Strange Magic

by Gord Rollo

  As far as Wilson was concerned, there may have been more beautiful women in the world on the outside, but none could ever match the inner beauty his wife possessed in such selfless abundance. Susan was everything he’d ever wanted in a woman, and still was. His perfect ten. Even after three years of living apart he still loved her as much, if not more, than on the day he’d married her.

  She’d been much younger than he was, of course. When they’d met nearly eleven years ago, Susan had just turned twenty-five. Wilson had been thirty-six. Right from the start they’d shared a special kind of love so few ever find, so age had never been a stumbling block for either of them. Within six months, Wilson had known he didn’t want to live another day without her but they’d waited two full years before getting married, just to please her family. The following year their daughter, Amanda, had arrived, three weeks premature, but healthy and beautiful. With his beloved family now complete, Wilson had thought maybe he could finally put the horrors of his past behind him. He’d obviously been wrong.

  When Susan finally noticed he’d walked into the room, she forgot about the poster and turned to meet him. Their eyes met and locked for a few precious seconds before she glanced away, but the eye contact had been more than enough for Wilson to see she was still in love with him. She was more than a little pissed off. That was also evident. Still, he was buoyant with the realization that after all those years, she still cared. He hated himself for the way he continually let her down. Yet, through thick and thin, she had always loved him. When others had tried to convince her he was too old for her, she had smiled and ignored them. When they said he was a loser and drank too much, she had stuck by him and tried to understand. Even when things had become intolerable, and his drinking had taken control, she was the one who’d cried for forgiveness when she threw him out. She actually believed in some way that she might have been the one who’d done something to trigger his demise.

  It was simply incredulous she might harbor such a thought, but he loved her for it. He couldn’t fathom why she still cared, but he thanked God she did. He just wished he could somehow find the strength to stop hurting her. He would have walked barefoot over white-hot coals rather than make this wonderful woman cry. Since the day they’d separated, he’d wanted to put things right between them but the more he tried, the more he screwed up and the more hurt he inflicted. Yesterday’s stupidity was another fine example and did little to promote his cause.

  “Thanks for coming, Susan,” was all he could think to say as Officer Jackson returned his wallet and keys and signed his release.

  “No problem,” she whispered, her face cupped in her ever-so-delicate hands.

  Wilson felt truly awful, thinking she was about to break into tears. He was somewhat confused when muffled laughter escaped from her concealed mouth. She tried to stop herself, but the cork was out of the bottle. She dropped her small, dainty hands and pointed her finger, trying to say something in between her uncontrolled guffaws. Finally, she turned and ran out of the open door, but not before attracting much unwanted attention around the normally quiet precinct.

  Wilson couldn’t help but notice the pitying glances of those nearby, as he grabbed up his belongings and dashed out in hot pursuit. What did she find so funny? Was she laughing at him? Had he read the look in her eyes wrong, and maybe she’d finally realized what a fool he really was? Had she come down here just to humiliate him in front of everyone? He couldn’t blame her if she had; he certainly deserved it. Deserved or not though, it just didn’t seem like something Susan would do. Wasn’t her style at all.

  He followed her outside and approached with his head hung low, feeling a bit hurt and disappointed. She made it all the way across the parking lot before he was able to confront her. She was leaning on the silver Honda Civic’s front fender, still trying to stifle her laughter.

  “Listen, Susan,” Wilson pleaded. “I know what a screwup I am, and how I keep hurting you, but please don’t humiliate me. I don’t care if others laugh behind my back but I just can’t take it when it comes from you. Besides, this is hardly a laughing matter. I’ve been charged this time. I could end up in jail.”

  Susan stood up, her jovial mood gone. An understanding smile spread across her thin face as she took a couple of steps closer until they were only a few feet apart.

  “Oh Wilson,” she sighed, wiping a solitary tear from the corner of her eye. “I wasn’t laughing at you…honest. You know me better than that. I don’t understand why you sometimes act the way you do, but believe me I’d never make fun of you.”

  Susan moved even closer, tenderly stroking his scratched cheek before pulling away. It had been like this since the breakup. She wanted to hold him, to comfort him, but she couldn’t succumb to her feelings. Not yet, anyway. He had to help himself before she could allow herself to give in to her lonely, aching heart. No one ever said loving an alcoholic was easy.

  Right from day one, people had been trying to tell her Wilson was no good, or that she could do much better. This was even before he’d lost his job and the drinking had gotten way out of hand. Her own mother had practically begged her to reconsider and marry some local boy—any local boy probably—one with a big reputable family who lived nearby. A big happy family was everything to Doris Summers, and the fact that Wilson had no relatives nearby and they’d seen neither hide nor hair of the family he claimed lived in rural Ohio made him a bad egg in her books. She didn’t trust Wilson and probably never would. Susan didn’t think like her mother though, and it never bothered her what anyone said about her man.

  They hadn’t been there with them on their first date, the day Wilson had taken her to Villa Roma, the fanciest and most expensive restaurant in Billington. He’d been so nervous all night, bless him, and when he’d finally worked up the nerve to reach over the table to hold her hand, he’d accidentally spilled her water glass onto the tablecloth and all over the front of her black dress. Nine times out of ten, maybe even ninety-nine times out of a hundred, something like that would have spelled disaster and ruined any chance a guy would have of continuing their relationship, but something in the pleading, honest way Wilson looked at her that night had made Susan just freeze. Instead of getting angry or storming out of the room, she just sat still for a moment, looking into Wilson’s tender eyes and waited to see what would happen next. Without a word Wilson reached out, grabbed his own full water glass, and dumped it right in his own lap. Susan had burst into laughter and soon they were both smiling and killing themselves laughing as the waiter scurried around their table trying to wipe them both dry.

  Probably not a textbook first date and definitely not a storybook romance, but that was just the way it was with Wilson. He was clumsy, he was a bit strange, and he was chaos on two legs, but beneath it all he was a kind, caring, wonderful man. In her heart, Susan knew he deeply loved her and even with all his faults—and he certainly had many—she would love Wilson until the day she died. Overly romantic? Perhaps. Stupid? Maybe, but that was just the way it was. She was in this for the long haul.

  “Don’t worry about the charges,” she said. “That was why I was late. I stopped over at the Morris house and managed to smooth things out. He’s going to drop the charges on Monday. The chief said he’s going to let this go too, so you’re off the hook.”

  His wife was an absolute saint. Wilson couldn’t begin to tell her how grateful he was for all she’d done. She saw it in his tear-filled eyes, however, and simply returned a sympathetic nod.

  “What were you laughing at, then?” he asked, breaking the silence. “What was so funny?”

  “Nothing really, I just wasn’t prepared to see you dressed up in your baggy clown suit, that’s all. When I turned and looked at you, I sort of lost it. I’m sorry, I couldn’t help myself.”

  Wilson could acknowledge the humor of seeing a clown being let out of the drunk tank, and smiled agreeably. “Oh, so you were laughing at me, huh? I suppose I did look a bit silly.”

  Looking s
erious for a moment, he looked her straight in the eye and said, “I really was trying this time. I didn’t mean for things to turn out the way they did.”

  “I know you didn’t,” she replied sympathetically, although she’d heard the same line many times in the past. “And you’re going to keep on trying, right?”

  “Right,” he answered, incredibly thankful he’d been wrong about her. It was comforting to know she hadn’t given up on him. “Where were you last night, anyway?”

  “Amanda and I drove up to Rochester and spent the night with my mother. She can’t stand living there, but she’s adamant it’s her who’s gonna look after Granny. We didn’t get back until this morning. Why? I’m allowed to have a life of my own, aren’t I? I mean, you can’t expect me to sit around day after day, year after year, waiting by the phone to rescue you every time you get in trouble.”

  Wilson could tell she immediately regretted her harsh words but he flinched anyway, as if struck. He let the comment go. They rode in an uncomfortable silence for a few blocks, wondering what it would take to bring them together again. Neither seemed to know what to say, so they just stared straight ahead and continued on in silence.

  “So how’s Amanda doing?” he finally asked, unable to take the tension-filled quiet any longer.

  “She’s really good, but she’s missed you quite a bit lately. You haven’t been coming around much.”

  “I know. I’ve been pretty busy practicing my magic act. I was kind of hoping you’d bring her with you.”

  “Come on, Wilson…get real,” Susan said with a touch of sarcasm. “She worships the ground you walk on. Do you really think it would be good for her to see you getting out of jail?”

  “It’s not jail…it’s just…oh hell. No, I suppose not. You’re right, I guess I just miss her an awful lot and was hoping to see her.”

  “Then let’s get you home. I took Amanda over to Mrs. Henderson’s. She’s her new babysitter. We’ll get you out of that silly clown suit, and we’ll go pick her up. I think Amanda will like that.”

  “I think I’d like that too.” Wilson smiled tenderly, touching Susan’s hand. This time she didn’t pull away.

  CHAPTER SIX

  PICK A CARD…ANY OLD CARD

  “Where the hell is he?” the Stranger asked, his rough voice seething with anger, as he violently pounded the steering wheel until his hands hurt.

  Most of the morning was gone, it was quarter to eleven, and he’d been looking for Kemp throughout the night. On his arrival the night before, he’d stopped at a public telephone booth on the corner of Main and Berkely. The directory listed two Kemps, one with the initial S and the other a W. The latter seemed the obvious choice, but just to be safe, he jotted both addresses and phone numbers into a small notebook he carried in one of the many pockets of his long overcoat.

  His next stop had been to fill up at the twenty-four-hour Noco gas station and purchase a cheap local street map on display beside the cash register. After a quick peep at the map, he was on his way to Morgan Avenue, his adrenaline racing at the prospect of confronting the elusive Kemp. A few minutes after one o’clock, he turned onto Morgan and stopped the vehicle within sight of 256, the address listed for W. Kemp.

  The house was relatively small, a one-level wooden bungalow, badly run-down and requiring extensive renovation. The house was beige with the dirt-stained windows edged with dark brown shutters. The roof was in a sad state of disrepair, its faded brown shingles buckled and worn, and the rusted rain gutters were hanging precariously, ready to fall at any moment. In short, the house looked exactly like the seedy place the Stranger had imagined Kemp would be hiding in.

  Piece of shit for a piece of shit…

  The excitement of being this close to his prey was overwhelming and almost caused the Stranger to act rashly. Thankfully, the antique trunk had spoken to him and soothed his raging desire. He’d wanted to rush into the house and slaughter Kemp without delay, but the calming voice in his head had convinced him it was wise to proceed with caution. What if he didn’t have the right house? The last thing he wanted to do was to create havoc in the wrong place and perhaps alert Kemp he was here.

  He’d watched the dilapidated house for well over two hours, trying unsuccessfully to detect any signs of life within. By 3:30 A.M. the street was void of movement and all the houses in this quiet neighborhood were cloaked in darkness. His frustration had grown exponentially with each passing minute until finally he couldn’t contain himself. Silently, he slid out of the truck and stealthily headed for the front door. He had a gut feeling no one was home but he had no intention of waiting till daylight to find out. Ringing the doorbell was a risk, but only a small one. If Kemp answered the door—fine, he would kill him. If someone else answered, he would simply walk away, leaving them confused and probably pissed off at being woken up, but none the wiser.

  As it turned out, no one answered his repeated ringing of the doorbell. Furious, the tall, dark Stranger returned to his truck to ponder his next move. Eventually, he decided to drive over and check out the second listing. It only seemed to take a few minutes as he quietly nosed the truck onto Derby Hill Road and stopped near to a one-and-a-half-story Cape Cod-style dwelling. It was white, with a predominately large sloping green roof and matching shutters that neatly ordained the windows. A small, detached single-car garage sat off to the left at the end of a recently laid blacktopped driveway. It was a far nicer home in a much nicer neighborhood, but like the first, it too was deserted.

  For the remainder of the night, his frustration and anger continued to mount. He had set up a stakeout of sorts, driving back and forth between the two Kemp residences until daylight. To his dismay, no one returned to either house.

  By eight o’clock, too many people were walking and driving by for the Stranger to feel comfortable; sitting parked in the open might attract unwanted attention. He decided it would be best to stay on the move, occasionally driving by each house. It was now 10:46, and he was parked inconspicuously at a nearby convenience store, incensed at not being able to find his adversary.

  “Where the hell is he?” He struck the steering wheel in frustration again. “He couldn’t have vanished into thin air…or could he?”

  He stopped beating on the steering wheel long enough to ponder his dilemma. Was it possible Kemp had somehow found out he’d tracked him down and quietly left town? Had he really come this close, only to have the son of a bitch elude him once more?

  A dark cloud of rage and unbearable despair filtered through his warped, demented mind. If Kemp had really left town, he might not be able to locate him again. It had taken more than a year to get this close.

  Again the magic trunk soothed his feverish mind. It was telling him Kemp was still in town and unaware of his impending doom. How stupid he had been. If Kemp had left town, the antique trunk would have sensed it. Having received the good news, he felt a great sense of relief. Closing his eyes, he took a deep breath and concentrated on nothing except the smooth voice of reason now permeating his agitated mind.

  The trunk of secrets explained how he was going about things the wrong way. Killing Kemp quickly would be a big mistake. Too fast and easy. The cowardly bastard deserved a hell of a lot worse fate than a quick demise. He needed to be tortured, mentally and physically, forced to learn the meaning of true fear. He shouldn’t get off easy; he had earned the right to suffer.

  Fortunately, the magic trunk had many suggestions as to how he could fulfill his plan of revenge, but in the meantime, driving around in a stolen pickup wasn’t such a great idea. He had to find somewhere to lay low for a while, a quiet place where he could rest and plan.

  “Rest and plan,” the Stranger dreamily whispered as he climbed out from behind the wheel and entered the convenience store. Inside, he purchased a few bags of supplies and a newspaper in which he hoped to find the perfect hideaway.

  The weekly paper, a shaggy-looking rag known as the Billington Sentinel, was a twenty-page hodgepodge of
local news, sports, weather, and community events. On page sixteen, right beside the help-wanted ads, was a list of apartments for rent; four of those were listed as immediately available. Smiling again, the Stranger brought the old truck to life and pulled out of the parking lot, a quiet apartment now his first priority.

  The first place he checked he discounted immediately without taking the time to stop. It was a basement apartment, which was fine, but the apartment upstairs looked like some type of day care center, with dozens of screaming kids continually running in and out.

  The second apartment was better. It lay on a quieter street with no apparent kids around, but he decided to pass on this one too. It was one of those large three-story complexes, and kids or not, there were too many neighbors for his liking.

  The dark man was once again feeling stressed out and frustrated, when driving east on Leamon Avenue he pulled to a stop in front of the third address. He instantly had a good feeling about it.

  Now this place has potential.

  The two-story house with an attached two-car garage was set back quite a bit from the road on a large lot filled with huge oak trees. It was an older home, spruced up with gray aluminum siding and a recently shingled roof.

  The ad in the paper indicated the owner preferred a room-and-board type of arrangement, and anyone interested would have to be willing to take care of the heavy yard work as part of the deal. Probably a good indicator the owner was an older person who needed help.

  Interesting.

  In the ten or fifteen minutes the Stranger sat considering whether this was the right place for him, not one car passed along this unusually quiet street. Inside his mind, the magic trunk nudged him into action. It said no words but sent him a visual picture of a monstrous entity slowly nodding its deformed head, obviously well pleased. The Stranger had seen all he needed to.