James Swain - Shadow People

She was a direct descendant of Mary Glover, who’d been hanged in Boston during the Salem witch trials. She bore a striking resemblance to the late great witch, right down to the cute dimple on her chin. A witch’s powers were many: clairvoyance, casting spells, and the ability to hold sway over farm animals and domesticated beasts. But these powers came with a price, and she had few close friends.

It was hard being a young woman living in New York by yourself, even if you weren’t a witch. Harder still when you belonged to a two-person club that included you and your aunt. Sometimes, it was all she could do not to feel sorry for herself. Holly told herself to get over it.

There had been a boy once. A drop-dead gorgeous foreign exchange student named Jean-Claude. One night at the restaurant where she worked as a hostess, he’d come in, and started to chat. One thing had led to another, and Jean-Claude had ended up in her apartment, sharing a bottle of wine. It had turned physical. As they’d made their way to her bed, she’d read his thoughts, and seen him preparing an exit strategy. She’d thrown him out, along with any notion that she could have a relationship with a normal boy.

She thought back to Peter. He was safe, but for how long? He’d been kidnapped twice tonight, and it could happen again. He was not going to win this fight without some help. As a rule, the Friday night psychics did not get involved in each other’s personal lives, but this was different. This had started during a séance, when all of them were together. It was as much an attack on the group as it was on Peter, and the group needed to fight back.

She dug out her iPhone. The digital clock on the face said 3 A.M. What some people called the witching hour.

She rang her aunt, knowing she’d be up.

“What are you doing awake at this ungodly hour?” Milly asked by way of greeting.

“Peter needs our help,” Holly replied, getting to the heart of the matter.

“Is he there with you?”

“No, he’s at home, and I’m at my studio.”

“Have you been talking to him?”

“No.”

“Then how do you know Peter needs us, unless you’ve been scrying on him.”

The words were not a question, but a statement of fact. Witches often spoke in such a manner to each other. It made small talk all but out of the question. “Come to mention it, I have been scrying on him,” Holly replied, deciding to meet her aunt’s charge head on. “I love Peter, although you already know that. I watch him sometimes. Actually, I watch him a lot.”

“Shame on you, Holly. That’s wrong.”

“Tell me you haven’t done the same thing, and I’ll apologize.”

Her aunt went mute. Of course she’d done the same thing. Holly had spent part of her childhood at her aunt’s place, learning the art of witchcraft. Many times when she was supposed to be practicing, she’d snuck into her aunt’s study, and had seen Milly scrying on an unsuspecting person. Holly had never questioned it, and did not want her aunt questioning her now.

“Tell me why Peter needs our help,” her aunt said, breaking the silence.

“He came home to find that black thing from the séance in his house. It pulled him back to the other side. That’s two times in one night. When he came to, he looked shaken up.”

“We cannot fight Peter’s battles for him,” Milly said.

“This thing appeared at our séance. It’s a battle against all of us.”

“It’s called a shadow person, and it has an interest in Peter. Peter must deal with this.”

“You’re not going to help him?” Holly’s voice rose indignantly.

“Peter is the son I never had, and I love him with all my heart. But there are some things which a psychic must experience on his own, without the interference of others. It is part and parcel of the learning process we all go through. Someday, you will go through it yourself.”

“He nearly died,” Holly said, not hearing a word her aunt just said.

“So?

“What do you mean, so?”

“Did I not teach you anything when you were growing up? Our lives are not days at the beach. The trials and tribulations that a psychic must endure are far greater than those of a normal person. It is the price we must pay for these dark gifts.”

“Have you paid such a price?”

“I most certainly have. So have Max, Lester, and Homer, who was struck by a car and left blind. Every psychic goes through a trial of some kind. May yours not be so harsh.”

“We still must help him,” Holly said. “If not for Peter, then for ourselves.”

“What do you mean?”

“The FBI were in Peter’s place when this happened.”

“How did the FBI get involved?”

“Peter contacted them. Instead of calling one of us for help, he called them. Do you see my point now?”

The sharp intake of Milly’s breath sounded like a gun going off. Next to the Devil, the police were their worst enemy, and capable of ruining their lives. “Yes, I do,” her aunt said. “I will call the others in the morning, and seek their opinions. I don’t like you interfering in Peter’s life, but in this you are right. We must help Peter deal with this.”

Holly was relieved. Milly was as stubborn as a mule, and so was she. The difference was age. It was rare for Holly to come out on the winning side of an argument, and she chalked this one up as a major victory.

“May I make a suggestion?” her aunt said.

“Of course.”

“Instead of scrying on Peter, why not scry on the killer Peter saw during the séance? Once he’s caught, this thing will be over.”

“But I don’t know who the killer is. I need a name to work with.”

“Why not use the name that Peter gave him-Dr. Death?”

“Will that work?”

“It should. Peter gave you the man’s physical description, and said that he lives in Westchester County and is a college professor. How much more information do you need?”

“I’ve always had a name before.”

“It’s time for the training wheels to come off. You can do it.”

“I’ll most certainly try. Good night, Aunt Milly.”

“Good night, dear child.”

Holly ended the call. Milly was right. Her time was better spent finding Dr. Death than spying on Peter and his girlfriend. And if she did happen to find the killer, then wouldn’t Peter be thrilled? It would put their relationship on a whole new level.

Drawing the shades, she relit the candles, filled the vase with tap water, mixed in the magic herbs, and pulled up a chair. Into the vase she stared.

Oh, spirit from above, help me find a twisted college professor,

Who’s trying to kill the man I love.

This man is small and somewhat fat, with a thick beard, and eyes like a rat.

He lives in a county called Westchester, where he kills women for his pleasure.

His name is unknown, so we’ve given him one, all our own.

We call him Dr. Death, and so should you.

For Death is his calling card, and the thing he shall always do.

The water became the color of mushroom soup. As it cleared, Holly saw the image of a man sleeping on a bar in a smokey tavern. A cigarette burned in an ashtray while a movie played on an old TV with bad color. Was this Dr. Death? The man looked more like a drunk than a serial killer. The bartender tried to shake him awake. The man stirred, and raised his head off the bar. He looked directly at Holly, and she froze.

Evil had a face. It was mean and cruel and lacked a soul. It could be seen in the faces of evil dictators and ruthless madmen as they stood at podiums and made hateful proclamations. The man sleeping on the bar had such a face. His expression was ugly and harsh, and lacked compassion for other human beings. No wonder Peter had christened him Dr. Death.