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

  “Hey, kid,” Malcolm whispered to him. “Can you …?” he said, then waved his hand in front of his own face. Immediately his features blurred, looking fuzzy and hard to follow.

  “So they don’t know …” Malcolm added, tilting his head in the direction of the teenagers.

  Charlie nodded, slowly understanding that it would be better if these kids couldn’t recognize him in the future. He stepped out of sight into the stairwell. A few simple Words, and he knew that his features became unclear and difficult to remember.

  “Hurry!” Charlie gestured to them as he stepped back into the basement. “You’ve got to get out of here. Come upstairs.”

  A few of the older-looking kids stood up and began to help the others. They stumbled toward the lit doorway, clutching onto each other, some of them crying.

  “Kid! There are people upstairs. Be careful!” Malcolm warned.

  His balance and strength coming back to him, Charlie bolted up the stairs in front of the group of teens. He breathed in fresh air, relieved to be away from the funk of stinky bodies and moldy lumber. When he reached the upper floor, he saw several women, holding cleaning supplies, standing in a large white living room, staring at him.

  “Get out of here!” Charlie yelled. They fled from the room, buckets and spray bottles dropping from their hands.

  Two large armed men, one wearing a sport coat and tie, the other a track suit, entered through a side door and aimed their weapons at Charlie.

  “Stop right there!” one of the men yelled at him. “Where’s Grace?”

  Even though he wasn’t tapped into the full force of power that he felt earlier, Charlie still had more than enough of it flowing through him. He held his hands up. Both men shouted as their guns flew from their fingers. Their bodies were thrown through the air, landing on top of lavish white couches.

  “Stay,” he said, then strengthened his command with the force of his new Words. The men struggled against the invisible pressure that held them in place. One more final Word, and the couch began to blur. It was enough to camouflage it from the children.

  Charlie watched to make sure they couldn’t get up, then hurried to help the rest of the kids up the staircase.

  “What’s your name?” Charlie asked an older girl with black hair and tattoos on her bird-thin arms after he had brought the last kid up from the basement. She seemed more alert than the others.

  “Laura.”

  “Okay, Laura, get everybody together and wait here.”

  The girl nodded and began to corral everyone into a tight-knit circle while Charlie ran back downstairs.

  He looked around. Grace lay unmoving on the floor near Todd Laramie’s lifeless body. Tony seemed to be unconscious. Claudia, the Scissors Lady, was still bound and gagged in the corner, struggling weakly against the cloth that held her.

  Malcolm stood over Thomas, who sat on a chair with a look of dazed defeat on his face. Malcolm held his hands out in front of him, obviously doing what was necessary to keep the man seated and subdued.

  Charlie took one look at Thomas and forgot what he was supposed to be doing.

  “You! Dog Man!” Charlie yelled, pointing his index finger at the man. Thomas and Malcolm’s head jerked in his direction.

  “You raped my mother!” he screamed.

  “Charlie!” Malcolm’s voice was sharp. “I have it under control. You need to get out of here!”

  Charlie ignored him.

  “You raped her! How could you?” he was yelling and crying, and an upswell of power surged through his feet, rising up through his legs and chest, into his scalp, as his outstretched finger continued to point at Thomas’s face.

  “Charlie, no! Stop, you can’t …” Malcolm shouted, but Charlie wasn’t listening. He couldn’t erase from his mind the images of Thomas forcing his mother.

  A few simple Words shaped his mouth, and he watched as Thomas’ weakened body flew off the chair and rushed toward him, much like Malcolm’s had done only a few moments before. He stopped a foot from Charlie, hovering in the air, right-side up.

  The man was now fully aware of what Charlie was doing and saying. He began to plead with Charlie, to beg, to whimper.

  “I didn’t plan to! Sh-sh-she was in the way, I had to …”

  “Shut up!” Charlie screamed. The floor beneath him shuddered, then made a loud cracking sound. He slapped the man once across the face. Hard. Then he backhanded him. Then slapped him again. Each slap elicited a cry from Thomas.

  Red rage filled Charlie’s head, driving his anguish away. He wanted to tear the man apart, to rip his head from his neck, to unleash the storm of violence coursing through his veins.

  “Charlie, don’t do this. Don’t, son,” he heard Malcolm say.

  “But he did that to her! And he killed people. I’m gonna destroy him!” he yelled. More cracking, and then a long groaning sound filled the room, as if the joists in the walls and floor were about to snap. The pressure was building in him, and he felt it sparking out of his eyes and ears, spitting off of his fingertips, making hissing sounds.

  “You’re right. And it would probably feel really good,” Malcolm continued, now standing next to him, his voice close and warm in his ear.

  “But it’s a long-term solution for a short-term problem.”

  “Malcolm!” he yelled. “Don’t give me any of your psychobabble. I am going to kill him!”

  Malcolm stepped in front of Charlie, blocking his view of Thomas.

  “Get out of the way!”

  “No, Charlie. Don’t do this. It’s a choice you’d have to live with for the rest of your life.”

  “But …” he grunted, afraid that he couldn’t hold the rage inside anymore, afraid that it would hit Malcolm in the process. The air shimmered and crackled around his own head.

  “I know you, son. You’d only feel temporary relief. Then you’d feel guilty for the rest of your life. Don’t do it.”

  “But …”

  “Don’t.”

  “Malcolm,” Charlie cried in agony. “Puh-puh-puh-please leave me alone!”

  Charlie felt like he was being torn from the inside, ripped in half by his desire to destroy Thomas. Only a small part of his mind could grasp what Malcolm was saying. The rest of him wanted to unleash everything on Thomas.

  But the small part of his mind heeded Malcolm’s warning. It knew that Malcolm spoke the truth. Without knowing what else to do, unable to extinguish the rage in him, he turned to the side and released the full force of everything inside of him at the far wall.

  A funnel of molten red light, crackling through with silver streaks, shot from his outstretched arms and pounded into the wall, blasting a huge hole in it and sending flames up to the ceiling.

  A tormented bellow exploded from Charlie’s mouth while a second blast, this time thick, waxy, and yellow-colored, exploded from his fingertips, destroying the rest of the wall.

  The noise of the crash and the sight of the flames licking at the ceiling above their heads frightened him. He was out of control and didn’t think he could stop if he tried.

  “M-m-m-Malcolm! Help! I … I can’t stop!” he yelled.

  “Let it go, son. It’s okay. I’ve got you,” Charlie heard the man say from somewhere through the gray acid-smelling smoke that was now filling the basement.

  With a last anguished cry, Charlie slumped to the floor while a brilliant flash of blue snapped off of his body in a wave and shot outward. He heard human grunts and the sounds of furniture and other things crashing into each other.

  Climbing to his hands and knees, Charlie looked up to see Malcolm crawling to his feet, pulling a weakened, but alive, Thomas up with him.

  “Oh my god, oh my god, oh my god,” Charlie whispered, turning his head and taking in the destroyed wall, the floor torn wide open in places, fire racing across the floorboards and the ceiling, the bodies of the witches strewn about like neglected backyard tools.

  Malcolm walked toward him, one arm dragging a stumbli
ng Thomas behind him, one arm raised up to the ceiling. His mouth was moving, and Charlie watched as the flames above their heads shrank, diminishing to smoldering red lines. He moved his hand downward, and the flames running havoc across the floorboards dwindled down to nothing but smoke.

  “You did the right thing, son.”

  “But I … I almost …” he said, his throat dry and burning.

  “You didn’t. That’s what counts.”

  “Are the others … the other witches …?” he croaked out, looking around the room.

  “They’re okay. None the worse for wear.”

  “I, I uh, I don’t … thank you, Malcolm, I …” he coughed.

  “Listen to me!” Malcolm yelled, pulling Charlie to his feet with his free hand. “Those kids upstairs need you. You’ve got to get them out of here. The police will be here any minute. There will be time to think about this later, okay, kid? Now you have a job to do.”

  “But …”

  “Look at me, Charlie. Look at me. Get upstairs and help those kids. Get them out of the house. Nod if you understand me.”

  Eyes locked on his face, Charlie nodded.

  Behind Malcolm, Thomas moaned. Malcolm gave the man’s shirt collar a hard shake, then ignored him.

  “Good. That’s good, kid. Put that face glamour back on so they can’t remember what you look like. Take them out the back way, all the way to the lake. Once you hit the lake, go right, and you’ll come to a big park. Luther Burbank Park. Get the kids there, and you’ll be okay. Follow?”

  He nodded again.

  Malcolm reached into his pocket and handed Charlie something small and silver.

  “Take my phone and call Beverly once you’re there. Tell her you’re at the park. She’ll be able to find you. What’s the name of the park?”

  “Luther Burbank,” he said, trying to keep his focus on Malcolm’s instructions.

  “Good job. Which way will you turn once you hit the lake?”

  “Right.”

  “Good. You were very brave. You did the right thing, little man,” Malcolm said, a grim but true, smile on his face.

  Charlie nodded, feeling woozy on his feet. He wasn’t sure if he had enough strength to climb the stairs again, let alone walk the kids to the park.

  “Now go!” Malcolm said, turning Charlie by the shoulders and pushing him toward the door.

  Charlie felt himself once again moving up the staircase. He had to pull on the handrail to make the final few steps. He rubbed at his face and let the glamour hide his features. When he stepped onto the second floor, he saw that the kids stood huddled together, whispering and looking terrified. Some still seemed dazed while others appeared to have recovered from their stupor.

  “Who-who-who are you?” one of the boys nearest him stammered. He clearly didn’t recognize him from before. “What happened down there? What’s all that noise? Wha-wha-what’s going on?”

  “I’m, uh, I’m a friend,” Charlie replied, glad that his glamour was holding up. “We need to get out of here. We’ll go out the back. By the lake. Turn right. To Luther Burbank Park,” he said in a rush so that he wouldn’t forget Malcolm’s instructions.

  “I know where that is!” a girl yelled from the circle of kids.

  “Good. Now stay close together,” said Laura, the girl with the dark hair and the arm tattoos, who herded the group toward the back of the house. Charlie followed, relieved to know that she and some of the others were there to help.

  They walked through a large kitchen with shiny steel appliances. The first door they tried opened onto a giant pantry filled with dried goods and cleaning supplies. The second door led to a four-car garage.

  “We’ll never get out of here!” cried a young boy.

  “Shh, sweetie, shh,” said Laura, wrapping her arms around his shoulders.

  Someone turned the knob of the third door and early morning sunlight spilled onto them, blinding their eyes. Charlie was shocked to see that it was daytime already. He wondered how long he had been in the basement.

  The kids stumbled out onto a large cedar deck, trying to both hold hands and block the sunlight from their eyes at the same time. They rushed down a wooden staircase, through a well-landscaped backyard, over a green lawn, and down to the edge of the lake, before turning right.

  “There’s the park!” someone yelled.

  Charlie saw a series of slender docks, like fingers, floating out into the lake, and a cluster of giant pine trees rising up from the shore.

  Remembering the rest of Malcolm’s instructions, Charlie pulled the cell phone from his back pocket and dialed Beverly’s number, as the entire group tottered along the lakeshore toward the safety of the trees.

  “Malcolm?” he heard his aunt’s voice on the other end. “Where are you? Where’s Charlie? What’s all that noise?”

  “Aunt Bev, it’s me. Charlie. And a bunch of kids. Will you come get us?”

  CHAPTER 31

  Backyard Prayers

  “… THE POLICE ARE STILL searching the house for evidence. Once again, if you have just tuned in, nineteen teenagers, all of whom have been missing from different parts of the Greater Seattle area over the past year, were found together today at Luther Burbank Park. Police officials say they escaped from a nearby Lake Washington home, though the details are still being gathered. The body of an unidentified adult male was found in the basement of the home.

  “The teens have been taken to nearby hospitals to be treated for severe malnutrition, head injuries, amnesia, and exposure to the elements.

  “A religious cult is expected to be behind this bizarre event.

  “Once again, if you are just tuning in …”

  The TV screen went blank as Rita pressed the off button on the remote.

  Charlie sat between Beverly and Randall on a couch in their living room, having given up trying to remove his aunt’s protective arm from around his shoulders. Amos lay at their feet, every so often sighing deep sighs as he slept with his head resting on his forepaws. Jeremy paced back and forth in front of the fireplace, chewing on his thumbnail. Rita perched on the edge of a love seat, while Daniel sat with his arms crossed over his chest in one of the room’s reclining chairs. All of the adults, save for Daniel, had red puffy eyes. Rita clutched several tissues in her hand, occasionally dabbing at her face.

  A fire burned in the fireplace, its cheerful light at odds with the grief and shock, heavy as morning fog, hanging in the air.

  “SPD will have a lot to sort out, calling family members and bringing in different county services,” Daniel said, his voice even more somber than usual. “None of the kids remember much of anything until they were away from Grace’s house and walking with Charlie. I got there before the crime unit did. I cleaned up all of the leftover traces of witchcraft, though there wasn’t enough time to remove Malcolm’s body. When I left, the CU had dispatched officers over to the park. The official story will probably be something like a mass kidnapping.”

  “What about the cult theory?” Randall asked, gesturing toward the TV with his left arm, the one with the blue cast.

  Daniel shrugged. “It depends. We’ll use it if it keeps the SPD and any other group off our trail. But if it invites a lot more snooping around, we’ll quell it.”

  Daniel’s comment made Charlie wonder about all the times he had heard people on the news debating theories and discussing controversies. How often were witches behind these debates, using them to distract the world from their existence? The possibilities were chilling. He set the thought aside. Now wasn’t the time to think about witch-based conspiracy theories.

  Randall turned to look at his wife and nephew. “But won’t the kids be able to identify you guys?”

  “Charlie and I used glamours to conceal our features. They won’t remember us,” Beverly explained. “They think they escaped on their own, and some nice people found them and brought them to the park to wait for the police. Once I knew they were going to be okay, I got Charlie and myself ou
t of there before the officers could spot us and start asking questions.

  For a while the only sound was the fire crackling away in the hearth.

  “Honey, you could sit down if you wanted,” Rita said, after blowing her nose.

  “What? Oh, no, I’m fine. It’s just … it’s all so …” Jeremy stopped mid-sentence, looking around as if the words he wanted to use could be found among the living room’s furnishings.

  “Let me get this straight,” he continued, one hand on his hip, the other stroking his beard. “Grace and her crew had been kidnapping unpopped witches and bringing them to her basement? Keeping them in a perpetual state of semiconsciousness to siphon off their power? And Malcolm supplied some of the kids, although they acquired the others on their own?”

  He stopped, then shook his head in disbelief.

  “But how could they have controlled Malcolm? Witches can’t get inside people’s heads!” Rita declared, her cheeks flushing with anger.

  “And deathcraft? I thought that crap was just myth.”

  “We all thought it was myth, Jeremy,” said Daniel from his easy chair, the firelight flickering in his eyes. “We all thought it was.”

  Charlie untangled himself from his aunt’s embrace and stood up.

  “I, uh, I think …” he said, looking down at the floor, then around the room. All the décor—the warm beige furniture, the soft throws draped over the couches, the photographs of Beverly and Randall’s wedding—was familiar to him and yet looked vaguely different, as if everything had been painted over with a slightly duller shade, or as if each object had been moved a few degrees from its original location. It was still the same old living room, but changed somehow.

  “I’m gonna, um, just go outside, and …” He stopped, unsure how to explain why he wanted to leave.

  “Charlie, we don’t have to talk about it anymore if you don’t want to. We’re just confused, is all,” Randall said, patting the couch cushion next to him.

  “Nah, it’s all right. You guys should. We need, er, you guys need to …”