The Boy Who Couldn’t Fly Home: A Gay Teen Coming of Age Paranormal Adventure about Witches, Murder, and Gay Teen Love (The Broom Closet Stories Book 2)

by Jeff Jacobson

  His hands flew to his mouth in horror as a wail began to build in his throat. But before he could make a sound, his eyes snapped open. He found himself once again on the chair in the basement. He couldn’t make sense of what he saw in front of him. Todd still sat on the chair opposite him, Grace and Thomas still on either side, eyes closed as they rode their waves of pleasure. At first he thought that the boy was smiling. But his smile was wrong. It was too wet, too red, and the angle was strange.

  The boy wasn’t smiling. His head rested back against the chair. His throat had been cut wide open. It wasn’t a mouth that Charlie saw, but a fatal gash administered by the knife Claudia held in her hand where she now stood behind the boy, morbid glee dancing in her eyes.

  Blood had gushed down Todd’s front, along Claudia’s arm. There were patches of it on Grace’s face, more smeared over the front of Thomas’s white shirt.

  “No! No, no, no, no, no!” Charlie began yelling. He tried to stand up, for he wanted to run away, to be free of these power-hungry murderers, and even more strongly, to acquit himself of any role he had played in Todd’s death. But Tony held Charlie to his chair, and Grace and Thomas kept their hands, the ones not grasping onto Todd’s body, pressing down on Charlie’s head maintaining a buzzing circuitry and forcing Charlie to stay locked within it.

  There was no escaping, no fleeing from the horror of Grace’s world. He couldn’t run away. The witches had forced Charlie into a nightmare of violence and death. He couldn’t free himself from it. Nor could he ever again pretend that it didn’t exist.

  But he had to do something. Hadn’t he decided that he was going to fight?

  If he couldn’t get away from these people, then what could he do?

  In that moment, deep inside himself, below the horror of Todd’s murder and his own part in it, underneath his own hopelessness at ever escaping from Grace and this hellish basement, even beneath the deep troubling satisfaction of being filled with the dead boy’s life force, Charlie glimpsed a small window of opportunity. It seemed too easy, too implausible, but just maybe, if he acted quickly, he could slip through that window while it was still open.

  CHAPTER 29

  Window of Opportunity

  BEFORE HE COULD TALK himself out of it, Charlie gave a sharp shout and lurched forward in his chair, slamming his right hand on the top of Thomas’s head, his left hand on Grace’s. Their eyes flew open, and he heard Claudia shout, “No!”

  But it was too late.

  Charlie’s hands interrupted the flow of power. With Todd’s life force completely gone, the circuitry sputtered and popped, then reversed direction, searching for and finding the only other sources of vitality left in the closed loop: Grace and Thomas. Twin screams erupted as the loop began to suck power from the witches and dump its entirety into Charlie.

  The sheer vastness of the power shooting into his body threatened to overwhelm him, to tear him from limb to limb, but he bore down on the rush, sure that he had to take this risk if he wanted to put a stop to things. By keeping his hands on the witches and draining them, they were as helpless to escape as he had been only moments prior.

  In the split second before Tony could pull Charlie back and break the circuit he had just created, everything else seemed to come to a standstill, as all the knowledge available to him sped into his veins like an injection from a hypodermic needle.

  And just like he knew everything about Todd Laramie, he now knew everything about Thomas and Grace.

  Or very nearly everything.

  Images, emotions, colors and sensations, plots rife with murder and darkness, flooded through him.

  He couldn’t comprehend everything at once, for too many things were flashing too quickly through his mind. But with the onslaught of information came an ability to navigate it, so he narrowed his focus as if he were taking quick gulps from a torrent of fetid water.

  Grace. He had known she was formidable, had known that she was power-hungry and untrustworthy, but now he saw more clearly into the vast network of her machinations, saw into her heart, empty of even an ounce of benevolence, and knew her rage-filled and cunning ways, surpassed by nothing other than an endless ache of single-minded greed.

  Charlie felt himself yanked along the twisted trails of her thoughts, grasping more of her motivations and schemes.

  He plunged into a pocket of her memory where she was having a conversation with Thomas about whether or not Charlie would be as useful to her plot as Thomas thought he could be. She had her doubts but was willing to try if the boy could somehow give her the boost of power she so craved.

  Another pocket pulled Charlie in. This time he saw Malcolm through Grace’s eyes, standing outside the gate to his property on Snoqualmie Pass, bending over his rickety old mailbox and looking for mail. Four shadows emerged from the forest and crept toward Malcolm from four different sides. The crunch of gravel alerted Malcolm, who spun around, just as Claudia threw what looked like a cloud of yellow dust at his head. Grace and the others ran out of the way as Malcolm raised his hands above his head, but he crumpled to the ground before he could protect himself. Charlie watched as Grace ordered Thomas and Tony to pick up Malcolm’s unconscious form and carry him into a shiny black car parked nearby.

  Charlie dove deeper into Grace’s psyche, looking for more of her secrets. This time there were no words, no scenes, just a realization: Grace planned to kill off Thomas, as well as Claudia and Tony, once her system of semi-popped teenagers was complete. They knew too much and were more of a hassle than useful, but until things were set, she needed them.

  Charlie bumped up against a small cluster of Grace’s thoughts and motivations that would not open to him, as if they were behind a locked door. He tried to break the cluster open, but it wouldn’t budge. A voice in his head pressed him to try harder, to gain access to Grace’s innermost thoughts. But the dark pocket she had hidden away remained inaccessible. He was mostly relieved because he sensed that, if he did manage to get inside the cluster, it would be like falling into a radioactive cesspool of toxicity and madness.

  Charlie released himself from Grace’s thoughts and felt himself thrown forward, lost, scrambling for a foothold somewhere, until …

  Thomas. Snapshots and thoughts flooded into Charlie’s mind, less cogent and more fragmented than Grace’s had been.

  Thomas believed in Charlie. Or at least he believed in his own sense of superiority, which clouded his judgment. He held tightly to the notion that because Charlie was of his own blood that he was the powerful conduit they needed for their plans.

  Charlie waded through the detritus of pride and arrogance until he found what he was looking for: the truth of Thomas’s claims of paternity, coming at him in flashes and blurry memories.

  A much younger Thomas discovering Charlie’s mother as a teenager, hiding in a different basement from the one in which Charlie was being held captive.

  “What, how … how could you do that?” his mother stuttering, a look of pleading and abject horror on her young face.

  “Get her out of here!” Grace whispering. “Her father’s upstairs! We can’t let him find her down here!”

  Thomas dragging his mother into a side room, her shouts of “Dad! Dad!” muffled by his hand over her mouth.

  “You thought you could sneak in here and spy on us?” Thomas sneering at Elizabeth, then striking her upside the head, with Grace’s voice carrying down the staircase from the living room above: “Demetrius, how nice to see you again.”

  The sound of clothes tearing, a bare shoulder, Thomas pressing down on top of the wide-eyed teenaged Elizabeth, her cries further stifled by her own sweater pressed over her lips, her hands slapping at his face.

  Muted screams, grunting, more exposed skin, the flashing of teeth.

  Thomas, red-cheeked and gloating, resting against the side of a sofa to catch his breath.

  Elizabeth’s foot connecting with Thomas’s groin, icepicks of pain stabbing in his gut.

  “Bitch!�
� Thomas screaming, squeezing his eyes shut and falling to his right side.

  Elizabeth’s form flickering, fading to a shadow.

  A door to the backyard opening, a gray shape slipping outside.

  A man’s voice calling to Thomas from outside the room. “Let her go! Bigger fish to fry.”

  “Run!” Someone shouting from far away, throat squeezing with the threat of tears, Charlie recognizing it as his own voice after a short while.

  Charlie shook his head, releasing Thomas’s thoughts.

  For a quick moment, he only felt relief, the relief of being free from the witches’ sullied minds and memories.

  Then the realization hit him in a flash as the blanks in his mother’s story filled in.

  She had stumbled upon the witches using deathcraft and learned of their plot to sell it to her own father, Demetrius, in exchange for his access to the Seattle coven.

  She had fled, but not before being overpowered by Thomas.

  This was why she had left Seattle, why she never wanted to come back, why she never told Charlie about his father.

  All of this information, all of Grace’s scheming, Thomas’ violent act, Charlie’s origins, all of it organized itself in Charlie’s head in less time than it took to blink his eyes. It surged through Charlie’s cells, his mind, as he sucked away at the power and knowledge inside the witches’ heads.

  In the next second there were three more things that Charlie learned.

  One of them was that he wasn’t special. Thomas had been wrong. There was nothing unique about him, no talent imbedded in him to be the conduit that Thomas had hoped he would be. Charlie wasn’t sure how he knew this, for the truth of it wasn’t rooted in his father’s heart or Grace’s mind, but he knew it to be true just the same.

  The second thing was that, even though he was not a conduit, Charlie had inadvertently gained vast knowledge and power just now from the witches. Not because he was special but because he had turned the tables on them and stolen from them the way they had been stealing from their captives. He had taken advantage of the situation and now knew nearly everything that they did.

  And the third thing was this: he could use the knowledge that he had just stolen from the witches to defeat them. He didn’t know how yet, didn’t know if he was capable of doing it, but knew that he had what he needed to try.

  Ignoring the agonized grunts of the witches subdued beneath his hands, he saw doorways inside of him opening, watched as new kinds of Words rushed down hallways toward him, finding his lips, his mouth, coalescing inside of him into such a savage buildup of potency that he feared his head would explode.

  In the split second it took for him to gain all of this vast knowledge, just before Claudia and Tony could get their hands on Charlie and break the circuit, he opened his mouth and unleashed the Words.

  Claudia, hand flashing toward Charlie as she prepared to bury her knife into his heart, flew backwards through the air and crashed into the far corner, her weapon clattering to the floor. Strips of material tore loose from an old couch nearby and sailed toward her, binding her mouth, her arms, her legs.

  Tony’s hands barely touched the back of Charlie’s neck before a funnel of water erupted from the floorboards and engulfed the man, lifting him several feet off the ground and spinning him in a sickening blur. As the funnel began to slow down, several pieces of heavy furniture from different parts of the room arced through the air and descended on Tony, flattening him to the ground as he screamed in gargled agony. Charlie could hear bones breaking.

  Without pausing to consider his actions, Charlie turned his head and looked at the back two walls, focusing on the kids sitting in their chairs. He felt parts of him extending, like long tongues, licking at the teens the way a mother cat licks her kittens. Soon their eyes lost their dull stares as they jerked awake. Some of them fell forward, too weak to remain sitting. Some of them shook their heads and rubbed their faces with their hands, trying to understand where they were.

  Charlie swept his gaze along the walls, waking them all, freeing them, one at a time. He passed over Todd’s body slumped in the chair opposite him, knowing it was too late for the boy. His gaze reached Malcolm, and he watched as the man’s body shuddered, watched as his face came alive with awareness.

  Then Charlie looked at Grace and Thomas, who squirmed and writhed in their chairs while Charlie continued to drink from them.

  “Enough, kid! Enough! You’ve got to stop,” he heard Malcolm’s voice from somewhere in back of him, shaky and weak, but clear and earnest enough to be understood.

  “Stop, Charlie! You’ll blow a fuse!”

  Charlie turned his head to see Malcolm standing right behind him.

  “Get away from me!” he yelled at the man. “You’re one of them!”

  He was confused. The stream of power he continued to suck into himself splintered his thoughts. Competing voices yelled in his head.

  Malcolm is one of them.

  It wasn’t his fault. The witches had controlled his mind.

  Witches can’t control people’s minds.

  Don’t trust him. He betrayed you.

  Malcolm is good. He’s one of the good guys!

  In his heart of hearts he knew Malcolm wasn’t one of them, at least not anymore, but his mouth kept shouting accusations.

  “You kidnapped me! You betrayed Beverly! You lied to us! After you told me I couldn’t lie about things.”

  Invisible hands yanked Malcolm’s body into the air, flipping him upside down. Other than a small grunt, the man made no sound.

  The desire to do the right thing was fading in him. He had known he had to stop Grace and Thomas, had to free the teenagers, but now … now his head swam. He couldn’t concentrate. Too much power sizzled and spat in every cell of his body. He was losing his ability to distinguish between right and wrong.

  He brought Malcolm closer to him, raising his body in the air so that his face floated inches from his own, upside down. The man’s cheeks and forehead turned bright red from the pressure.

  “It’s okay, kid. Really. You did the right thing. That’s good.”

  He nodded at Charlie, but he looked funny upended, like he was trying to do a sit-up. The power flowing from Grace and Thomas into him was thick and sweet, heavy. It felt good. Really good.

  “Charlie, listen to me. You’re going to have to stop now. You can’t keep taking from them. You’re going to explode.”

  “You’re trying to trick me! You told me witches couldn’t read people’s minds. But I can. I know everything about them!” He shouted, gesturing with his chin to Thomas and Grace, who continued to wither beneath his palms.

  “Kid, I didn’t know about that when I talked to you before. I didn’t know they could get to me this way. Honest,” he said in a matter-of-fact tone, as if he were explaining the properties of algebra, not hovering, inverted, in Charlie’s clutches.

  Charlie’s arms started to shake. The sheer might flowing through him felt incredible, but his legs were quivering and he thought he might fall to the floor.

  “I’ll help you. All you have to do is …”

  “No! I don’t believe you. You’ll just …” he said, his voice trembling, his words losing conviction.

  “I’m right here, little man. I am not going to trick you.”

  The words “little man” reached into Charlie and pulled on his heart, softening him. “I c-c-can’t! I don’t know how to stop!” he choked. His throat was raw and scratchy. “I just … I just want a glass of water!” he finished, surprising himself.

  “Yes, you do. You do know how. Just stop. You can do it,” Malcolm said. His expression of concern was clown-like and strange.

  Charlie’s hands started to burn. He looked at them and could see smoke rising from Grace and Thomas’s hair.

  He was scared. He didn’t know if he could trust Malcolm. Or if he should. But he had to do something. He couldn’t hold on any longer.

  So he did the only thing he could do. H
e let go.

  CHAPTER 30

  Exodus

  SEVERAL THINGS HAPPENED AT ONCE. Malcolm fell to the ground, landed on his hands, and flipped himself right-side up, nimble as a gymnast. Grace howled and tried to stand from her chair, only to fall flat on the floor. She jerked and spasmed, unable to make her muscles cooperate. Flinging her fingers at Charlie’s face, her lips moved, trying to find Words. Nothing happened. Thomas fell off the side of his chair, flopping about like a fish thrown into the bottom of a boat.

  Charlie stood bent over with his hands on his knees, frozen as he watched Malcolm kick Grace hard in the face, once, twice, then turn and kick Thomas in the back, the side, the head. The two witches wailed and writhed about, unable to summon the strength to protect themselves. Charlie wondered absently why Malcolm kicked them instead of using the craft to bind them.

  With the connection broken and the surge of power dissipating, Charlie’s mind began to clear. He was breathing hard and had to blink away the sweat that dripped into his eyes.

  “Charlie! Get these kids out of here!” Malcolm yelled. “They need your help!”

  The loud words startled him.

  He looked at Malcolm, unsure if the man had returned to normal, or if this was just another trick.

  Impatience, authority, and a boot-quaking glare emanated from the man’s face. Charlie decided his mentor was back.

  “But what about them? Her?” he asked, pointing to Grace.

  “She’s weak for now. I’ll hold them off while you get the kids upstairs.”

  Charlie pitched forward as his legs gave out. He wasn’t sure if he righted himself with witchcraft or pure will, but he regained his balance, then wobbled over to one of the walls and tried to open a side door.

  “No!” Malcolm shouted. “Over there!”

  Charlie stumbled to where the man pointed and yanked open another door, revealing a well-lit staircase leading to the floor above.

  When he looked back at the teens, he saw that they all stood or sat stock still, unsure what to do, eyes squinting as if waking from a long sleep.