James Swain - Shadow People

“Hold on. I have a present for you.”

Peter presented a small jewelry box to his teacher. Max opened it, and examined the five-pointed star. As a rule, psychics did not interfere with the lives of other psychics, or offer them help or counsel. On those rare times that a psychic did reach out, it was for a good cause, and the offer was rarely refused. Without a word, Max slipped the necklace on, and tucked it under his shirt. He nodded appreciatively.

“Thank you, Peter.”

“You’re welcome, Max.”

“I see other gifts in your bag. Who are they for?”

“One of my assistants, and the rest of the Friday night group.”

“Will you be presenting one to Holly?”

“Yes, she’s on the list. Why do you ask?”

Max’s eyes narrowed and he dropped his voice. “Someone was going to have to tell you, so I suppose it should be me. Holly has been scrying on you. She admitted it to me and the rest of the group the other night. I told her to stop, and she got quite upset with me. She thinks the present predicament you’re in with the shadow people gives her the right to play voyeur cam with your life. It’s not right, and I wanted you to know.”

“That doesn’t sound like Holly. What’s come over her?”

“I’m afraid she’s changed, and not for the better. Her crush on you is out of control. The poor girl is head over heels in love.”

Peter rocked back on his heels. He’d known Holly since she was five. He’d babysat her as a teenager, and watched her grow up. How could he have missed this?

“I also sense that Holly thinks you’re in love with her,” Max went on. “Are you?”

“In love with Holly? I have feelings for her, but not like that.”

“Are you?”

“Max, come on. Be serious. This is Holly we’re talking about.”

“Are you?”

“What do you think?”

“I think you’re avoiding the question.”

The door to the pub swung open and a comely red-headed waitress stuck her head out. “Hey, Max, your adoring fans await you. Are you going to finish your show?”

“Of course I’m going to finish my show,” Max said.

“Then hurry. The natives are getting restless.”

She went back inside. Max sprung his deck of cards playfully between his hands like an accordion. He threw back his shoulders and glanced at his pupil. “Yes or no?”

“I care for the girl, but I am not in love with Holly,” Peter said matter-of-factly. “She’s the little sister that I never had, which is why I have feelings for her.”

Max did several deft one-handed cuts without looking at the cards. “Those feelings have been misinterpreted. You must be careful. Witches are dangerous creatures when their passions become inflamed. Take my advice, and stay away from her. She’s not the young woman you think she is. I must go. Be safe.”

“And you as well.”

Max entered the pub to a healthy round of applause, leaving Peter to contemplate this new wrinkle in his personal life. He wasn’t big on confronting his problems, preferring to run away whenever possible, but this situation had to be addressed. He was in love with Liza, and that wasn’t about to change anytime soon.

He should have left right then, and warned his other friends. Instead, he went to the pub’s window, and peered through the smokey glass. It was the one great lesson that he’d learned from losing his parents at such a tender age. Nothing in this world lasts forever. The people and things that you love and cherish will one day be stolen away from you, never to be returned. It was the natural order of the universe, and could not be changed. The only question was, when would this happen? When would you lose those things that you loved? He’d always believed that day was sooner rather than later. If he didn’t enjoy the special things in his life right now, they’d be gone in a blink of an eye, and he’d forever regret not experiencing them one last time.

That was why he stayed at the window and watched Max entertain the crowd.

Munns rose late, took a hot shower, did all the usual things. Naked and clean, he stood before the full-length mirror attached to the bathroom door, and gazed at the freakish assortment of tattoos on his body. He looked like a walking billboard for the Devil.

Munns often wondered what would happen if he decided to change his ways, and revert back to his old life. Would the Devil let him? Or would the tattoos spring to life, jump off his skin, and tear every limb from his body, and when they were done torturing him, kill him and bury his torso? Once, during a feverish dream, he’d seen that very thing, and had no doubt that it was a sign from below of what happened to traitors.

The silver tattoo on his neck was shimmering like a dull neon sign. It often did that, and he didn’t quite understand why. He’d asked Ray what it meant, and the body artist had replied that it was the sign that the Devil was paying him a visit. Munns was not fond of the silver tattoo and wished he could figure out a way to turn the damn thing off.

He drew closer to the mirror. His latest tattoo was already his favorite. The mighty Surtr holding a bloody sword in one hand, the head of Peter Warlock in the other. Ray had predicted that Munns would become Surtr one day, and do away with the young magician. Munns had tried to imagine what that transformation would be like. Would he grow in size and become stronger? And what about his face? Would it turn as hideous as Surtr’s?

Munns had never heard of Surtr so he’d done a search on the Internet. During the time of the Norse gods, Surtr had single-handedly guarded the gates of hell. He resembled Yoda from Star Wars, and did not look fierce enough to fight off a teenager. But when enemies approached, Surtr grew into a horrifying monster with horns on his head and eye-popping muscles. As part of this transformation, the knife on his belt grew into a flaming sword, which he used to chop off the heads of his enemies. Munns had liked the sound of that, and had started to carry a Swiss Army knife with him wherever he went.

His cell phone vibrated on the counter, the word UNKNOWN lighting up the screen. Munns had no friends, and he couldn’t remember the last time someone had called him. Perhaps it was Rachael calling to say that she wouldn’t be coming on Friday night. The very notion filled him with dread, and he snatched up the phone. “Yes?”

“Is this Doc Munns?” an older man’s gruff voice asked.

It was not Rachael calling to cancel, and he instantly relaxed.

“That’s me. Who am I speaking to?”

“Name’s Clyde Jucko. I own EZ Storage, where you rent a unit.”

The Jucko clan were longtime residents and could trace their lineage back to the first Dutch families that had settled in the area. Clyde Jucko, the family patriarch, was a local slumlord and a tough customer. Locals often turned the J in his name into an F when describing him.

“What can I do for you, Mr. Jucko?” Munns asked, wrapping himself in a towel. “Did you not get my rent check?”

“I got the check. There’s something not right with your unit.”

“Excuse me?”

“I said, there’s something not right with your unit. There’s a big gaping hole torn in the roof. I was up on a ladder doing some repairs to the gutters when I spotted it. It looks like someone tore a hole in the roof of your unit from the inside. You wouldn’t by chance happen to know how something like that could happen, would you?”

“I have no earthly idea what you’re talking about,” Munns stammered.

“You don’t have someone illegally living in the unit, do you?”

“No.” This time, Munns choked on the word.

“Then how the hell did a flipping hole get in the roof?”