James Swain - Shadow People

That left the window in his dressing room. It would have been hard, considering the room was on the second floor and there was no fire escape, but burglars were a resourceful lot, and would go to any means to enter a building if there was something worth stealing.

He went to the window to check the latch. To his surprise, it hadn’t been touched. So how had the burglar gotten in? He pulled out his cell phone, planning to call Snoop and ask him to check the surveillance videos, when a movement stopped him cold. A curling wisp of black smoke was seeping out of a crack plaster in the wall. Before his eyes it took shape. He had seen the shadow people enough times to differentiate them by their sizes. It was the same shadow person who’d dropped her antique watch into his hands a few nights ago, Barbara Metcalf.

“What have I done to upset you now?” he asked.

No response.

“You know that I’m trying to help you, don’t you?”

Nothing.

“I’m going to Pelham to track down Munns. That’s what you want from me, isn’t it? To stop this crazy guy before he kills Rachael.”

Still nothing.

“I’m getting tired of you messing with me,” he blurted out.

She made an angry squeal. Across the room, five black wisps came out of their hiding place to join her. They swarmed around Peter like a hive of angry bees, threw him into the chair in front of his dressing table, and held him down.

“Cut it out!” he protested.

A pair of scissors on his dressing table were crawling toward him, its blades snapping like an alligator’s jaws. His left hand was pinned to the table; as he watched, the shadow person that was Barbara Metcalf began to snip off the tip of his left forefinger.

“Not my hand,” he howled.

The scissors were dull, and it took tremendous effort to break the skin and cut into the bone. Before his disbelieving eyes, the tip of his finger fell to the table. Bright red blood spurted from the wound, and he struggled not to pass out.

“Peter, let me in,” Liza shouted through the door.

“They’re back,” he gasped.

“What are they doing to you?”

“Bad stuff.”

“Tell me!”

“Cutting off my finger…”

Metcalf wasn’t done with him. Grabbing his hand, she brought his bleeding finger up to the three-way mirror on his dressing table, and used his blood to write a message. Peter thought he would be sick, and shut his eyes. The next thing he knew, Liza was standing beside him, shaking his arm with both his hands.

“Peter-don’t let them kidnap you!”

His eyes snapped open. The dressing room was back to normal, all the broken furniture and scattered things returned to their rightful places. It had all been a trick of the mind.

He stared at his severed finger. It had miraculously healed itself. No blood, no missing tip, he flexed it several times, found it in good working order.

Liza knelt beside him. “Oh, God, are you okay?”

“I think so.”

One thing hadn’t gone away. His dressing mirror was smeared with blood. He leaned forward to make out the single word left behind as a memento:

HURRY

Grabbing Liza by the arm, he ran from the dressing room.

Witches were not supposed to fall in love. Nor were they supposed to get married and become soccer moms. It was not how being a witch worked.

It wasn’t written down anywhere. Most of the rules which dictated a witch’s life were not written down anywhere at all. But they were passed down to each generation of young women who were born into the coven of spells and sorcery. And those rules were clear.

True love and witches simply did not mix.

Of course, they could have partners, and engage in sex, and be all things that women could and should be. There were no laws against that. But they were not allowed to lose themselves with a partner and forget who they were, which was what happened to most people who fell in love. They forgot who they were, and became someone else for a while. Witches were not supposed to do that. They had to remain true to themselves throughout their lives, and never forget who they were. It made relationships with the opposite sex tricky, to say the least.

Perhaps this was Holly’s problem. She had gotten crazy over Peter before the rules of the game had been properly explained to her. By the time Milly had gotten down to spelling out the rules, Cupid’s arrow had pierced her heart, and nothing would ever be the same.

Peter had been such a logical choice. Cute, clever, with one foot stuck in the dark side, what more could she want from a boy? They had grown up together, and always been fond of each other. Falling in love had been a natural progression, and Holly didn’t think the world would fall off its axis because of it.

She poured the magic herbs into the water-filled vase sitting on the coffee table. The water grew cloudy, with lifelike forms swirling about.

Oh spirits from above, show me Peter, the boy I love.

The water grew clear, and there Peter was, slumped in a chair in his dressing room while lovely Liza shook his arm. Clearly, something was amiss, which seemed almost routine for poor Peter these days. He’d become a poster boy for the problems that came from being psychic.

Peter woke up. Soon he and Liza were in a car racing out of the city. At the wheel was a grim-faced man whom Holly recognized as an FBI agent of Peter’s acquaintance. The FBI agent was driving one-handed while talking on a cell phone and to Peter at the same time. It was like watching a silent movie, and Holly tried to make out what they were saying.

“Holly!” a familiar voice called out.

Holly looked up in alarm. The voice had come out of nowhere. “Aunt Milly, is that you?”

“Who do you think it is, the Girl Scouts of America?”

“You have no right scrying on me, if that’s what you’re doing.”

“ Au contraire, I have every right to be scrying on you. You must leave Peter alone.”

“Why should I? I’m in love with him.”

“I fully understand that. But love doesn’t give you the right to invade his privacy. Peter must not be disturbed. Do you understand me?”

Holly glanced at the vase of water at the object of her desire. “Certainly.”

“You’re not listening to me. Peter is not like us. He’s different.”

“I know.”

“Much different.”

“I’ll agree to that.”

“Damn it, Holly.”

A framed photograph fell off the wall and crashed to the floor.

“Please stop destroying my things,” Holly said.

“Not until you do as I say.”

Holly had never won an argument with her aunt, and doubted she ever would. Clicking her fingers three times, she made the water grow cloudy and the images disappear. Rising from the floor, she found her aunt’s ghostly image in the oval mirror over her water bed.

Holly crossed her arms defiantly. Her aunt countered with a frown.

“What do you want, Aunt Milly?”

“Peter has enough on his plate these days. Stop pestering him.”

“Who said I was pestering him? And when did this become your business? I’m a grown woman living in my own apartment. I can do whatever I please, thank you very much.”

Her aunt started to argue, but stopped herself. The wisdom of old age was knowing when silence was more powerful than words. Her face softened. “You’re right. You are no longer a child, and I have no right to treat you that way. So consider this a warning, instead.”

“A warning about what?”

“Be careful with Peter.”

“How so?”

“Be discreet. Respect his privacy. Know when to look away.”

An icy finger ran the length of Holly’s spine. Was there a side to Peter that she didn’t know? If that was the case, then her aunt had every right to be checking up on her, and Holly suddenly felt bad about the way she was acting.