James Swain: Shadow People

“Drink this. It will make you feel better.”

Peter sipped the water. Max had fooled him, and he would stay up late into the night wondering where the glass had been hidden, and how Max had produced it without spilling a single drop. Max’s repertoire was endless, his knowledge of all things magical unsurpassed.

“I found a new evil,” Peter told his teacher. “I encountered a man who looked like a frumpy college professor, but in reality is a serial killer who’s targeting innocent women.”

“That describes most serial killers,” Max replied. “I read in a book that most serial killers target prostitutes and runaways because they want victims no one will miss.”

“These victims are missed. They were actively involved in doing good in the world, and they pushed back at the darkness,” Peter said.

“Then he shouldn’t be too difficult for the authorities to track down. I’d say you’ve hooked a live one.”

“Or perhaps he hooked you,” Homer said, his cane tapping the floor.

For a blind man, Homer had an uncanny way of seeing things. Peter had been hooked, and knew he was lucky to have escaped with his life. Holly returned with a pad and pen, and pulled up a chair. “You talk, and I’ll write,” she said.

Peter described his encounter with Dr. Death with Holly transcribing. Tomorrow, he would contact the FBI, and pass along the information in the hopes they’d be able to track down the serial killer. Peter’s name would be kept out of it, along with the rest of the Friday night psychics. That was the deal he’d struck with Garrison after he’d helped the FBI stop a madman from releasing a canister of deadly nerve gas in Times Square. So far, the arrangement had worked pretty well.

When he was done, Holly read aloud what she’d written. It was exactly as he remembered it. Now it was his job to try and stop Dr. Death from carrying out his grim task. So far, he’d been successful in preventing many bad things from happening, but deep down, he knew that every streak came to an end. Even the best struck out sometimes.

He thought back to the copy of the New York Times he’d seen in Dr. Death’s kitchen. The headline was a highly publicized murder trial in New York that had ended with the jury finding the defendant guilty on all counts. A photograph had shown the victim’s family rejoicing outside the courthouse. Justice had been served.

“Who’s been following the Crawford murder trial?” Peter asked.

“I have,” Holly replied.

“When is the jury supposed to get the case?”

“Late next week after the lawyers wrap up their arguments.”

“I saw a newspaper in the killer’s house. It had the verdict on the cover.”

“You know how the trial ends-tell me!”

“He’s guilty,” Peter said.

“Yea!”

“Now here’s the bad news. Our killer is going to strike on the evening of the day that the verdict is announced. That doesn’t give us much time.”

Milly placed her hand on Peter’s shoulder. “Don’t tell me you’re thinking of getting involved. Remember what happened last time? The CIA nearly caught you, and sent you down to that farm in Virginia where they keep psychics prisoner and force them to spy on people.”

“I still need to alert the authorities,” Peter said.

Peter placed his empty glass on the table. His mind was made up, and there would be no changing it.

It was Homer who spoke next. “You said this man was in league with the Devil?”

“He is one of the Devil’s disciples,” Peter answered.

“Then you will have to go to the FBI to make sure he doesn’t kill all of them when he’s captured. That is reason enough to get involved.”

“Thank you,” Peter said.

Homer dipped his chin. He’d been an ordinary housepainter until a car accident had stolen his sight. With the loss of vision had come a gift of prescience and clarity of thought that few people ever obtained. His advice was always heartfelt, and seldom was he wrong.

Peter stiffened. The room’s temperature was dropping, a sign that a spirit was in their midst. His eyes found the quivering dark spirit hovering against the far wall. Blacker than black, it looked like a tear in the universe, and pulsated as if breathing. The rest of the group saw it as well, except for Homer, whose metal cane continued to tap the floor.

“That thing tried to kill me,” Peter said under his breath.

“It looks like the work of the Devil,” Lester said. “Max, do you have any idea what it is?”

“Beats me,” Max confessed. “Milly, any ideas?”

“I have no earthly clue,” the old witch said.

“I’m going to talk to it,” Holly said out of the blue.

“Peter said it was evil. You’ll do no such thing,” her aunt told her.

“If it’s evil, then why did it come back?” Holly asked. “I think it returned for another reason. Let’s find out, shall we?”

Holly pulled a small talisman from the pocket of her faded jeans. She crossed the dining room and waved the talisman in front of the dark spirit while reciting in a soft voice.

Shadow, shadow, dark as night, explain to me your mission tonight.

Are you here to see a friend, or have you come to make amends?

If there’s something you wish to say, then say it now, or go away.

It was impossible to resist a witch. The quivering mass jumped off the wall, and swirled cyclonelike over the dining room table. Out of the vortex popped the shape of a hand. It was followed by the shape of a foot, then a human head. Each shape struggled to break free, only to be pulled back inside. Suddenly, it jumped back to the wall, and was swallowed up by a large crack. Holly stood transfixed.

“Holly?” Lester asked. “Are you all right?”

No response.

The little Scotsman hurried to Holly’s side. He clicked his fingers in front of Holly’s eyes while repeating her name. After a few tense seconds, she snapped to.

“Oh, my,” Holly said.

“What happened?” Lester asked.

“That thing was trying to take me away. It was scary.”

“To where?” Peter asked.

“The basement of some creepy house.”

Just like me , Peter thought.

“I hate to say I told you so,” her aunt said stiffly, “but I will in this case.”

Lester had taken to examining the crack in the wall into which the dark spirit had escaped. Running his forefinger across the crack, he emitted a stiff cry. “Ow!”

Peter rushed to his aid. A nasty red blister had formed on the tip of Lester’s finger.

“What in God’s name was that thing?” he wanted to know.

If any of the Friday night psychics knew, they were not saying.

The gathering soon broke up. Lester left with a Band-Aid, vowing not to stick his finger where it didn’t belong. Then Max bid adieu. The old magician made the glass he’d pulled out of nowhere disappear in equally baffling fashion, and left with a smug look on his face.

Holly was next. She kissed everyone good night before departing. When it came to kissing Peter, she gazed dreamily into his face. “We need to talk. I’ll call you tomorrow.”

She left, leaving Peter, Homer, and Milly. Peter would have liked nothing better than to stay up trying to figure out what the dark spirit was, but tomorrow was Saturday, and he had two shows to do, a matinee in the afternoon followed by an eight o’clock show in the evening. He needed his rest if he was to be sharp. “I wish I knew what that damn thing was,” he said.

“I suppose it was some form of poltergeist,” Milly said. “To be forewarned is to be forearmed. Next time it comes around, fight it.”

“Do you think it will return?”