Friday Nightmares

by Corey Edward

  “I… see. Give me a moment, please.” She placed her hands atop the crystal ball and peered deep inside its foggy depths, losing herself inside of it. After a few minutes of this, she made a lemon-eating face, puckering up her lips and shaking her head.

  “What’s wrong, Miss D?” asked Enisa.

  “Oh, Lord, give me strength. That’s the darkest book I have ever seen,” she said, still peering into the crystal ball. “It’s crawling under my skin. I feel like it knows I’m looking for it. I think it might even be… might even be alive.”

  “I know it’s evil. But this is why we need you, Miss D,” I said. “We need your help to destroy it.”

  She shut her eyes tight, as if trying to block out whatever the ball was showing her. I didn’t want to force her to do anything she didn’t want to, but we were running out of time. We had to find the Grimoire. One more murder and Narlothotep would have all the Mana he needs to return to his body on Halloween night.

  After some time, she opened her eyes, looked down at the ball, and then shut them again.

  This process repeated for a few minutes. I could feel something odd hanging in the air as she divined through the ball. It wasn’t magic, but something else, something mental rather than metaphysical. Periodically she would open her eyes, or might say something else beneath her breath- a word or phrase I couldn’t make out.

  “I see an old, gray house,” she finally said. “And when I say old, I mean it was old well before America was even a country. In front of it is a dried-up well and a brick mailbox, and there’s a historical site plaque beside the mailbox. ‘THE WYTCH HOUSE’, it says. ‘CURRENTLY CLOSED TO THE PUBLIC’. It was the site of many sinister happenings over the years. All I feel is sadness, agony, torture. I keep seeing the year sixteen-eighty-seven. That may be when the tragedy that haunts the place happened.”

  “Anything else?” I asked, putting the information into my phone.

  “Yes. A man owns this house. He’s very involved in local history, especially as it pertains to witchcraft. Ancient history, too. His name begins with an A? Or maybe a C. It is foggy in my mind.”

  “That’s him,” Molly said quickly. “Alexander Carter.”

  “There’s more. The house is… cursed. It’s been cursed for hundreds of years now. This Carter man merely used the curse as a shield to protect what’s his. The spirit trapped within has agreed to guard the Grimoire for him.”

  “I found it,” Enisa exclaimed, holding up her phone. “Forty-four Federal Street, Salem. Looks like Carter is hiding the Grimoire in the house of a witch that died in the Salem Witch Trials.”

  “Let’s go,” I said, standing. “We can probably make it there by one, if we head out now.”

  I thanked Miss Delaney for her help as we all rose from our seats. Rusty looked relieved that we were leaving, but she looked more troubled than I’d seen her in a long time. I could feel her concern and wondered if it was directed at the situation or at us. As she opened the door and let us out, I swear she had something else she wanted to say, but didn’t have the words to say it.

  ~&~

  Salem, Massachusetts has always been something of a paradox for Spellcrafters like me.

  Once, it was the site of disgusting violence visited upon our race by bigoted humans, the culmination of all the hatred lobbed toward Spellcrafters throughout the ages. Now, the town was beautiful: situated right on the coast and laden with ritzy homes and expensive-looking government buildings. A metaphorical garden had been planted to cover up a history of bloodshed and hatred, but not everything could be covered up by pretty architecture and nice landscaping.

  Though the passage of time might have washed away the emotional impact of that great evil for most humans, it wasn’t so for Spellcrafters. Dozens of suspected and actual Spellcrafters met their deaths here at the stake and rope, and there were many more elsewhere that history had forgotten. We had made small steps, but they were indeed small. I could be hanged in exactly the same way if I set foot in the wrong country and let slip my true identity to the wrong person.

  The Wytch House stood as a memorial of that awful time in American history where merely being different could earn you a hot date with a tight noose. It was painfully out of place at the edge of town, surrounded on all sides by modern law offices and Yoga studios and cafes. I knew right away why Miss Delaney was so spooked by it. The blocky brown structure reeked of tragedy.

  The day turned out to be even colder than previously thought. A winter-esque breeze periodically sliced through the air, shaking leaves from their mostly-naked trees, and I wished my coffee was still warm. A fire or cup of hot chocolate would be nice. If I lived through the next twenty-four hours, I’d treat myself to both.

  We walked up to the plaque in front of the house, all of us reading the words:

  THE WYTCH HOUSE

  1675-PRESENT

  This house once belonged to Agatha Sparrow, a woman tried for witchcraft in the year 1687. An elderly widow, Sparrow was known to work with herbs and create poultices and love potions for the women of Salem. She was accused of practicing witchcraft when a girl died after drinking one of her love potions. In her letter to the Magistrate, she pleaded her case by writing that she was “not a wytch, but a godly woman” — and the name stuck. Every person who has spent one night in the attic of this house has met an unfortunate early demise, leading to rumors that the vengeful ghost of Sparrow haunts the property. It is currently closed to the public for renovations.

  I shook my head, disgusted by what I had just read. Sad stories such as this have stained our people’s heritage since time began. I felt a pang of pity for Agatha deep inside my very soul. What horrors had she endured during her trial, at the hands of her fellow townspeople? And what darkness was Carter kicking up within the space that used to be her sanctuary? Couldn’t the poor lady get even a moment of rest?

  “With a name like Agatha Sparrow, it’s a miracle she wasn’t accused sooner,” said Frankie. “She may as well have been named ‘Witchy McWitcherson’.”

  “God, Frankie,” said Enisa, elbowing him in the side. “It was a different time. Don’t be such an ass.”

  “Was she actually a Spellcrafter?” Molly asked. “Most of the people accused of witchcraft back then were humans.”

  “Carter mentioned her name as being part of his exhibit on witchcraft,” I said. “Didn’t Miss Delaney say that she approved of his plans? Maybe she wants revenge.”

  “I can’t blame her. Look at how she was treated by the people she was trying to help. I’d want some good old fashioned vengeance, too.”

  But just because I understood her hatred of the human race didn’t mean I agreed with her actions. You couldn’t put out fire with more fire, and Narlothotep would have Boston burning.

  With every passing step, we took toward the house, that feeling of anger, resentment and hatred only became more intense. It took me right back to the vibe that Arkham Prison gave off, as if I were approaching a boiling pot and about to be cooked.

  I put my hand over the doorknob and whispered a spell. It eased open with an ominous creeeeeak, but the inside of the home was too dark to make out anything other than furniture shapes.

  “Will you be okay with me going in by myself?” I asked my friends. “If there’s a spirit in there, I don’t want all of our energies freaking her out. Ghosts are extremely skittish.”

  “Good idea,” Molly said. “If Carter shows up, we’ll yell for you before we die.”

  “Got it,” I said. “And if you guys find yourself in trouble, get out of there as fast as you can. Even if you have to run away.”

  Judging by the looks on their faces, I didn’t have to tell them twice.

  The door swung shut before I could bid them goodbye, and just like that, it was me and Rusty all alone in the empty old Wytch House.

  “We really need to find new hobbies, Rusty Dusty,” I told him. “Most dogs and their owners go for a walk around the park on Saturdays, not exploring
haunted houses and hunting after sinister spell books.”

  He barked in agreement, but what was I saying? Rusty was not an active creature. A walk through the park would arguably be much scarier than our current weekend festivities, cats notwithstanding.

  I conjured up a Fireflit to illuminate the immediate area and looked around, trying to get my bearings.

  We were standing in a foyer, which led to other parts of the house. To the right was the dining room, with a long wooden table and chairs pushed neatly in. To the left was a living area that had been outfitted with chaise couches and an open fireplace. Directly in front of us was a winding, narrow stairway which led up to the second floor and beyond.

  The house itself was a relic frozen in time, and most of the furnishings hadn’t been updated since the 18th century, at least. The only thing that was even remotely modern were the light fixtures hanging overhead, and those didn’t even work. This only added to the creep-factor of the house, which I couldn’t help but feel was watching us closely and with great curiosity.

  I moved into the living room, tiptoeing past a spooky portrait of a Puritan man dressed in black. As I looked at the portrait, I was suddenly overtaken by a wave of sorrow and fear that penetrated deep into my bones. It made me want to turn around and run, Grimoire be damned. Was this how Agatha Sparrow felt when they came to drag her to the Gallows?

  Merlin, what a place. The walls of the house bled sadness, and that sadness seeped into my skin like a bad tan. My eyelids felt heavy and my chest felt tight, signs that we weren’t alone here. If I didn’t stop whatever was trying to dig its hooks into my soul, I’d soon be drained of all my Mana.

  I grabbed onto Rusty and raised a barrier of protection around the two of us, imagining our bodies being surrounded by a cone of pure, white light. This would shield me from some of the negative energy present within the house, but not all of it. This sadness was pervasive. I didn’t think there was a way I could totally shut it out.

  “Agatha,” I said, gentle yet assertive. “Is that you?”

  A candle sitting on a table lit itself as if in answer to my question. Being that I had received a positive response, I decided to continue.

  “I’m a Spellcrafter, too, Agatha,” I went on. “And I know what it’s like to be hated for who you are. What those Puritans did to you wasn’t holy. It was evil. I’m so, so sorry.”

  A creak, as if someone had walked on the old hardwood floor. The living room had plunged from chilly to frigid, and Rusty was starting to shiver. Telltale signs that a spirit was present.

  “I know you’re here with us,” I said. “My name’s Henry, and this is my Familiar, Rusty. I haven’t come to hurt you, so don’t be afraid. I’ve come because a dark force threatens the people of New England, including its Spellcrafters. I need your help to stop it.”

  The flame on the candle grew larger.

  “I know you’re a good witch who didn’t want to hurt anybody. Humans don’t understand us, and most of them never will. But that doesn’t mean they deserve to be enslaved or killed, like the owner of the dark object that’s within this house plans to do. Many humans in the modern age embrace those who are different. My two best friends and my grandparents are human, and they love me to death.”

  The flame stopped growing and the room became warmer. Just like that, I had lost her before I even got a chance to ask where the Grimoire was. Damn it.

  Looks like I’d just have to look for it the old fashioned way. I walked around the first floor in a circle and searched everywhere for the Grimoire, starting with the living room and ending in the kitchen. Though I pulled open drawers and looked behind couches, I could find nothing that resembled a book, let alone the Grimoire. Where could it possibly be hiding?

  I left the kitchen and walked back into the foyer. The stairs didn’t look too safe, but what choice did I have? The Grimoire wasn’t hidden on the first floor, from what I could tell. It would most likely be hidden in the most secure part of the house, where the negative energy was strongest.

  I walked up the steps, careful with my footing, so I didn’t slip off. It was as freezing on the second floor as it had been in the living room. Was this where Agatha’s spirit had retreated after I offended her with my comments about humans? Oddly enough, I didn’t feel any malice whatsoever directed toward me from her. The worst I felt was an overwhelming sense of loss, fear, and maybe even a touch of jealousy.

  “Agatha?” I called out again. “I’m sorry if bringing up humans made you upset. I was only trying to explain why I’m here. I understand there might be something in your house- something dark. And I think you know what that something is.”

  Again, I felt it: a rush of arctic air breezed past me, lifting the hair on the back of my neck. Agatha definitely heard me, even if she didn’t like what I had to say. I walked into the bedroom, where a spindle and loom had been set up beside a four-poster bed. Nothing else was visible, aside from an antiquated dress situated on a mannequin.

  “Where is it, Agatha?” I asked. “Where’s the Grimoire?”

  I heard a creaking noise coming from the corner of the room and spun around to see that a little brown door was hanging open, as if beckoning us to enter. I knew by intuition that this was the entrance to the attic, where — according to the helpful plaque outside — nobody had ever slept and lived to tell the tale.

  “We should be fine, because it’s noon and we’re not sleeping over,” I said, half to Rusty and half to myself. “Right?”

  Rusty’s whimper didn’t suggest he agreed. But I was the master and he the Familiar, so onward we went, charging straight into the heart of darkness. The life of a pug was fraught with perils big and small, and so was the life of a teen wizard.

  As I climbed the rickety steps that led into the attic, the energy of the house changed once again. Whereas before it gave off an overwhelming aura of despair, now the only thing I felt was the gnawing, all-consuming, all-hating darkness of the Nether Realm.

  I had felt it before, but never like this. It was as if I were standing at the edge of some endless abyss. And if I fell, I would keep falling for all of eternity and never hit the bottom.

  I reached the top of the steps to find a cramped, frigid space consisting of wooden beams, tufts of fluffy pink insulation and piles of damp boxes. There was nothing about this supposedly deadly attic that looked the part. In fact, it was almost offensive in its normalness. How could something so mundane hide a secret so vile?

  I knew the Grimoire was there before I saw it. It was sitting closed on a podium in the center of the room, just laying there as if it were a book full of cooking recipes rather than feral black magic. Bound in purple Darkon flesh and emblazoned with an Ouroboros, it was even more insidious than any description I’d heard of it thus far. I knew what Gabriel O’Mackey meant when he said even looking at the thing was tough to do. My vision blurred and the Mana in my veins trembled, as if every atom of my being recognized the unsurmountable evil locked within its pages. What foul spells slumbered inside, just waiting to be cast? And what would happen to this city if its owner were given free reign to cast them?

  For a second, I feared a trap. Could it really be this easy? Carter hadn’t even bothered to hide it.

  I took a step toward the Grimoire, but before I could grab it, my mind turned to mush and my muscles became heavy like rocks. Though the Grimoire was literally right in my grasp, I found I couldn’t even lift both of my arms. What magic was this? How had it broken through my barrier so easily, as if it wasn’t even there? My eyelids closed shut and I tumbled to the ground, falling into a deep sleep.

  Darkness surrounded me as far as I could see.

  But I wasn’t alone. Standing in front of me was a middle-aged woman wearing a brown dress and a white bonnet. Her expression was dour and her eyes distraught. I didn’t need to ask to know who she was.

  This was Agatha Sparrow.

  “Hello, my brother in magic,” she said, voice fleeting and ephemeral. “You ar
e kind-hearted and wise beyond your years. Surely you would know better than to engage in your present course of action. Why have you come to this place? And why do you seek the loathsome Grimoire?”

  “Because I want to destroy it and all of the black magic contained inside,” I said.

  She frowned. “I’m afraid I cannot allow you to do that.”

  “Why not?”

  “I have been appointed its guardian by the one who now owns my house. I have no other choice in the matter. I am trapped here in purgatorial nothingness, too alive for the After Realm and yet too dead for the Earthly Realm. That man promised he would help me move on if I watched his book for him. But he hasn’t come back yet, and the book’s evil has overtaken my home. I am enslaved to it.”

  “I’m sorry, Agatha, but that man is a Darkcrafter. He means great harm for all people of Boston. Spellcrafters and human alike. I aim to stop him.”

  “You think you can? He has power beyond anything I’ve ever known. Ancient power. It is uncanny for a man of this era.”

  “He’s being possessed by a vengeful spirit. That’s the reason for the power.”

  Her face fell. “I know a thing or two about vengeance.”

  “I know you do. He might not be willing to help you move on, but maybe I can. Give me the Grimoire and I’ll guide you into the light.”

  She shook her head. “No. It won’t be that easy. He has bound some sort of Darkon to it. If you touch it, it will attack. This is why I took you under into a deep sleep. Otherwise, you would surely have perished.”

  “It won’t be the first time I’ve faced a Darkon and it won’t be the last. Do you know what species it is?”

  “It is a grotesque creature called an Asphyxiator. I’ve seen it drain a man’s soul through its nostrils. When I release you, it will attack. If you can defeat it, the Grimoire is yours. Please be a warrior for our people. I want no other witch or wizard to suffer my cruel fate.”

  “Thank you, Agatha,” I said. “After I kill the Darkon, I’ll set you free. And I won’t stop fighting against hatred. I’ll fight it until my last breath.”