James Swain - Shadow People

He was not about to disappoint them.

Most magicians hated working for kids. They were little monsters, unruly and disruptive, and became distracted at the drop of a hat. In the world of magic, there was nothing lower than doing a kid show.

Peter felt differently about performing for children. Maybe it was because he’d never stopped being a kid himself.

Children of a certain age still believed in magic. The tricks they loved could be found on the shelves of any well-stocked magic shop, and would make a kid scream with delight if properly done. Pull a rabbit out of a hat, or a flapping dove from a scarf; make a pitcher of milk disappear in a newspaper; cause a silver ball to float mysteriously beneath a foulard; pluck fans of cards out of nothing, make billiard balls appear at your fingertips. Do these things right, and kids beg to see more. Their happiness will become your happiness, and it will last a long time.

Peter’s kid show contained twenty tricks. Some could fit in his pocket, while others required a prop. None was more than four minutes long. Each had a definite beginning, middle, and end. Classics, they had withstood the test of time, and thousands of performances. He could have performed each in his sleep.

“Hello, boys and girls, and welcome to a very special afternoon of fun and magic,” Liza’s cheerful voice boomed over the PA. “Before we start, please remember, no flash photography or recording is permitted during the show, and cell phones must be turned off. Thank you, and have fun.”

Over the PA came recorded music, followed by a drum roll. When it ended, the curtains parted, and Peter stepped out of a white puff of smoke onto a bare stage. Six hundred wide-eyed children stared up at him in awe.

Peter smiled. It was one of Max’s rules. Every show began with a smile. If you weren’t happy to be there, then why should your audience be? Displaying empty palms, he plucked a red scarf out of the air. As if creating life, a white dove appeared in its folds. The bird flew out of his hands, and landed in a lacquered box on an ornamental table. In the moment it had taken for the bird to appear, the stage had become filled with beautiful props.

From the children’s mouths came a collective gasp.

Bang! Peter thought.

He hit them hard at the start, and made three more doves appear, placing them in the small lacquered box with the first. Firing a cap pistol at the box, he broke it apart, showing each piece as he did, and tossing them into Liza’s waiting hands.

“Say good-bye to the birds,” he told the children.

The kids applauded and stomped their feet. As the applause died down, he took stock of the crowd. He owned them.

For the next hour and twenty minutes, he worked his magic while spinning stories about the world of make-believe. In that imaginary world, no child felt hurt, or abandoned, or lonely, and every tale had a happy ending. It was a place where everybody got along, and there was at least one hour of sunshine, every single day. It was a world where anything was possible.

All good things must come to an end, his show no exception. He stepped to the foot of the stage, and the stage lights dimmed. He could no longer see the kids’ faces, but he could hear their breathing, and smell the popcorn on their breath.

“Want to see one more?” he asked.

A cheer rose up. Liza wheeled an oversized dollhouse onto the stage. The prop was three feet wide by three feet high, with a pitched roof and matching front doors that opened at the center. He parted the doors to reveal an interior painted like a child’s bedroom.

“What do you see inside this dollhouse?” he asked.

“Nothing,” the kids replied.

“Good. Now, watch closely. Is everyone ready?”

“Yes,” his fans chorused.

Liza sat on the edge of the dollhouse, curled herself into a ball, and gracefully wiggled her body inside. Shutting the doors, Peter spun the dollhouse around on its wheels.

“Everyone say ‘Abracadabra!’” the young magician said.

“Abracadabra!” the kids shouted back.

“I can’t hear you.”

“Abracadabra!”

There was a shifting inside the dollhouse as Liza slipped into the crawl space hidden in the base of the prop. The trick’s clever construction made it appear that there was no place for her to hide, when in fact, there was more than enough room.

“Ready?” he whispered.

“Ready,” she whispered back.

He pressed a button on the roof, and the front doors sprung open. A small white terrier named Norman was supposed to leap out. A circus dog, Norman never missed a cue.

Only today there was no Norman. In his place, a shadow person oozed out of the prop, and hovered a few inches above the stage like a hologram. Peter touched the five-pointed star underneath his shirt. The shadow person could not kidnap him and take him to the other side. A small comfort, for the dark spirit was about to wreck his show.

“That’s cool!” a kid called out.

“Totally awesome,” another kid shouted.

The kids were on their feet, staring in awestruck wonder. No trick he’d performed this entire afternoon had elicited this much excitement. He’d been upstaged by a rogue spirit.

“Peter, help me,” said Liza in his earpiece.

Poor Liza was stuffed inside the dollhouse’s floor, breathing through the air holes drilled into the wood. “Hold on,” he whispered into the speaker in his collar.

“I can’t.”

“What do you mean?”

“He’s chasing me.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Your killer.”

“What?”

“That thing took me over to the other side. At least, that’s where I think I am.” She sounded terrified, and was breathing hard. “I’m running down a gravel driveway on the side of a steep hill. A guy in a Volvo is chasing me. Oh, my God, he’s leaning out of his window-he’s pointing a gun at me!”

It was the same nightmare he’d experienced. Liza had been taken to Dr. Death’s house, and was being chased down a rural road by the serial killer in his Swedish-made car. A gunshot ripped through his earpiece. Peter’s heart skipped a beat.

“Keep running,” he whispered.

“This maniac is shooting at me! Bring me back!”

Onstage, the shadow person was going in convulsions. Forms appeared from within. A hand pushed at the spirit’s lining, as if trying to break free. It was both fascinating and horrifying to watch. The kids in the audience appeared hypnotized. Maybe part of the process was a form of hypnosis that prepared your soul to be whisked to another place. If that was the case, then a large number of kids from Fort Apache were not going to make it home this afternoon.

One of the oldest rules in show business was never to turn your back on your audience. Peter broke that rule, and turned his back while stepping in front of the convulsing spirit. The moment he did, he let the anger festering inside of him come out. The anger had been there for as long as he could remember. He’d been raised to keep a lid on it, even if it meant biting his tongue, or turning the other cheek, or any of the other passive things that civilized people did.

His anger changed him. His psychic powers grew, and so did his physical strength. Overall, the effect was extraordinary. But it came with a price, as the evil side to his personality came out as well. It wasn’t pretty, and certainly not suitable for kids to see.

With his back turned, he plunged his fist into the shadow person’s midsection. The evil spirit emitted a painful sound, and appeared to shrink in size.

“Peter!” Liza screamed.

“I’m coming! Hold on!”

Another shot rang out, this one closer than the first.