learn how to read old Latin and Irish to be able to read the damned thing (or the very damned thing).

“By your own labor, it must be done,” Scribble finally answered, his beak opening and closing just a tad. “You must not even wear gloves, like I warned. It must be by your own sweat and toil that you make this resting place. This will be the birthplace of your witchhood. Your first step into damnation. You cannot stop now that you’ve started.”

“And if I did?” she said, taking out the band in her hair to re-tie it, twisting her wavy brown hair into a loose bun. “If I stopped right now?”

“You’d be dead come morning.”

“How?” she asked, arching a brow. “Would she snap back to life and kill me? Would she be possessed by some demon from Hell, and I be killed like some failed necromancer?”

“Your heart will simply stop beating come dawn,” Scribble said, surprising Holly with an answer. “No matter where you are, or what you try to do with the dead body, or the Weeping Book. You would drop dead.”

Holly placed the paper on one of the potted plants nearby, folding it in half so she could glance at Scribble as she dug.

“Huh,” she said, trying to even out her breathing, as she re-gripped the shovel, throwing away more dirt from the hole. “And you speak English because I speak English, and I’m the one who drew you? How many languages you do know?”

“I know the languages and the contents of my pages, which holds great value and knowledge,” Scribble said. “And what my master knows, and what she holds in great value.”

“Which is obviously now me,” she said defensively. “Since the book is mine. I signed my name in it and everything.”

It had been hard, opening the Weeping Book the first time. As Holly learned, while struggling to yank the book open for two whole weeks (but the pages were stuck together like inescapable, unbreakable cement glue), you did have to cry on a Weeping Book for it to open. What a surprise, it was no wonder how the book acquired the name! To weep on a Weeping Book, who would’ve thought! But still, Holly hated that she had been so simple-minded as not to think of that in her first day or two.

But of course, it wasn’t entirely her error. It was more a show of force, or of Holly’s strong nature, that a Weeping Book, a book filled with dark spells, tales of horrifying demons who preyed on innocent souls, and graphic images of death didn’t falter Holly’s unshakeable countenance. Even holding the book made goosebumps shiver up and down her skin, after all, so she knew the contents would be something.

However, tears were not Holly’s strong suit. It was difficult. She tried sad songs, sad movies, but only physical pain made her cry. Holly hated pain, which is why she was determined to start training herself to cry on demand since she needed to continue reading the Weeping Book. Besides, tears could also be useful in strained or social contexts, especially when it was advantageous to appear weak or simpering. The small cuts she had littered her left arm with worked well enough to draw out her tears for now, and since she had been bleeding, it was extra useful when she figured out that she needed to use her own blood to make Scribble, her own witchy marking, her personal insignia.

“For now,” Scribble said.

“For now?” she repeated, taking another break from her shovel, her burning palms thanking her. “What do you mean, for fucking now?”

She wasn’t angry, she was just a tad irritated. Holly felt a second wind of energy shoot through her nervous system, and she crawled out of the hole and over to the potted plant so she could look eye to eye (kind of) with Scribble.

“You haven’t completed the ritual,” Scribble said. “You haven’t buried her.”

“Is this a personal thing?” she asked. She glanced at the body, wrapped up in the stained flowery bedsheets that she had died in. “Do you miss her or something? I mean, she was my mother. If anyone has any right to be upset, it should be me.”

“You are not upset,” Scribble groused.

“You are upset,” she said, wondering how she could spin this conversation.

The Weeping book had felt a bit damp when she had found it in her mother’s locked boudoir. She had obviously used the Weeping Book a lot. Holly had found out two things that day: hair pins did work exceptionally well at picking locks and the nightmarish notions she held since she was a little girl had been correct – her mother was a witch. It all went just as Holly expected. She hadn’t been proven wrong yet!

“Listen, Scribble –”

“My name is not Scribble,” he interrupted.

“I know, this is kind of unexpected. I’ve had the Weeping Book for the whole Spring semester though – almost four whole months – and mom never did bother to check if I had it. No, she was too concerned with her friends, parties, and gardening. I bet she thought one of her friends had taken the book, you know. She was the gossipy, suspicious type. But for all that gossip, she never did tell me anything about this magic business – I had to figure it out all by myself! Do you know how hard that is, growing up with an absentee mother?”

Scribble did the slow blink again.

“It was hard, Scribble, harrowing,” she said, moving closer to sit cross-legged in front of the plant. She needed another break, and it was a nice summer night, thank goodness. “She was such a miserable woman. Always sending me away, dismissing me, like I was some servant – not her daughter. She spent most of her time out here, picking weeds!”

Holly then frowned at the plant behind the paper. It hadn’t sprouted any bubs yet, so she didn’t know what kind it was. Not that she cared, particularly.

“Imagine,” she continued, “growing up the daughter of a thrice-divorced woman, and all three husbands dead? Yet, she had all the plausible deniability for their sudden deaths! Heart attack, a stroke, and what was my own father’s – a car crash, his life ending in a burst of flames! Did you know that I’m not even sure if her last husband – Robert Castillo, was my father? I have no idea. I’m too anxious to do any blood tests to confirm. I don’t know. I do wonder if he wondered. That pain of not knowing, Scribble. I might never know.”

“You were only a month old when he died,” he said. “You didn’t know any of Mary’s husbands, and she never married again.”

“And I don’t even have his surname,” she said. “No, I’m Holly Keane, her surname. Even naming me Holly, what a narcissistic woman!”

“Hollys were her favorite,” Scribble said dully.

“Yet! Yet, she cast me away,” Holly said, re-orienting herself now that she knew how much Scribble knew about her mother. It was obviously more than Holly. “From the time I was school-age, six years old, she sent me off to boarding school. I was the real Mary, Mary, Miss Contrary, from The Secret Garden, all lonely and alone without family. I’m seventeen, now, Scribble. Eleven years of my life, most of my life, away from my mother. She didn’t even ask me back for most of the breaks, you know. I was shocked, I tell you – stunned speechless – that she even invited me back this summer.”

She had only been back three days (it still late June), but Holly knew she had to be quick about her mother’s murder, especially with the Weeping Book back in the house. She didn’t know if witches could sense the books and didn’t know what her mother could do (or might do) if she found out Holly had the book all along. Time was of the essence.

“Most likely, she invited you back because it was her coven’s policy to keep their affairs away when family members were near.” Scribble turned his head, which was strange in his two-dimensional manner, and Holly heard him heave a very put-upon sigh. “Mary must have thought that keeping you close would protect her. How very wrong she was.”

Holly grimaced at Scribble’s tone. She did not appreciate it. She had reacted calmly, sensibly, when a disembodied voice started speaking to her from a bloody page, but she could not take the begrudging, grouchy manner much longer.

“She never told me anything about magic,” she said. “She kept it all from me.”

“Perhaps she sensed how power-hungry you are, and thought it best not to tell you,” Scribble said. “Especially now, seeing how far you’d go to gain power, I must say she was correct in her assumptions.”

It had bothered Holly, more than she cared to admit, that her mother kept her true self, her identity, and the whole world of magic, away from her. Why did it have to be a secret from Holly, her only daughter? Her own blood? She had first felt undeserving, but then the anger started bubbling inside her gut, simmering in a steady boil of rage . . . but if her mother had been unnecessarily cautious, even wary of Holly . . . She glanced at the wrapped-up body again. If that were true, then her mother must have known how powerful Holly could be – will be – now.

And Holly was pragmatic in her sense of the world. The body was not her mother, not anymore. She was dead. Now that she knew souls existed, having read the Weeping Book, learning all about demons, and Hell, and all its powers, she knew that her mother wasn’t here. She was in Hell. The body beside her was once her mother’s dwelling place, but now it was like one of the big empty clay pots in her garden. Heavy, burdensome, and in dire need of soil.

Holly hopped back into the hole and kept digging and digging. Witching hour (when she killed her mother, around three in the morning), was long past now, and she knew she only had about an hour before sun-up. She felt her nerves twinging. She had to finish – soon.

“It’s about connection, you know,” she said, ensuring she had reached at least five feet before starting up another conversation. “My mother and I didn’t have one.”

Scribble stayed silent.

“My mother’s soul – Mary’s soul – isn’t in her body,” she said. “Right now, she’s probably looking up at us, astounded, shocked, and perhaps even impressed that her daughter had the gumption to murder her own mother.”

“Not angry? Disappointed? Even, murderous?” Scribble asked. “Matricide wouldn’t bring up any of those feelings, hmm?”

Holly tilted her head. “Well, some disappointment would be expected –”

“Mary didn’t accomplish half the things she wanted to,” Scribble said. “The bigger she grew her garden, the bigger her power, her influence. Why do you think you lived in a country house in the Poconos, encased in a rich garden on all sides? The gates are even covered with her own blood-ivy, corrupting any spells sent her way that could harm her or anyone residing here.”

Holly huffed. “Then she’ll be happy that her garden is now her resting place and my second birthplace as a witch,” she said. “I mean, her power as a witch was her magical green thumb. That much was obvious. She could grow anything.”

Her mother, Mary Keane, had been a professional botanist, a scientist, gracing multiple gardens around the world with her unmatched skills. She could resurrect dead plants in a matter of hours – but how impressive was it when now Holly knew that the majority (if not all) of the work was magic? It meant less, didn’t it?

“You’ll meet her in Hell,” Scribble said. “Your soul, whether you accomplish becoming a witch or not, is already earmarked for it now.”

“Yes, yes, I know,” Holly said with a shushing wave.

She dug the shovel back into the dirt. If Scribble was going to be petty and pedantic, then she’d rather keep shoveling than listen.

“And you have no concerns about that?”

What a dubious question!

“Of course, I know where I’m heading, now that I know souls do exist. Just reading the Weeping Book gave me all sorts of dreams – well, nightmares, if I must call it that – of demons clamoring about how they’d devour my soul. But I know better than to trust a demon.”

“You know better,” Scribble echoed dryly.

“I do!” she affirmed. “I know that it takes very little effort to fall downstairs and a lot of effort to climb upstairs. And I will have you know; I am as rational as I am practical. I know myself well enough, the ins and outs of my character, to see where I’m already heading. I also make it a personal philosophy to play smarter, not harder. So, if I’m heading to Hell anyway, I might as well develop all the power and influence I can up here, so I’ll be set when I’m down there. I’m not going to be taken lightly.”

“And murdering you mother was the natural next step in this plan of yours?”

“I now have the opportunity to ask!” she said, measuring again, and fucking finally! I reached six feet! She checked it with the measuring tape she had in her pocket and double checked it with a measuring app on her phone. She started climbing out. “Since I am feeding my own mother, my own blood, who was a witch herself I may also add, to our collective dear Mother Nature, will I become a more powerful witch because of it?”

“We shall see,” he said flatly. “This is a first, for me as well. I do not know.”

Holly wondered if he was being honest; Scribble had said she wasn’t technically a witch yet, even though she signed her name in the Weeping Book in blood and everything. There had been so many other names, over a hundred, and Holly wondered.

“Where did my mother find the Weeping Book?” she asked, trying to remember the name above her mother’s. “Wasn’t the other name Anne – Anne Kavanaugh?”

“She had been buried with the Weeping Book. As was custom back in the old days – if you wished to earn a Weeping Book, you had to outlive the curse the witch placed upon her grave. That book was buried with Anne in a mausoleum in St. Bernadette’s, a chapel and nunnery in the south of Ireland. Your mother survived the curse – a grave illness that would have killed most others – and was able to take the book.”

“Annie was a nun?” she asked, utterly delighted. “That is hilarious! Was she a nun before or after she became a witch?”

“Why does that matter?” he asked.

“I need to know!” she said, giggling. “Was she undercover, while undercover? Did she call her demonic dealings, her witchy spells, breaking the habit?”

“You think yourself so clever.”

“Did any famous witches own my Weeping Book? Like the Bloody Mary herself – not my mother – or maybe Lizzie Borden? You know, the one with the axe? She had to be a witch, right? I mean, she got off easy. . .”

“Arrogant as well,” he continued.

Holly frowned, then. “I’m having a hard night here, Scribble. You could be more helpful. I’ve dug the hole, I measured it – six feet and everything, Lucifer’s favorite number and all. So, I put her in, place the soil on top and . . . that’s it? I don’t want to waste time. I’m feeling kind of antsy about that.”

“She can’t be wrapped up like that,” Scribble said. “You need to feed her to the earth; the soil and insects and plant-life must have access to her.”

Holly turned her back on Scribble and rolled her eyes, grabbing the edges of the white sheets and yanking it over roughly. It took more than a few tugs, but the body was finally dumped into the ground at last, and she wrapped up the remaining sheets in a ball before she tossed it away. She would clean up and tidy later, but there was no time for that now.

“That’s how you dispose of your mother?”

With a sigh, she turned and picked up the paper, making it face downwards so Scribble could take a final look. Holly had to admit, she did look a lot like her mother; the same brown hair, the litter of freckles splattered on her cheeks, and petite stature, though Holly had hazel eyes, while her mother had the rarer, green shade. Her mother was paler than her as well, especially now, since the blood around her neck was drying and cracking up on her skin, though now there were thin trickles of blood seeping into the ground.

The neck was a very messy place to stab, but Holly hadn’t wanted to do it more than two or three times. Stabbing someone was a lot of work, so a place where there were tons of vital veins, and no major muscles, was the only safe bet. Really, if murder took up this much time and energy, she could see why women didn’t do it as often.

“Say your piece,” she said. “But if this is tricking me, by sending my mother to the soil, to do her garden witch variety magic and try to kill me, I will rip you into a hundred pieces.”

“Garden witch variety?” Scribble repeated with a scoff. “She is not coming back to life. As you stated, her soul is in Hell.”

“I’m just saying, if this is a Frankenstein attempt on me, I swear – I’ve been way more respectful than Mary Shelley was at her mother’s grave!”

“Don’t swear till you’ve properly buried her.”

Grumbling, Holly quickly shoved the soil onto her mother, filling it up more quickly as she became more aware of how much lighter the sky was getting. Sunrise would be soon, barely half an hour away now. Once she was finished, out of breath and throwing the damn shovel away, she picked up the paper once more.

“Now?”

“State these words – and swear in an oath to uphold them. I, your name, rebuke all that is holy and pledge myself to you, my Dark Lord,” Scribble said. “You can use any of his titles, of course, Lucifer, The Morning Star, Satan, Beelzebub, any name will do.”

Holly cleared her throat. “I, Holly Keane, rebuke all that is holy and pledge myself to . . . my own self.”

“What are you doing?” Scribble even let out an outraged caw. Holly was a tad surprised; she didn’t expect an actual bird sound from a piece of paper. “You cannot pledge you to yourself! You fool!”

“Who says I can’t?” she asked. “You just said, any name will do. I’m taking you at your word. Just literally.”

“I told you what you were supposed to say,” Scribble snapped.

“Well, Lucifer is the Sin of Pride,” Holly said. “I think he’d like that I was, you know, matching his energy.”

“Matching his energy?” Scribble repeated. “The devil himself?”

It was hard for Holly not to glare down at the piece of paper in her hands, but that tone!

“Yes,” she gritted out. “He’s well-known as the Father of Lies, too! I think, when swearing an oath to him, I think you must be, well. . . honest. I’m taking the lesser chance of getting into any trouble, fresh out the gate, my first day as a witch. I can’t lie to the Devil! So, impressing him with my devil may-care (but I really hope he doesn’t) attitude is my next best shot.”

“Hold me up,” Scribble said. “Watch the sunrise through the paper.”

Holly frowned but did as Scribble asked (though her arms were killing her, her fingers felt ready to fall off). But sunrise was already happening, the sky grew lighter, and when she saw the sun peeking from between the trees, she watched it through Scribble, and the bird started to glow, as if the sunlight was a power source.

But then Scribble did the slow blink thing again.

Holly stared back, on edge, waiting for another disembodied voice (maybe even the voice of Satan himself), a rush of wind, a spark of light, anything . . . but nothing.

“Well?” she prompted.

“Damn it,” Scribble said sourly. He was still glowing, like coals in a hot fire. “I thought you’d drop dead, but you’ve been accepted as a witch. Why, I cannot fathom.”

“You were hoping I dropped dead?” she asked, not afraid to glare now. “What, from the sun rising? That was supposed to kill me?”

“Why do you think Lucifer is called the Morning Star?” Scribble asked, steamed as the bird could be, both literally and figuratively. “He’s the Son of the Dawn, you fool! The sun is the morning star; his power is as great and vast as the sun! Of course, a witch’s powers would wake at sunrise!”

“Aren’t you supposed to be on my side? I drew you, with my own blood! I own the Weeping Book. What’s the bother about, Scribble?” She narrowed her eyes. “Are you really that vain?”

“You think it’s vanity!” Scribble cried out with a laugh. “We shall see who between us is truly vain, shall we?”

Holly was going to ask what Scribble was going on about, but the glowing bird fell off the page, onto her right palm, and she screamed – Scribble had become a brand, burning into her skin, hot and smoking, and she kept screaming because the burning worsened, the impression of the bird searing into her skin like there was an invisible iron.

She vomited again. Weakening, she crumbled to the ground, sighing when the pain finally lifted. Holly stared down at her shaking palm, at Scribble, who was there, staring up at her with the most pleased and yet seemingly detached a look he could muster with his two mismatched eyes.

“Who is vain now?” he asked.

Holly’s anger made her act quick, digging her nails into her skin, into Scribble, and no, the pain she felt was not hers, it was all Scribble. It was Scribble’s pain. She convinced herself so much of it that even as her nails were tearing into her skin, under Scribble’s beak, she grinned down at him.

He squawked in outrage. “You dare to mutilate my form again?”

“You burned yourself into me!” she snapped, her teeth gritting. “You stupid, shit bird! Get off me –”

“I am branded onto your body and soul,” Scribble said coolly. “We are one, now. Congratulations. You have made your first seal – The Awakening Seal – is what I’m officially called. I don’t think you learned enough old Irish to know that.”

“You burned me!” she said again.

“Be that pain but a taste of the fire you’ll feel in Hell,” he said simply.

“If I feel pain,” Holly said, “then you feel pain. In fact, let that be my first law of the seal. You will take at least half of the pain I feel in life and in death, Scribble.”

Scribble’s little eye widened. “You can’t –”

“Make you feel?” she asked. “Looks like I know more Irish that you thought! Yes, I can. A witch can set one firm law on any seal she creates so long as it doesn’t exceed the power she holds. Feeling pain in a power, you know! Helped humanity know its weak spots. So, I’ll share that power with you! I think this will also help you bury your hatchet against me quicker than I buried my mother. Your pain is my pain. My pain is your pain, Scribble.”

“Calling me that silly name on your skin makes it my name!” Scribble screamed, swearing in outrage in tongues she didn’t know. “You are horrible, loathsome, lazy, impatient –”

Her nails that were still lodged inside her skin dug deeper, and she kept grinning as she bled, the red sinking into Scribble. Her blood made him look as fresh as when she had first scribbled him.

“I actually don’t feel as bad as I should –”

“Stop this instant!” he cried.

Holly arched a brow. “Is it time we play nice?”

“. . . Fine,” he said. “I can’t believe that would be your first law. You can only make three, you know!”

“Yes, an unholy trinity,” she said, wincing now. It did kind of hurt, and the disinfecting alone would be a bitch and a half. . . “I know I couldn’t give you all my pain, something about exchanges being like energy, positive and negative, or whatever. I know you’re not another witch, but you’re still a seal created by the Lady Morgana, I can’t act like you don’t have power on your own. That would be stupid.”

The big eye blinked up at her. “You may not be as stupid as I thought.”

“And maybe your ugly mug will grow on me,” she said. “Or maybe I could alter your seal once I get more powers. And that would be . . .?”

“You need to join a coven,” he said. “Obviously not your mother’s – killing her will make you target of her coven. You best pray they don’t discover it was you too quickly, before you have enough of your own power, Holly.”

“But witches have a sixth sense – see, the number 6?” Holly asked. “When will I develop mine? And is that a numbers thing, by the way? Is the number 6 as important, you know, downstairs, as everyone seems to think? Will I be seeing a lot of 6s now?”

“You’re sixth sense will be one of your senses that you already possess in a heightened state,” Scribble said.

“I want to alter minds,” she said. “I’m not digging in dirt like my mother. I want to make an impact on people.”

“Her sense was obviously touch,” Scribble said. “It would be hearing, then? If you choose your sense of hearing, you will be able to alter the sound around you. You will be able to break eardrums with the snap of your fingers. You will be able to create auditory hallucinations that would terrorize a person or a group of people, if you properly grow your power. Then, your sound, your voice, could lull or sway even the strongest of minds to do your bidding.”

“Like a siren in the old tales, right? They were witches, weren’t they?”

“You are well-read, if anything,” Scribble said. “Yes. If you choose that sense, you must find a coven with a Mistress who holds that specialty. Witchery is a sisterhood art – you will live and learn with others before you can hope to set off on your own.”

“That’s fine,” Holly said. “Why do you think I never complained about St. Helena’s? I’m happy – more than happy – being around other women. I’m not particular, in any case.”

She cradled her right hand and started walking towards the house, her feet feeling lighter than they had since she entered her mother’s bedroom.

“You will take the coven and their rituals seriously,” Scribble said. “This is no joking matter, Holly. You would be severely punished if you so much as talk impolitely to a Mistress Witch. They have taken out girls’ tongues for that.”

“And what a waste that would be,” she murmured, already feeling sleepy. “No worries, I’ll make sure they like my tongue.”

“Holly . . .”

Ugh, there was that tone again!

“Now, let’s disinfect you, birdie,” Holly said, before she stretched her aching muscles. Goodness, she hadn’t been this tired in ages. Never again, unless the person really, really asks for it. . . she would never kill and bury someone again.

Holly yawned. “Then I’m going to take a nice long nap . . .”

___________________________________________________________

NOTES:
This was very fun to write! I really hope you all enjoy reading it!
I was thinking - this was meant to be a short story, but I could keep going. I love Holly! If you guys are interested, let me know and we may continue. This could be a potential series!
Let us know in the comments if you are interested to see more of Holly and her Scribble seal, with all the fun things we could have in store for her.