James Swain - Shadow People

“Stay out of it, damn it!”

Holly could not remember her aunt ever cursing at her. Not that Holly had been an angel growing up-few witches were-but harsh words had rarely passed between them. She had crossed over an invisible line, yet refused to back down. “Give me one good reason why I should.”

“Because you’re going to royally fuck things up,” Milly said.

Holly nearly fell off the couch. The f bomb? From her aunt?

“I’m just trying to help,” she stammered.

“For the thousandth time, Peter does not need our help.”

Her aunt could not have been more wrong. The giant reptile had put its slimy hands around Peter’s throat, and was choking the life out of him. Peter’s knees had buckled, and his face lost its color. He began to sink into the earth one excruciating inch at a time.

“He’s going to die,” she whispered into the phone.

“No, he’s not.”

“Are you seeing the same thing I’m seeing?”

“I most certainly am. And so are the others. Max, Homer, and Lester are here with me.”

“You’re scrying on Peter and me?”

“That’s right. As they say, two vases are better than one.”

“You all see the peril that Peter’s in, don’t you?”

“He’s not in any peril.”

“Aunt Milly, are you blind?”

“For once in your life, stop questioning me.”

“What about the others? What do they say?”

“They agree with me. Peter will be all right.”

Holly started to cry. Peter was dying before her eyes, and her aunt was forbidding her from doing anything to prevent it.

Her aunt spoke again. “There’s one more thing you must do, my dear child. You must stop watching. Something is about to happen which you are not supposed to see.”

“Stop treating me like a child.”

“Listen to me. It’s for your own good.”

“Good-bye, Aunt Milly.”

The cell phone hit the wall and shattered. She’d been wanting to get a new one anyway. Kneeling on the floor, she pressed her face against the vase as Peter was pushed farther into the floor. She would have watched even if it had turned her blind, her love for him was so great.

As Surtr squeezed the life out of Peter’s body, the young magician began to slip away to the next world. The experience was peaceful, almost serene. Not dead yet, but getting close.

His eyes snapped open. He stood in a black forest filled with dense smoke. Hanging from the trees were corpses of men who had not pleased their master and now hung there for eternity. From the distance came the battle cries between the forces of good and evil that had been taking place since the beginning of mankind.

It was dusk, and it took a moment for his eyes to adjust. When they did, he found himself staring at a throne made of human skulls on which sat a man well over seven feet tall. Dressed in a black hooded robe, the man’s once handsome face had been grotesquely melted on one side like a worn-down candle.

Peter had two fathers. One biological and one… demonic. The black forest was residence to the second, whom he knew simply as the wicked one. Two thousand years ago, the Devil and his counterpart in heaven had struck a deal, with each of them sending six of his sons to earth to see which would prevail, the forces of evil or the forces of good. Lucifer had cheated, and made his six sons immortal. The earth had never been the same since.

“Hello, Peter,” the wicked one said.

Peter grunted a coarse greeting under his breath.

“Not happy to see me, are you?” the wicked one asked.

“Our meetings never end well,” Peter replied.

“You are a stubborn young man.”

“Do I get that from you?”

A wind whipped through the clearing, causing the hanging men to twirl from their ropes.

“You’re losing,” the wicked one said. “That’s unacceptable.”

“He’s much stronger than me, whatever the hell he is.”

“His name is Surtr, and he’s the eternal guardian at the gates of hell. The Order of Astrum sent him to earth to do away with you, once and for all. The fair-haired girl was nothing more than bait.”

“What threat do I pose to the Order?”

“The elders of the Order are sending one of their disciples to New York in the hopes that he will attract more converts to their cause. Only one thing stands in their way. You.”

“Who said I wanted to get involved?”

“I’m afraid you do not have a choice.”

Peter shook his head at these words. His life was becoming a dark, uncharted journey where he had no say in the matter. The wicked one rose from his throne and stepped toward him. “Give me your hand, and I will give you the strength to do battle with Surtr.”

“I don’t want your fingers digging into my flesh,” Peter told him.

“Do it. Before he kills you.”

Peter saw himself jumping off the Brooklyn Bridge and emerging from the waters a changed person. Perhaps if he died at Surtr’s hand, the same thing might happen.

“What if I say no?”

“Have it your way.”

The wicked one clicked his fingers. Peter’s body went stiff and his left arm rose on its own accord. The wicked one grabbed his wrist as his fingers turned into venomous snakes whose fangs tore into Peter’s flesh and sent their poison coursing through his bloodstream. Peter bit his lip and tried not to scream. He could feel himself growing stronger, but at what cost?

“I’ll be watching,” the wicked one said.

Like a switch being thrown, Peter returned to the living room of Munns’s house. The room had been wrecked by their battle, and Surtr still had his hands around Peter’s throat, and was choking the last breath of life from his body. Nothing had changed.

Except, of course, him. He had been infused with an evil that had wreaked havoc upon mankind since the beginning of time, an evil that came straight from the source. Breaking free of Surtr’s grasp, he clutched the thing’s head and twisted it violently to the left, then violently to the right, hearing the bones in his neck crack like so many empty peanut shells.

“Uhhh,” the thing from hell groaned.

Surtr released him, and staggered around the room with its arms flailing, mortally wounded. Peter rose from the floor. He should have stopped right then. But he was no longer himself, and wondered if he ever would be again.

He crossed the living room and gave Surtr’s head another series of violent twists, and felt its neck grow looser. He found himself thinking about the three elders of the Order of Astrum, whom he felt certain were watching. It was time to send them a message.

He spun Surtr’s head clear around its body like it was attached by a string. Then he released his enemy. Surtr’s broken body hit the floor with a resounding thud. In the blink of an eye, he reverted back to being Doc Munns, whose head was now turned in the wrong direction.

“Peter, are you all right?” Garrison shouted from the front lawn.

Peter didn’t know if he was all right or not. He certainly didn’t feel the same. A piece of him had been stripped away during his journey, another layer of his soul lost.

An antique mirror hung over the fireplace. In its reflection, he saw what he had become.

He nearly cried.

He no longer looked human. His face was narrow as a wolf’s, his nostrils flared, his mouth set in a permanent snarl. The pupils of his eyes were tinged a savage red, and darted wickedly from side to side.

Covering his face, he begged the evil thing he’d become to go away.

Garrison started banging on the front door. Finally, he’d had enough, and took the door down with his shoulder, and came inside. He looked at Munns lying dead on the floor.