Kzine Issue 8

by Graeme Hurry

  Something in the corner of her office caught her eye. At first she thought it was a dark statue. When it turned its head up and gazed at her, Jordan gasped.

  A nervous smile slowly emerged on Jordan’s face. She’d never seen the little man so clearly before. And so life-like! Large, wide-set eyes. A long nose. Oversized hands and feet, all quite hairy. And the most knowing smile.

  She took a step toward him and said, “Hello again.”

  But when she spoke, something peculiar happened. The little man jumped up on a table and wrapped the long fingers of both hands around the knob of the attic door. He jerked several times, then twisted the handle and pulled the door open. With a single leap, he disappeared into the recesses of the winding attic.

  Jordan stared in total disbelief. Out of the dark attic came the sound of scurrying and of objects being pushed around. Something crashed. Then there was silence.

  The next moment, Jordan found herself half-running, half-jumping down the spiral staircase. When she reached the kitchen, she leaned back against the counter, both hands gripping the quartz counter top. She stared back at the loft, gasping for air.

  “It opened the door…”

  A muffled thump from above made her heave herself out of the kitchen, and she ran to the table in the foyer, where she scooped up her phone and car keys before slamming the front door.

  For nearly a minute, Jordan sat in the driver’s seat and stared absently at the woods behind her house, hands locked on the wheel at 10 and 2 o’clock. As she regained her breath, a name came to her: Orvis Floyd.

  His address and phone number were still on her cell phone. Nervous fingers stabbed at the keypad.

  “Please be there.” Jordan bent low in her seat and looked up at the clerestory windows. From the outside, her house appeared to be perfectly normal.

  Then she heard a voice on the phone. “Yes?”

  “Mr. Floyd? This is Jordan Connaway. I need your help.”

  There was a short pause. “Shall I come to your house?”

  “No!”

  “I see. Do you have my home address?”

  “Yes – yes, I do.”

  “Meet me here,” he said. “I’ll be waiting.” Then Jordan heard the dial tone.

  She had to will the fingers of her right hand to stop twitching and turn the key in the Honda’s ignition. On the second attempt, the engine started, and the car shot out of the driveway onto the road.

  Orvis Floyd had been just another customer, though one of the most pleasant she’d ever worked with. Never once did he object to a billing for the web site she created for the Irish Wolfhound rescue organization he funded and ran.

  But on her last day on the job, as she was showing Floyd and his two employees how the site’s auto-responder worked, he asked her to step into his office. Once inside, he closed the door and sat down beside her.

  Jordan sat and stared as the philanthropist with the round, fleshy face and bulging forehead told her he was going to share a secret with her. Jordan listened politely as Floyd claimed he was a sorcerer who had the power to cast spells. It was a gift he was born with, he said. Then he leaned close and informed Jordan that he could sense she, too, had the gift.

  Floyd’s hazel eyes sparkled when he said, “I could teach you how to use those powers.”

  Jordan had received numerous proposals from many men, but this one required real thought before she could respond. She smiled, and delicately informed Mr. Floyd she did not believe in the supernatural.

  Floyd shrugged, and offered to assist her if she ever changed her mind. After Jordan’s work was completed, Floyd never contacted her again, except to send his final check, which included a $200.00 bonus.

  And here she was, not quite a year later, pulling into the driveway of this strange man’s home, having instantly converted from an untroubled skeptic to a victim of the occult.

  It didn’t surprise her that Floyd’s house was huge and opulent, with a natural stone exterior and immaculate grounds.

  Floyd answered the door on the first ring. His childlike face wrinkled with concern the moment he looked up into Jordan’s eyes. “You’ve seen something.”

  She replied with a weak nod.

  “Better come into my study. You’ll be safe there.”

  Jordan followed Floyd through a long marble hallway. The floor-to-ceiling windows on the right revealed more of the grounds, including a greenhouse. Outside, a man on his knees glanced up, but quickly returned to pruning the shrubs.

  Floyd waved his hand over a door handle, then pulled the door open. “Go on in.”

  The lights came on, and Jordan looked around the room. Floyd’s study was surprisingly plain. A single mahogany bookcase sat behind the desk.

  “Have a seat.”

  Jordan paused when she looked down. The pattern in the floor was dazzling. It reminded her of a Mandlebrot set, with swirling geometric designs from oriental wall tiles thrown in. She looked up and noticed a stationary bike in the corner.

  Floyd sat down and gazed at Jordan from across his desk. “Tell me what frightened you.”

  When she finished, Floyd nodded. “Someone has cast a spell on you. What have you done to merit such a powerful enemy?”

  She shook her head. “I don’t have any enemies.”

  “Hmm.” It was a dismissive grunt. “Everyone has enemies. And you, young lady, have acquired a very dangerous one.” He stroked his chin. “But how odd the creature did not attack.”

  Floyd stood up and walked to a window. Outside, a magnolia was covered with white blossoms.

  “Have you ever seen this – creature before?”

  “Well, yes.”

  Her matter-of-fact reply made Floyd turn from the window. “What are you not telling me?”

  “It’s – it looks like a character I created for a workshop.”

  Floyd frowned and walked back to his desk. He leaned forward, both hands on the desktop. “Tell me about it.”

  “I’ve been trying to improve my writing for work. Search engines rank web sites on their clarity. It’s all part of SEO. Search Engine Optimization.”

  “And?”

  “And – once I got into it, I started to write short stories. A couple of my stories have been published. Then I received an email offering a free online course from a famous writer.”

  “Who?”

  “Shane Morgan. She writes romantic fantasies.”

  For the first time since Jordan had known him, Orvis Floyd narrowed his eyes in irritation.

  “So what does this have to do with what you saw?”

  “She told me to visualize a character in vivid detail. Every morning when I woke, and before I went to bed, I was supposed to imagine what he looked like. His name is Boye – in the story I’m writing, he’s a familiar to a young witch I’m–”

  Floyd raised a hand. “You said you were visualizing this creature?”

  “Yes. Ms. Morgan said that if I focused enough, the character would become real to me, and would even appear at unexpected times. The idea was for my character to, uh, take on a life of his own.”

  “And so he did.”

  “He wasn’t supposed to open doors. And he smelled.”

  “That’s not uncommon.” Floyd exhaled and locked his eyes on Jordan. “Could someone fake Ms. Morgan’s identity online?”

  Jordan swallowed. “Yes.”

  “Jordan, listen to me very carefully. I think someone is aware of your undeveloped talent and is trying to harm you, maybe even kill you. They tricked you into creating the agent of your own destruction.”

  “Can’t you tell who it is?”

  “I’m not a psychic.”

  Jordan scowled. “Wait a minute. When we first met, you told me I had some kind of mystical power. And when I got here, you knew I’d seen something. So why can’t you tell who’s doing this to me?”

  “Can you look at a fireplace and tell if it’s burning? That’s all I did.”

  She shook her head. “I di
dn’t mean to sound–”

  “That’s all right.” Floyd cocked his head. “Will you have to go home to track those emails?”

  “No. I can access everything from here.”

  Floyd spun the black laptop on his desk toward her. “Be my guest. Good luck.”

  “Thanks.”

  A half hour later, Jordan looked up from the laptop. “It’s definite. All the emails came from Shane Morgan.”

  Floyd, who’d been standing nearby with his head buried in a battered leather book, slowly closed it and stared at Jordan.

  “This can’t be.”

  “I double-checked the IP address. There’s no doubt.”

  “This is very unusual.” Floyd slid the volume back into its spot on a bookshelf. “Do you know what this means?”

  Without breathing, Jordan said, “No.”

  Floyd sat down opposite Jordan and folded his hands together. “I know every sorcerer alive. That means you’re the culprit. You conjured this creature by imagining it.” With both hands raised, he added, “No spell. No guidance. You have more power than I realized.”

  “What can I do? That thing’s taken over my house.”

  Floyd stood and walked to his bookcase, where he pulled out a green book dotted with dark stains. After flipping through a few pages, he said, “Here’s something. I’m going to copy this down on a piece of paper. Recite this as you enter your office.”

  “That will get rid of him?”

  “No.” A wispy eyebrow arched over one eye. “But it should enable you to talk to him. Maybe he’ll listen to commands.”

  “What do you mean, ‘maybe’? Can you come with me?”

  Eyes wide, Floyd shook his head. “Only you can deal with this creature.” A look of guilt flashed on his face. He sat down and with a ballpoint pen, copied a passage from the old book onto a sheet of paper. He mumbled to himself as he wrote. When he finished, he stood and held the paper out. Jordan walked over to him.

  The moment Jordan took the note, Floyd put his hands on Jordan’s shoulders, pulled her close, and whispered in her ear.

  Jordan nodded and turned away. As she opened the door to leave, she paused and said, “Thank you.”

  It was only eleven in the morning, and the sun was shining, but Jordan was still afraid to go home. After circling the block twice in her car, Jordan got up the nerve to pull into her driveway. With Orvis Floyd’s spell clutched in her right hand, she opened the car door and walked up the sidewalk to her front door. When she opened the unlocked door, she realized all the lights were out inside. She took a deep breath and walked in.

  The house was quiet. As soon as she entered the kitchen, she stared up at the loft. Jordan gripped the handrail of the spiral staircase and started walking. Halfway up, she unfolded the note and read the spell. She had no idea what she was saying. Floyd had written down the phonetic sounding of a text from some exotic language. Maybe Old Celtic. Maybe Latin. For good measure, she repeated it as she stepped onto the landing. The wet dog smell was as strong as ever.

  The attic door was still open. A quick search around her office turned up no sign of the creature. Jordan walked toward the attic door and stepped inside. She didn’t have to go far.

  Seated in the shaft of light from the open door, with his knees pulled up to his chest, the creature had curled up against a cardboard box of tax returns. It looked up at Jordan. She studied him a moment, then said, “Boye.”

  Boye turned away. Jordan knew he understood her.

  “We’re going to have to talk. But I have something to do first.”

  There was no response from the little man. Jordan turned and walked back into her office.

  She knew what she had to do. Before she left Orvis Floyd’s study, Orvis had whispered a warning to her: “Some powers are best unused.” She knew Orvis was right.

  With the trash can in one hand, Jordan began pulling books off the shelf over her computer. First to go was Strunk and White, followed by John Gardner’s The Art of Fiction and Stephen King’s On Writing.

  Jordan froze. She felt a presence behind her. When she turned, she saw Boye at her feet. In his hairy, oversized hands was a small stack of dog-eared Writer’s Digest magazines.

  Jordan took the magazines and dropped them into the trash can. “Thank you.”

  Boye’s eyes brightened into two glowing beads, and he scampered back into the attic.

  HEAT

  by Steve Jordan

  A huge explosion rattled the hinges on the loft hatch. Jess sighed, and knocked twice.

  “You’re supposed to knock three times.”

  “What’s the point?”

  “So I know it’s you, and not some corporate spy or something.”

  “Would a corporate spy knock at all?”

  There was no reply. She gave a tut, knocked three times, pushed the loft hatch open and climbed into Victor’s headquarters.

  If Victor’s bedroom had even seen sunlight, it had long since forgotten its warmth. Double-thick fabric curtains were always drawn to ensure the near blackout. The only illumination came from the ultraviolet lights on Victor’s second-hand, wooden, school workstation, and the blood-red lava lamp next to his bed. Posters of wrestlers cutting high-flying, fist-throwing poses hung on the walls in neat rows like medieval banners. Brawler, Victor’s favourite wrestler of the moment, was winning the battle for wall space with ease. Clothes covered the carpet. Who knew what his parents thought of it, if they had ever even seen it. Jess had her doubts.

  Victor sat at the desk, dismantling his glassware chemistry set in a hurry. Bits of it were still smoking from the explosion. He swiped the surface clean with his forearm, sending the last of the test tubes and stopcocks into the bin. Jess set a cool glass of milk down on the chest of drawers next to his bed.

  “Surprised to see me, not a spy trying to steal your plans for world domination?” she said, arms crossed.

  “Nope, not surprised. Never surprised.”

  He was brisk and didn’t make eye-contact, totally focused on lining up small pieces of wire on the desk in front of him.

  “Going off chemistry at last?”

  “Yes. Trying something else.”

  That was a good sign. Jess said a silent prayer that he might have grown out of advanced chemistry at last, and moved onto something like football or guns - something a bit more relatable for a ten year old boy.

  She picked up an unloved Disneyland Paris hoodie from the floor and shook off metal filings and fine, silver hairs.

  “Have you been letting next door’s cat in here?”

  Victor declined to respond; during the couple of seconds’ silence, Jess noticed a quiet hum. It was like an electric razor using up its last bit of battery, about to die. She tried to figure out where it was coming from.

  “What’s that sound?”

  “Mecha-Mouse,” he said, pointing behind him without looking as he placed a heat-resistant mat on his desk.

  “What’s that when it’s at home?” Jess asked, moving toward the neglected wardrobe.

  Victor sighed.

  “I’ll show you.”

  He got up and squeezed behind the wardrobe. He reached and pulled out something caught in the dust and grime. He held it in closed hands, something that looked like it was trying to fight its way out of his grasp, pushing at his knuckles from the inside. He let it go on the heatproof surface.

  It wasn’t like any wind-up toy mouse Jess had seen before - it actually looked like a mouse. It was lacking in the fur and colour department, but it had an articulated spine that wriggled as it walked. Little waves of muscle movement rippled under rubber skin. It gave a curious nod of the head when it came to the edge of the desk, like it was figuring out where to go next.

  “Wow, that’s neat,” Jess said flatly, trying to disguise her admiration. “McDonalds Happy Meal toys have really come a long way from when I was your age.”

  She reached out to touch it. When her palm was an inch from it, Victor gave a yel
p and pushed her hand back.

  “What was that for?” Jess said, with a scolding look.

  “Sorry.” He placed a quartz beaker over the mouse in a flash. “It’s just not ready for other people’s touch yet. Could go nasty.”

  The mouse looked confused and sniffed up at the glass that trapped it, circling its sudden prison.

  “Your imagination is epic,” she said.

  Victor gave an uneasy smirk.

  “Don’t worry your pretty little head about it, toots,” he said, reaching past her for his glass of milk and downing it in one. “Did you get the tickets?”

  She had wondered how long it would take him to mention it. Victor’s hard features suddenly showed a child’s optimism, like it was Christmas morning. These were her favourite moments with him.

  “I might have,” she said, but her widening smile gave her away.

  “Yes! Yes! Yes!” he yelled, literally jumping for joy around the room with outstretched arms. For once, it was as though he really was a kid.

  The main event was close. The promo video was over. As the crew members prepared the ring for the next match, Victor couldn’t keep still. He leapt to his feet, the excitement becoming too much.

  “Let’s-go-Brawler!” he yelled, clapping a beat. “Let’s-go-Brawler!”

  When Victor started to chant, it was part of Jess’s job to join in. It didn’t embarrass her, not here.

  The last hour spent in the dimly lit arena had been surprisingly boring for what was supposed to the IWF’s biggest event of the year - a series of botched moves and mistimed stunts. At last, Brawler was moments away from his first pay-per-view match in a very long time. Victor tried to explain the significance of the moment, how he had been waiting for ‘soooo long’ for it to finally happen. Jess failed to see the magnificence, but humoured him by joining in with his chants. Playing the oboe in the school orchestra meant she had lungs like bellows, so she could keep up with Victor’s inexhaustible enthusiasm.

  “Brawler-sucks!”

  Their rhythm was broken. One of the red and white-clad masses, a boy two rows forward from them, decided it was time to spoil their fun. Red and white were the colours of Reaper, Brawler’s ever-popular opponent. Victor hated him.