by Corey Edward
“I see you went for the cheeseburger,” Frankie said. “Bold choice.”
“I’m guessing from the look on your face that it was the wrong choice,” said Molly, lifting up the bun to examine its contents. “It doesn’t look too bad, though. Better than the chicken nuggets.”
“There aren’t really any good choices when it comes to the Dunwich High cafeteria,” I said. “That’s why I usually pack.”
“Eh. For me, food’s food. Especially when it comes from a school cafeteria. If it doesn’t give you explosive diarrhea, you probably lucked out.”
“Exactly.” Enisa smiled at her. “So. How’s your first day going so far?”
“Better, now that I’m with you guys,” said Molly. “You were right, Henry. Everyone here kinda sucks.”
“Welcome to Dunwich, dude,” said Frankie. “I hate ‘em all, to be honest with you.”
“Hate’s a strong word, but we have a right to say it,” I said. “They’ve been picking on Enisa ever since she moved here from Lebanon back in second grade. They hate outsiders, and we’ve been fighting to survive ever since.”
“For real? It sucks that they give you shit for your religion,” Molly said to Enisa, shaking her head. “I know what it feels like to be made into an outcast for what you are. It’s not fun.”
“I’ve learned to tune them out,” said Enisa. “I can’t lie, though: it gets hard sometimes. Real hard. Then I remember that it's better to stand out anyway.”
“A-men,” Molly said. She lifted her milk carton in a mock-toast. “At least I’m here. Maybe with four of us, they’ll be more hesitant to pick fights with you guys.”
It was nice to hear her say so, even if there was more to the situation than met the eye. We didn’t just hate Dunwich. Dunwich hated us. And when a place was that full of hatred, it burned until there was nothing left.
We finished up our lunches and the bell rang, signaling it was time for the last two classes of the day. Molly walked with Frankie and Enisa down the hall toward science and English and I went the opposite direction. I watched them leave, in awe of the fact that we somehow made another friend at long last.
~&~
I told my grandparents I was going to the library and slipped out of the house right after school. The day was still cloudy — about the fourth one of its kind this week — so I’d taken my umbrella with me, too, just in case. Didn’t want to mess up the hair.
It took about forty minutes to get to the Boston Museum of Ancient History. Though it wasn’t exactly located in the busiest part of downtown, the traffic was still a pain in the ass — and I had lucked out that day, since nobody was broken down or dying on the interstate. The building itself was an ominous white fortress, with marble columns the size of trees and long, regal windows that reminded me of the White House. The bus of some after-school program was parked by the curb, unloading elementary kids onto the sidewalk where they were herded into a group by a teacher.
If this didn’t work, I didn’t know what to do. I wasn’t actually a detective. I had no training, or degree, or anything of the sort. I was strictly an amateur sleuth at best. Even that old lady from Murder, She Wrote, had more experience than me: she’d written a mystery novel before she started her sleuthing.
But then again, we all had to start somewhere… right? This was as good a place as any for me.
I pulled around the back and took the spot near the edge of the lot. Once the car was parked, I yanked down the overhead mirror and looked myself dead in the eyes. I would have only one shot to nail my greeting. One-shot and that was it. The spell would help, but it wouldn’t do it all.
“Hi,” I said. “My name is Dan Williams, with Metaphysics Monthly. I’m doing a report on your upcoming exhibit and would like to speak to whoever it is that’s in charge, so- argh!”
Well, that sure wasn’t convincing. Not at all. I sounded like a space alien who had crash-landed from a planet of cheese and was trying desperately to mimic human social interaction. Beep beep boop, take me to your leader, and pass the cheddar while you’re at it.
Why couldn’t I just sound normal for once?
“Hi,” I tried again, perking up my act this time. “My name is Dan Williams, and I’m a reporter with Metaphysics Monthly. I read an article about your exhibit in the Boston Globe and I thought it was something that would really interest our readers. Would it be possible for me to interview someone involved?”
Bam. Nailed it like a carpenter to a board. If that didn’t do it, nothing else would, no matter how strong a sphere I had.
I was as ready as I’d ever be. I felt the spell sphere in my pocket, as if to remind myself that it was working. Then I left my car and walked up to the museum, entering through the revolving doors up front. It wasn’t crowded today — as I said, there was the after-school program and a few random guests who had come to look at the exhibits.
A brown-haired, middle-aged receptionist was sitting at the front desk. She was flipping through a trashy tabloid, one of the kind that had gossip on the front about who’s pregnant, who’s cheating, and who’s secretly a reptilian overlord come to subjugate the human race.
“Hi,” I said, making the widest smile I could without looking like an axe killer. “My name is, uh, it’s Dan Williams. I’m, like, a reporter with Metaphysics Monthly, which is a magazine about the paranormal. I heard about your exhibit in the Boston Globe and I thought it was something that our readers would love. Can it be possible for me to possibly interview someone about it?”
Great Merlin, that was awful. Even she seemed amused by the way I stumbled through my greeting. But she didn’t kick me out, fortunately. At least the cloaking spell was doing its job.
“The person to talk to about that stuff is Alexander Carter, our acquisitions director. He should be in his office on the third floor if you’d like to try that?”
“That’d be great,” I said. Like taking taffy from a toddler.
She smiled at me, picked up the phone, and waited for about thirty seconds.
“Mr. Carter? Hi, it’s Sandy. There’s some guy here who says he’s from this magazine- ah, Metaphysical Monthly? Yeah, me either, but he’s here. Would you like to talk to him?”
Please say yes. Please say yes. Please-
“Sure. Uh-uh. I’ll send him right up.” She hung up the phone and looked at me. “He says to head up. His office is number five-twenty-one. The elevator is to your left.”
“Thank you,” I said, practically over the moon. It worked! My spell had worked! Magic was really awesome sometimes, maybe even more awesome than pancakes.
Okay, I wouldn’t go that far. But still, it was pretty great.
I strolled to the elevator, hit 5, and soon I was in the second floor hallway. The hallway was long and winding, lined with artwork and doors. I felt anxious, for some reason — I’d prepared some questions beforehand, questions I thought my father would ask, but what if he saw right through me? What if my efforts were just as transparent as my cool factor was?
I wandered through the hallway and glanced at the ascending room numbers until I reached the proper door: 521, near the end.
I knocked on the door and it opened to an older man with patchy brown hair, a blue blazer, and matching slacks. He looked like the kind of person who would be a principal, or maybe someone who would like to talk to you about Jesus.
“Nice to meet you,” I said, feeling like I was about to puke all over his shiny black shoes. “M-my name is Dan Williams. And I’m a reporter. I report stuff for this magazine called ‘Metaphysical Monthly’ and, um, I wanted to know if I could interview you about your exhibit.”
Was there an award for the world’s worst paranormal investigator? Like an Emmy, except for people who sucked at investigating? Because yeah, I’m pretty sure I was running unopposed at this point. I truly couldn’t have been any less convincing if I’d said I was actually Jennifer Aniston here to bear his children.
He didn’t seem to care, though. He held out his hand and I gave
it a nice shake, smiling right along with him. “Yes, that’s what Sandy said over the phone. It’s a pleasure to meet you, Dan. I’m Alex Carter, acquisitions director.” He moved aside and gestured for me to enter into his office. “Come in, come in! Have a seat!”
The office looked exactly like what I’d expect from a man who was in a high-position at the museum. There were idols and statues and pots scattered all over his shelves, and a few paintings that looked rather valuable. I took special note of a bust of Anubis, Egyptian god of the dead, and also a Sigil hanging on the wall that looked like several angular lines intersecting one another and intersected by symbols. Sigils were magic on paper: by the way the lines crossed and letters were drawn, a lasting magical effect would be established. Most Sigils — like the ones in Dad’s office — were signs of protection, but I’d never seen one quite like this before.
I sunk down into the chair in front of his desk and he sat down across from me. Then he looked me in the eye, folded his hands, and flashed me a business-casual smile.
“So, what can I help you with, Mr. Williams?”
I opened up my notepad to the page with the questions, clicked on my pen, and turned on my best future-journalist demeanor.“Well, I was wondering if you could maybe answer a few questions for me about the ‘Real Witchcraft’ exhibit that’s coming up soon. I’m writing an article and I’d love to get your input.”
“Ah, ‘Real Witchcraft.’” He nodded. “My passion project.”
“That so?” I asked, scribbling a few words down. “What can you tell me about it?”
He wheeled away from his desk, threw open a filing cabinet, and withdrew an advertisement for the upcoming exhibit. On the front was a photograph of a circle of Spellcrafters in the middle of a forest, linking hands around a nearly-sky-high fire. Judging from their blue robes, it must've been a ritual celebration of some kind.
“That’s my Coven, Mr. Williams,” he said. “The Blue Moon Coven, we call ourselves; one of the largest in New England. I’ve been a member since birth.”
“You’re a… a wizard?” I asked. I shouldn’t have been surprised he was one, based on the Sigil he had up on his wall. I nodded anyway and widened my eyes as if I was, and he went on. “A real wizard?”
“Are you surprised to hear that we exist?” he asked, which wasn’t exactly an answer. “Or did you somehow already know that?”
“Well, uh… I, um, write for a magazine about the supernatural,” I said, and let that speak for itself.
“Then you can see why increasing awareness of witchcraft in our society is a cause near and dear to my heart. I grew up a pariah, taught that I had to hide who I was in order to be accepted by others. That, in my opinion, couldn’t be any more wrong. Why should anyone have to hide who they truly are to gain acceptance?”
I knew the feeling of being an outcast all too well, and part of me wanted to commiserate with him. But I couldn’t admit to being a Spellcrafter myself. After all, to do so would blow my cover; and that was something Dad would never have done under any circumstances.
“Isn’t that a bit dangerous, to just out yourself like that? I mean… if it was that easy, why hasn’t anyone tried it yet?”
“It is dangerous,” said Carter. “The Council of Magi punishes any witch or wizard who exposes themselves publicly with permanent banishment to one of the outer realms. Of course, this wasn’t an issue in the olden days — the mere accusation of witchcraft was enough to get you killed back then, so nobody dared out themselves in the first place. They’ve had to become far more strict in the modern era, though recording technology always seems to malfunction when magic is involved.”
I knew that much. Every time I’d tried to capture a video of a particular spell, my phone conveniently refused to work. Public knowledge of magic had to work on first-hand accounts, which were notoriously unreliable. But if enough people gathered at this exhibit and testified that magic was real… well, that could change things.
“And you aren’t scared that they’ll banish you?” This was a question from Henry and Dan Williams both. “A museum exhibit is pretty public. I’m sure they’ll find out. And if not them, aren’t you worried about what some humans might say and do?”
“Not even the Council of Magi can fight an idea whose time has come. And I’m not afraid of bigoted humans, either. I’ve seen enough of this modern world of acceptance and tolerance to know that Spellcrafters have a place in the open. We just have to fight for that place, the same as every other persecuted minority has.”
He sounded so confident — so sure — that nothing in his voice made me doubt that he was. But why? That was almost suspicious in and of itself. The Council was notorious for their enforcement of Spellcrafter secrecy. It was one of their strictest laws. They’ve banished many a Spellcrafter to an outer dimension and threatened to do the same to my father if he didn’t wipe his client’s memories. I didn’t know whether to admire Carter or pity him.
“What kind of displays will you have at the exhibit?” I asked, deciding to let this one go for now.
“All kinds,” he said. “There’s one particularly excellent display chronicling the true tale of Salem, and of a witch named Agatha Sparrow, who was one of the few actual Spellcrafters to have been burned during the trials. There’s another display about witchcraft as practiced in ancient Pagan religions. One display centers around Africa shamanism, a fascinating subject that I think will be a big hit. And we have yet another display which contains ancient magical texts of all kinds, also known as ‘Grimoires’.”
Bingo.
“What sort of Grimoires will be present?” I asked, jotting down some notes. “Uh, Grimoires are an area of particular interest to me.”
“There’ll be several. I can’t reveal everything about the exhibit yet, you understand,” he said. “That’d ruin the surprise.”
“I guess it would,” I said, smiling even though I was disappointed. “Sounds like you have an interesting thing going on here. Is there any way I can get a ticket?
“No need for tickets. It’s free and open to the public. It’s going to be on October thirty-first at eight P.M., in- excuse me for a second,” he said as his phone rang. “Hello? This is he. Yes, he's an employee here- why?…”
While he spoke, I thought of what I should ask next. Down on my list of questions was one about the recent murders. I wanted to ask that one so badly it almost hurt — after all, that was why I was here. But still, I didn’t want to arouse any sort of suspicion or make him angry.
So what to do?
He hung up the phone and stood, his brow furrowed. “I’m sorry, but there’s been an incident involving one of our employees that I’m going to have to attend to. You can call back and make another appointment if you’d like, or you can simply call at a later date and ask your questions then.”
He held out his hand and I gave it a shake, standing, too. And then he swept out of the door quicker than lightning, reaching for his cell phone as he did so.
Well. Okay then. That was abrupt. What could possibly have commanded his attention that quickly?
There were many questions I still had swimming around in my brain, but I couldn’t see any opportunity to ask them. I gathered up my notebook and left the building.
~&~
I really hadn’t discovered anything that would lead me to the killer’s doorstep. Nor had I uncovered any information on the mysterious Grimoire — which was basically, like, half the reason why I’d gone in the first place.
Even for an amateur sleuth, that was pretty pitiful.
But it wasn't all a waste. It was good that I had the date of the exhibit; I could now attend if I wanted to. And I also knew that this Alexander guy was himself a wizard, and was involved with the exhibit in a major way.
Maybe even a majorly sketchy way.
Was he the one who specifically sought to force all Spellcrafters out of the “broom closet”, so to speak? In the age of smartphones and Insta-everything, this was a possi
bility that had been on everyone’s minds for ages. The results could range from beneficial to apocalyptic, depending on who you asked. Given the fact that our society still had major issues with accepting people based on the color of their skin or who they loved, I couldn’t see how that would be anything less than the latter.
That would be the proverbial straw which would break the dragon’s back. And that’s saying nothing of all the other dark and deadly creatures of the night, which would be emboldened by such a stunt. How would people take vampires, or werewolves, or even Darkon?
I knew that I’d probably have to return to follow up with Gabriel O’Grumpy at some point, and I wasn’t looking forward to that opportunity. But my next direction was murky: all I could think to do was find out the where, when and why of that Real Witchcraft exhibit. It was at the center of the mystery, right along with the missing Grimoire.
I arrived at my car and looked into my window just in time to notice someone dressed in a black robe walking toward me with their finger pointed at my body. I spun around but was too slow to deflect the green hex as it slammed right into my chest.
I doubled over in pain, my lungs burning as if someone had swung a mallet at them and broken ribs. Then I felt a scratch in my throat as if something were trying to claw its way out, or maybe trying to scratch right through. I coughed twice and out of my mouth flew a tangle of hairy, black spiders. There were dozens of them, knotted into a black, writhing ball of legs. Once I spit them out onto the ground, they dissipated, scattering off in every direction.
There were more. Even more. I could feel them there, feel their hairy limbs, could sense them crawling around within my throat. As I hacked and gagged and did my best to dislodge them, the mysterious assailant vanished into thin air.
Another golf-ball-sized clump of spiders came up out of my throat and splattered out onto the pavement. One tried to make its way down my shirt, but luckily I flicked it off before it could bite me. I gathered my energy and thought of fireballs, but it was futile: when I looked up, the man was gone.
I continued to dry heave there for several minutes until the urge to vomit subsided. The burning in my chest faded and I was able to stand, but the blow to my ego remained.
