James Swain - Shadow People

“Who’s Dante?”

“Dante is the anti-conjuror. For the past thousand years, he’s performed his magic for the delight of Satan and his guests. Satan has decided that it’s time to unleash him, and is sending Dante to New York. You will have the honor to be one of his assistants.”

“Will this make me like you guys?”

“Yes. It will bring you one step closer. Would you care to meet Dante?”

Ray had always wanted to join the inner sanctum of the Order, for he knew that one day it would lead to him standing at Satan’s side and becoming immortal. Whoever Dante was, he was sure he could find a way to get along with him.

“Bring him on,” Ray said, unable to hide his excitement.

“Splendid. Enjoy the show.”

The elders vanished, and Ray found himself sitting alone in the theater, shuddering from a burst of cold air. He could no longer remember what the elders looked like, their memory having been erased. He would have given anything to be so powerful.

The house lights dimmed. The curtains parted to reveal a darkened stage. A single spotlight shone down, its beam so bright it reminded Ray of a light coming out of a flying saucer in a Spielberg movie. Smoke filled the stage, followed by a flash of light, from which stepped a wild-looking young man wearing a flowing purple robe. This had to be Dante, his new boss. The guy was a trip, with spiked purple hair, pierced eyebrows, lips, and nose, and Gothic designs smeared across his face. He moved in a slight crouch while staring sinisterly from side to side, and looked like a jackal that had learned to walk on its hind legs. Plucking two black scarves out of the air, the anti-conjuror bunched them together, and made a screaming vulture appear.

The vulture was released into the theater, and flew in a lazy circle over Ray’s head. More vultures appeared from the same scarves, and were also set loose. The birds weren’t hidden in Dante’s coat or stuffed up his sleeves, but were molded to life right before his disbelieving eyes. Ray had once seen a magician at a birthday party, and thought the whole thing was a bunch of crap, the tricks obvious if you looked hard enough. Dante’s magic was different. It looked real, and something told him it probably was.

Ray started to applaud, figuring he’d better make his new boss happy. The hollow sound echoed throughout the theater. Dante silenced him with a menacing glare. Clearly, he did not like interruptions.

A final vulture was brought to life, and sent airborne to join the flock. Ray kept one eye overhead, noticing that the vultures had positioned themselves directly over his chair.

“What’s your name?” Dante’s voice was high-pitched, like a woman’s.

“Ray,” he replied. “Nice to meet you.”

“Do you know what the purpose of magic is, Ray? Magic is supposed is to reveal the secrets of the universe and life itself. Magic is not supposed to create illusion, it’s supposed to strip illusion away. It’s about finding eternal truth.”

Ray didn’t know what the hell Dante was talking about but nodded anyway.

“Here. Let me show you.” Dante cupped his empty palms together while his eyes bored a hole into Ray’s soul. “Think of a thing which truly frightens you. Don’t tell me, just think of it.”

That was easy. The one thing that truly frightened Ray were rats. One had bitten him in the foot as a kid, and he’d never shaken the experience.

From Dante’s cupped hands appeared a rat with a curled tail. It leapt to the stage, and was quickly followed by another. Soon, rats were pouring out of Dante’s cupped hands in such great numbers that they flooded the stage, and began to pour into the audience.

Ray had seen enough, and jumped out of his seat in fear. Too late. A rat was attached to his pant leg, tearing at the fabric. Several more jumped on his shoe, their weight dragging him down. Within seconds he was covered in furry rodents whose sole intent was to scare him to death. Then the vultures swooped down, attaching their beaks to the tattoo artist’s shirt, and lifted him into the air with the rats still clinging to his body.

“Don’t do this to me,” Ray cried.

Dante stepped to the foot of the stage to appraise his handiwork. He had peeled back the darkest layer of his subject’s soul, and seemed pleased with himself. “You now work for me, Ray. Do as I say, and you’ll do fine. But if you disobey me, my furry friends will skin you alive. Do I make myself clear?”

“Yes. Please make them go away,” he begged.

“When your job is finished here, you will join me in the city. We’re starting rehearsals soon, and I want you to be there. Does that sound good, Ray?”

“Yes. They’re biting me!”

Dante howled with laughter and lifted his arms into the air. The vultures released their grip on his clothes, and Ray let out a blood-curdling scream as he fell into the audience.

A car horn’s blast brought Ray back to the real world of Westchester County. A delivery truck idled behind him at an intersection, the driver fuming. Ray could still feel the rats on his body, and tried to swipe the invisible creatures away. The delivery truck passed, firing its horn.

Ray pulled off the road and started to cry. Dante had made him want to die. He’d never felt that way before, and his fear was tearing him apart. This was not what he’d bargained for, and he told himself there was still time to escape to Maine or upstate New York and get out with his soul. He would live in the woods if he had to. He was ready to do just about anything to get away from this madness.

A shadow fell over his van. It was a perfectly sunny day, without a cloud in the sky. Rolling down his window, he stuck his head out. A mob of vultures hung directly overhead. Try to run, they dared him, and see what happens. He wiped away his tears, knowing he was doomed to serve a master far darker than any he’d known before.

Every day began with the promise of a new beginning. Peter had read that in a book while growing up. The message had stayed, and had helped him get through the dark times.

Wednesday morning was a perfect example. Sunlight flooded through his bedroom window and delicious breakfast smells floated up from the kitchen. It was enough to make him forget what a nightmare the previous few days had been, if just for a little while.

He tossed on a bathrobe and bounded downstairs. The brownstone had been sold to him with a warning. The previous tenant had fallen down the stairs, and broken his ankle. The staircase was treacherous, and not using the handrail was a serious mistake.

Soon after moving in, Peter had learned that the staircase wasn’t treacherous at all. The problem was a cantankerous ghost named Zachary Nathaniel Harrison who’d inhabited the brownstone for over a century, and occupied the spacious guest bedroom on the second floor. Zack, as he liked to be called, was a light sleeper, and punished those who woke him up by tripping them during their stair runs.

Ghosts could be reasoned with. Peter had conducted a séance in the bedroom, and summoned Zack to the table. The old ghost had obliged him, and they’d sat and talked and eventually worked out a deal. When the sun was up, Peter was free to run the stairs as much as he wished. When it was down, there would be no running. They had shaken hands on it, which had felt strange, since there had been nothing there to physically shake.

The kitchen greeted him with a spread of food fit for a king and Liza at the counter squeezing fresh oranges. It still amazed him that she’d not packed her bags and split after yesterday’s revelations. The expression “love was blind” had taken on a whole new meaning.

“If it isn’t Sleeping Beauty,” she said.