by James Swain
“Make it go away,” she pleaded.
“Do you want me to go back to the other side?”
“No!”
“Then I can’t make it go away. We need to go outside, and hope it doesn’t follow us. Ghosts and spirits don’t like to be seen, so we should be okay.”
They headed for the front door still holding each other. Halfway down the hall, the electricity returned and the flashing stopped. In the living room, Butch was frantically clashing his cymbals. Spirits had a way of becoming attached to objects, and the shadow person had taken a liking to the automated toy panda on the mantel.
The clashing became more intense. So loud that Peter thought Butch might fall apart. Sticking his head into the living room, he gasped.
“Holy crap,” he said.
Liza jerked open the front door. “Don’t stop,” she said.
“Come here. You have to see this.”
“Peter!”
Love was based on trust. He grabbed Liza by the hand, and pulled her into the living room. She was afraid, but did not resist. She raised her hand to her mouth in utter disbelief.
“Oh, my God,” she exclaimed.
* * *
Peter was rarely amazed. Tonight was one of those exceptions. His prized illusions had miraculously repaired themselves and returned to their designated spots in the living room. The Flying Carpet levitated in midair, while the Zig-Zag illusion looked ready to remove a person’s middle. If he hadn’t seen it with his own eyes, he wouldn’t have believed it possible.
“Am I dreaming?” Liza asked, lowering her hand.
“Not at all. What you see is what you get.”
“Do I have to kill you, or are you going to explain this to me?”
“Of course I’ll explain it to you. Hold on for a second.”
The best tricks continued to fool a person long after they were over. He stepped into the hallway to inspect his collection of rare playbills. To his delight, the shattered frames had miraculously restored themselves, the playbills untouched. But what about the other floors? As he headed up the stairs to find out, Liza crossed her arms, demanding an explanation.
“Now,” she said, raising her voice.
“None of it was real,” he said, stopping on a step. “I should have realized it before, when Garrison pointed out that all the breaks in the frames were identical.”
“What do you mean, none of it was real? We all saw the damage, Peter.”
“It was an illusion.”
“Is this thing some kind of magician?”
“In a way, yes. It can distort reality, and make you see things which really don’t exist. For whatever reason, it decided to trash my place without really trashing it. Come upstairs with me. I need to check something out.”
She followed him upstairs to the third floor. The photos of magicians past that lined the stairway had returned to their original condition, as had the furniture in the master bedroom. Everything was normal again, except for the broken window his shoe had gone through.
“This is so flipping weird,” he said.
Liza struck a defiant pose. What he was telling her, and what she’d just seen, had collided, and she no longer trusted him. He made her sit beside him on the bed.
“I don’t believe this,” she said.
“I can prove it was an illusion,” he said.
“Show me.”
He pulled up Garrison’s number on his Droid. As the call went through, he put the phone on speaker so Liza could hear the conversation. Garrison answered on the first ring.
“Something wrong?” the FBI agent asked.
“Nothing’s wrong. In fact, everything’s just great,” Peter replied, putting his hand around Liza’s waist, and drawing her close. “I have a favor to ask.”
“Go ahead.”
“Can you look at those photos you shot in my place, and call me back?”
“What am I looking for?”
“See if the broken glass in the frames repaired itself.”
“Come again?”
“The damage you saw earlier wasn’t real. It was an illusion.”
“No offense, but I’m not buying that for one minute.”
“Make you a bet. Loser buys a steak dinner at Smith & Wollensky.”
“You’re on, magic man. I’ll call you right back.”
Peter ended the call. His shoe was lying on the floor, and he picked it up. “This is the part I don’t understand,” he said.
“You understand the rest of it?” Liza asked in disbelief.
“I’m beginning to. The shadow person wants my undivided attention. It pulled this stunt to get it. Now I have to figure out what it wants.”
“How wonderful.”
The Droid vibrated in his hand and Peter answered it on speaker. “I want my steak medium-rare with all the trimmings.”
“Remind me never to make a bet with you,” Garrison said.
* * *
Sleep proved elusive, and they lay in bed beneath the warm covers, trying to make sense of it all. Liza rested her head on Peter’s chest, and listened to the rhythmic beat of his heart. A blanket covered the broken window, muting the street noise.
“Is this what it’s going to be like living with you?” she asked.
Kaboom, Peter thought. He chose his words with extra care.
“Normally, my life is pretty dull.”
“You talk to the dead every Friday night with your friends. That’s not normal.”
“It’s only once a week.”
“Be serious, Peter.”
“Sorry.”
“You promised me that you’d stop keeping secrets from me. It’s the one thing I can’t stand about living with you. You’re always hiding something.”
It was true. He kept his darkest secrets from Liza, and the rest of his friends as well. Secrets about his past, his parents, and the genetic code they’d passed on to him which extended his powers far beyond anything a normal psychic could do. Liza couldn’t stand not knowing these things about him, and wanted him to level with her. If he didn’t, they both knew what the outcome would be. She’d pack up and leave and he’d be alone again. It was his greatest fear, and he was ready to tell her everything about his life, only a voice inside his head said not yet.
“Let me ask you a question,” she said. “You nearly died during the séance at your friend’s apartment. Were you planning to tell me? Be truthful.”
“No. I didn’t want to alarm you.”
“That’s not fair. You had this absolutely horrible thing happen to you, and you internalize it, and don’t let your emotions out. I’m more than just your lover, Peter. I’m your friend. You have to confide in me, and share your feelings.”
“I’m sorry.”
She grabbed his chin and gave his head a shake. “Stop saying that.”
He started to say “I’m sorry,” and stopped himself. Liza fell back onto her pillows, and for the longest time stared at the ceiling.
“I want us to see a counselor. We’re running in circles,” she said.
“But I like chasing you.”
No response, not even a giggle. They’d discussed seeing a counselor before. He turned on his side, and rested his head on the palm of his hand. “Okay, I’m game.”
“Do you really mean that?”
“Yes. We’ll go see a pro, and talk this out. I don’t want you angry with me.”
“You have a problem, Peter. You realize that, don’t you?”
“I’m different. So were my parents. They taught me to hide my gifts. So did the people who raised me after they died. I’m not making excuses. It’s how I was brought up.”
“But you can’t hide things from me. Not if we’re going to live together.”
“I understand that. You have to be patient. This isn’t easy for me.”
He gently stroked her hair, and elicited a faint smile. The first time he’d laid eyes on Liza at the Beacon Theatre during a performance by Cirque du Soleil had been like
something out of a dream. He’d taken a date, buying front-row seats. The show was filled with gymnasts able to turn their elastic bodies into pretzels, and it would have been nothing more than a fun night out until a troupe of Chinese aerialists called the Lings took the stage. Mom and dad, a pair of muscle-bound twin brothers, and two drop-dead beautiful girls, Liza and her sister Kim.
The Lings had flown through space as if they had wings. They looked like angels, and Peter’s heart had caught in his throat as Liza had twirled overhead while hanging on to a bright red sash with one hand. He’d never believed in love at first sight, but that night had changed his notions about romance and physical attraction. He had wanted her not just physically, but also emotionally. This was the woman he was meant to be with; this was the partner he’d longed to have in his life, and he hadn’t even known her name.
His feelings had been impossible to conceal. When the act was over, he’d jumped from up his seat and applauded wildly while his date stormed out of the theater.
That had been two years ago. Liza had entered his life, and become his lover, while her younger sister had replaced her in the family troupe. He had showered Liza with everything she could have asked for, and treated her like a princess. A perfect arrangement, except he’d hidden his psychic abilities from her, fearful that she’d think he was a freak, and run away. He knew now it had been a mistake, one that he must fix.
“Do you have someone in mind?” he asked, breaking the silence.
“I did some research on the Internet. One name kept popping up. A professor at NYU Medical School named Dr. Raul Sierra. He’s written several highly regarded books on relationship counseling. He teaches partners how to communicate with each other.”
“You want to go see him?”
“Uh-huh.”
“How much do I have to tell him about myself?”
“Enough for him to understand you.”
“You mean everything.”
“If that’s what it takes, yes.”
“You’re serious.”
“I’ve never been more serious in my life. It’s now or never, Peter.”
They shared a brief silence. It carried in it an unstated answer that he didn’t want to hear, and it went like this: If we don’t fix this relationship, I’ll go back to the circus with my family. But he’d never told anyone everything. His life was filled with secrets that he’d expected to take with him to his grave, and maybe beyond. Yet at the same time, if he didn’t come clean with Liza, she’d walk out on him, and his heart would be forever broken.
“Okay,” he mumbled halfheartedly.
“You mean that?”
“Uh-huh.”
She kissed him on the lips in the darkness. The fear and anxiety of the past few hours went away, and he felt whole again. Just a single kiss had done it.
“Thank you,” she said.
“When do you want to go see him?”
“Monday morning, nine thirty. I booked a session a week ago. For me. But you can come, too.”
“You were going to see a shrink?”
“I had to do something. I don’t know how to deal with this.”
He suddenly felt like a shit. Liza had been agonizing for days, and he hadn’t noticed. Too busy with the show and his Friday night séances to be paying attention to her needs. He vowed to change that, too. His Droid vibrated on the night table, and he lifted the phone to his face. “The FBI never sleeps,” he said.
“Garrison?”
“The one and only.”
“It must be something important for him to be calling this late.”
“Your intuitive skills are amazing, Dr. Watson.”
“Answer it, smart-ass.”
He answered the call. “Hello, Special Agent Garrison. What a pleasant surprise.”
“Sorry for the intrusion, but I thought you’d want to hear this,” Garrison said. “The pattern in your broken frames struck a nerve. I was sure I’d seen it somewhere before, so I sketched it from memory, scanned it into my computer, and ran it through a database of symbols the FBI has found at different crime scenes. I got a hit.”
“From where?”
“Westchester County a decade ago. He killed five homeless men, and dumped their bodies in a field. The bodies were laid out in this strange pattern, like an upside-down cross. It was the same pattern that I saw in your broken frames.”
“Then it’s him.”
“Has to be. The FBI did up a profile. He’s a white male in his late forties, lives by himself, is smart, and has no social life.”
Peter groaned. In all the excitement, he’d forgotten to tell Garrison that he’d glimpsed into the killer’s mind, and seen him entering a room of students. “He’s a college professor. I forgot to tell you.”
“Are you sure about this?”
“I read his mind right before he tried to shoot me. There can’t be that many college professors who fit that physical description in Westchester. Your haystack just got smaller.”
“It sure did. See you tomorrow.”
“Still want that composite?”
“Damn straight I do.”
Garrison was a hunter, and his prey was in his sights. This was good news, because once Dr. Death was behind bars, the shadow person would lose its sponsor, and return to wherever it came from. He returned the Droid to the night table, feeling better than he had a minute ago.
Liza’s cool breath tickled his skin. “Good news?” she asked.
“Getting better,” he said.
9
Holly was being a bad girl. After coming home from the séance, she’d lit candles inside her studio apartment, put on some classical music, and drawn the shades. When she’d deemed the mood was just right, she’d filled a round vase with tap water, added a mixture of magic herbs, and begun to scry on Peter, the man she loved.
Holly knew that playing voyeur cam with Peter’s private life was wrong. Witches had a dreadful reputation for snooping, and she was only making it worse. But she couldn’t help it. She had loved Peter since she was a child. For the longest time, she’d kept these feelings bottled up, and her emotions in check.
No more.
She’d had an epiphany. Life was fleeting, and terribly short. Peter had nearly died, and she’d never gotten to express her true feelings to him. That was about to change.
Water, water, oh so clear, show me the boy that I hold so dear.
I love him with all my heart, and feel terrible when we’re apart.
The water in the vase grew cloudy, then cleared. The image of Peter at his brownstone on the East Side appeared. For a while, Peter sat on the stoop talking on his cell phone. Then a shoe came through an upper window, and landed at his feet. Peter raced inside in alarm.
She should have ended things right there. But instead, she recited the mystic words that let her follow Peter inside.
Oh spirits from above, take me inside the house of the man that I love.
Let me see what’s happening to dear Peter, so that I may help him and be near him.
It wasn’t the best rhyme she’d come up with, but it would do. The image inside the vase changed, and she saw Peter bound upstairs and run down a hallway to the master bedroom. She’d visited Peter’s brownstone during her supernatural visits before, but never ventured inside his bedroom. It had not seemed the right thing to do
She now followed him, hoping she might help. A dark spirit waited in Peter’s bedroom, and it snatched Peter’s soul away to the spirit world, while his body lay motionless on the floor. Every few moments, one of his arms or legs twitched, signaling he was still alive.
Every time that happened, Holly’s heart skipped a beat.
Peter’s beautiful girlfriend, Liza, and a gang of stern-faced FBI agents appeared. Holly knew they were FBI because of the badges clipped to their chests. Seeing Peter on the floor, Liza had tried to shake him awake. She was crying, her face flush.
Holly cried as well. If Peter died … she tried not to imagine it.
Finally, Peter’s eyes opened and he returned to the real world. Holly yelped for joy. The sound had a strange effect, and the water in the vase grew cloudy, ending the session.
“Damn it,” she cursed.
Vase in hand, she crossed the studio and dumped the water into the sink. She tried to look on the bright side. The danger had passed and Peter was now safe. But she could not avoid seeing the dark side. Her beloved was still with Liza, and not with her. That wasn’t fair, was it? Liza didn’t have any powers, and she could never love Peter like Holly did. She was going to go crazy if that situation didn’t change soon. Sometimes, she felt like she already had.
* * *
Holly lived in Morningside Heights, not far from Columbia. The space was small, but the view of the Hudson River made it feel big. On the walls hung her witch’s things: astrological charts along with those devoted to numerology, plus shelves lined with jelly jars filled with magical herbs, rainbow powders, and bone-white charms. She lived by herself, which was depressing in a city as large as New York. She’d considered getting a roommate, but it couldn’t be any roommate. It would have to be a person with an open mind, one who’d tolerate her strange habits. Like talking to ghosts and seeing into the future, for one thing.
She was a direct descendant of Mary Glover, who’d been hanged in Boston during the Salem witch trials. She bore a striking resemblance to the late great witch, right down to the cute dimple on her chin. A witch’s powers were many: clairvoyance, casting spells, and the ability to hold sway over farm animals and domesticated beasts. But these powers came with a price, and she had few close friends.
It was hard being a young woman living in New York by yourself, even if you weren’t a witch. Harder still when you belonged to a two-person club that included you and your aunt. Sometimes, it was all she could do not to feel sorry for herself. Holly told herself to get over it.
There had been a boy once. A drop-dead gorgeous foreign exchange student named Jean-Claude. One night at the restaurant where she worked as a hostess, he’d come in, and started to chat. One thing had led to another, and Jean-Claude had ended up in her apartment, sharing a bottle of wine. It had turned physical. As they’d made their way to her bed, she’d read his thoughts, and seen him preparing an exit strategy. She’d thrown him out, along with any notion that she could have a relationship with a normal boy.
