James Swain - Shadow People

“But I love who you are,” Liza said.

“What about the demon? Do you love him as well?”

“I love you, warts and all.”

He laughed silently to himself. He had a lot more than warts to deal with.

“We can deal with this,” Liza said. “We’ll work on it day by day, just like other couples that are having problems. We just have to believe in each other, that’s all. Isn’t that what your parents did?” She glanced at her watch and her eyes grew wide. “Oh, my God, look at the time. We’ve got a show in a few hours. Come on!”

Liza grabbed his hand. She was not giving up on him. That was good, because Peter didn’t see how he could deal with this by himself. He stole a final glance at the river, the idea of jumping not far from his thoughts.

Together, they ran across the bridge.

Milly was telling fortunes for three wealthy widows in her apartment when her cell phone rang. It had been Holly’s idea to buy her a ringtone, and the recorded cat’s meow sounded like the poor animal was being mutilated.

“So sorry.” Milly muted the phone without bothering to check caller ID. Cell phones were like traffic lights. Necessary, but terribly annoying. “Now, where were we?”

The widows sat at a round table draped in black felt covered in astrological signs in the center of Milly’s living room. Every Tuesday at five o’clock, they assembled in Milly’s apartment, where they drank tea, ate cookies, and had their futures told. The widows paid Milly enough money to maintain a lifestyle that most psychics only dreamed about.

“Who’d like to go first?” Milly asked.

“Let me start,” the widow Miller said. “I want to know what’s going to happen with my oldest son. He’s been causing me all sorts of trouble lately.”

“I see. Please give me your cup of tea and we’ll begin.”

The cup was passed across the table. Milly swirled the remaining liquid so the tea leaves were distributed, drained the liquid onto a paper napkin, then gazed into the cup. The key to reading tea leaves was the ability to interpret the symbols suggested by the leaves, of which there were over a hundred, each with different meanings. If the leaves looked like a stone, it meant there was work to be done. If they resembled a house, it meant that prosperity was in the future, while a mountain meant an arduous journey was ahead.

The symbol in the widow’s cup was a snake, a bad sign. But Milly wasn’t going to tell her guest that. Bad news was bad for business. Instead, she said, “Your son will continue to make questionable choices. He means well, but his decisions do not always reflect this.”

“Will he ever get a real job?” the widow asked.

Snakes did not work. They hung around all day, sleeping, and were the laziest of creatures. The widow’s son was no different.

“I don’t see a job in his immediate future,” Milly replied truthfully.

“Someday?”

“Perhaps.”

“Can you be more specific? He’s thirty years old and I’m still supporting him!”

Milly studied the leaves some more. The snake appeared to be well fed. The widow’s son wasn’t going to leave home until his mother stopped babying him. “Your son has the potential to do many useful things with his life. Whether or not he does is up to you.”

“Up to me? So what do I do?”

“Take a long trip. I hear a cruise to Alaska is nice this time of year.”

“Seriously? What about my son? Should I take him along?”

“Leave him behind.”

“But I’ve never done that before. Will he be all right?”

Milly again consulted the leaves. The snake had sprouted wings and resembled a butterfly, a symbol of growth and change. “He’ll be fine,” she assured her.

A telephone rang in the study down the hall. Milly’s home number was unlisted, and hardly everyone ever called her.

“Did you need to get that?” the widow asked.

“They can leave a message,” Milly replied.

The phone continued to ring. Like most witches, Milly was a private person, and hated intrusions. An annoying telemarketing firm had found out the hard way, and she’d cast a spell over them when they wouldn’t stop harassing her. Only after they’d gone out of business had the company’s operators gotten their voices back.

The phone would not stop ringing.

“Let me get that,” Milly said. “Please, help yourselves to more tea.”

She went to her study to take the call. She’d already decided that her caller would wake up tomorrow with an ugly mole on their nose with black hairs sprouting out of it. That would make them think twice about calling her again. She snatched up the receiver.

“Who is this, and what do you want?” she demanded.

“Good afternoon, Ms. Adams, this is Joe, the building’s head of security,” a man’s deep voice said. “I’m sorry to bother you, but you have a visitor.”

“I’m busy, Joe,” she said icily.

“I know you are, Ms. Adams. I told your visitor that you had guests and were not to be disturbed, but she insisted that I ring you.”

Joe was a decent fellow, and always helped her bring in her groceries. Milly quickly undid the spell that she’d just cast over him, then reminded herself to look at Joe’s nose tomorrow morning to be sure he was all right.

“Does this visitor have a name?” Milly asked.

“It’s your niece, Holly.”

So that was who’d called her cell phone. And when Milly hadn’t answered, Holly had rushed over to see her. Something told Milly this was about Peter, and could wait.

“Tell her that I’m busy, and will call her later,” Milly said.

“She says it’s a matter of life and death, and that she must see you now,” Joe said.

“Really. Well, I guess you’d better send her right up.”

“Will do.”

Milly hung up the phone. This sounded serious. She returned to the living room to check on her guests. Their teacups were full, their conversation light and pleasant.

“I’ll just be a few more minutes,” she promised them.

A witch’s life was filled with drama and suspense. It was part of the job description, and there was no getting around it. A light tapping on the door announced Holly’s arrival. Milly ushered her niece into the foyer with a finger to her lips and shut the door behind her.

“There are clients in the living room. What’s wrong?”

Holly pulled the wool cap from her head and shook out her hair. Her cheeks were without color, her eyes glassy from crying. She struggled for a proper reply.

“This is about Peter, isn’t it? Don’t tell me you’ve been scrying on the poor boy again. I see it clearly in your face. You must leave Peter alone!”

“But I can’t,” Holly said, the tears rolling down her cheeks. “Peter wants to kill himself.”

“What? Are you sure?”

“He nearly jumped off the Brooklyn Bridge this afternoon. I was scrying on him, and I saw the whole thing. He would have done it, but his girlfriend Liza came to the rescue. I’m so worried about him, Aunt Milly.”

“Lower your voice,” Milly said, glancing at the living room. “Tell me something. Why do you assume Peter was going to jump? He might have just been out for an afternoon walk.”

“Peter gets depressed sometimes. He wants his life to be different. Sometimes he can’t handle it. He told me once that he imagined himself jumping off the Brooklyn Bridge, and coming out of the water a different person. I told him that if he jumped off the bridge, he’d surely die. He said, ‘If that’s what it takes…’ and his voice trailed off.”

Milly squeezed her niece’s arm. “Why didn’t you ever tell me this?”

“Peter swore me to secrecy.”