James Swain - Dark Magic

A clap of thunder shook the walls. He threw on a bathrobe, and went to the window which looked out on the courtyard. Some of the best seances he’d ever conducted had occurred during bad storms, and he’d assumed it had something to do with the air being filled with electricity. Now, he found himself not caring about the spirits, or anything associated with them. He just wanted her back.

He thought about her request. Stop doing these crazy seances, and come back to the real world. Up until two days ago, he would have said yes; his love for her was that great. Up until two days ago, he would have been able to walk away from it. But now he couldn’t. The spirit world had taken over, and he couldn’t have run away from it if his life depended upon it. But Liza deserved better than what he’d given her. She’d committed herself to him, and he’d repaid her by keeping her in the dark about who he was. There was a name for what he’d done. It was called being a shit.

His cell phone was vibrating. His heartbeat quickened as he grabbed it off the night table. Liza had sent him a text message.

“Thank you,” he whispered.

He returned to the window, and read her message by the light of the storm.

P,

I’m sorry to run out on you, but you gave me no choice. You’re scaring me. I don’t know this person you’ve become.

Do you?

L

It was a good question. He’d done things in the past couple of days that he would never have dreamed of doing before, and the answer was as obvious as it was frightening.

No, he didn’t.

He didn’t know this person at all. This person had powers and feelings that were brand new to him. If he wanted to get back together with Liza, he needed to find out who this person was. For her sake, and for his own.

But how? He supposed it had to start with knowing who his parents were. The family tree, as it were. Then he might understand himself a little better.

He went into the bathroom. Reaching beneath his bathroom sink, he removed the mysterious DVD that he’d taken from the bookshelf in Lester Rowe’s apartment. Maybe the DVD had the answers he was looking for, or could point him in the right direction.

His bedroom had a large entertainment unit built into the wall. Slipping the DVD into the player, he pulled up a chair, and sat a foot away from the giant screen. He had no films of his parents, just scrapbooks filled with aging photographs, and the ghostly images he carried in his head. He wondered what it would be like to see them again.

Moments later, he had his answer.

His mother’s lovely face filled the screen. Her eyes were expressive, and her smile could light up a room. She said hello to the camera.

“Hey,” he whispered back.

The camera pulled back. His mother was dressed as if going to the theater, and wore a strapless black evening gown and a string of white pearls. She sat at a table covered in black cloth with occult symbols painted on the fabric. Symbols were an important part of the spirit world, and every psychic worth his salt knew what they represented. The symbols on the cloth were new to him, and appeared to be a cross between a unicursal hexagram used to summon the spirits, and a common pentagram.

The camera pulled back even farther. His father sat to his mother’s right at the table. The quintessential college professor, he favored rumpled sports jackets and never combed his hair. Now he wore a tailored suit, a white shirt with a button-down collar, and a tie with a gold stickpin. His goatee was neatly trimmed, and the part in his hair was as straight as an arrow.

They both looked like royalty. He hit pause with the remote, and spent a long moment staring at them. His eyes grew moist. It was an image that he would forever savor.

He hit play, and the film resumed. Out of the shadows appeared four other people, who took their places at the table. Two men, two women, all dressed in formal attire. It was Lester Rowe, Milly, Reggie Brown, and Madame Marie, all looking twenty years younger.

On the screen, his mother said, “Let’s begin.”

The other participants nodded agreement.

His father struck a match, and lit three white candles in the table’s center. The lights in the dining room were dimmed. Everyone at the table joined hands.

His mother began to chant. She was soft-spoken, and he strained to pick up the words. Unexpectedly, things started to happen. First the candles’ flames flickered, then various pieces of furniture began to move around, with a painting on the wall crashing to the floor. In a mirror hanging behind the table, a ghostly reflection appeared. It was a man whose face had melted on one side. The man was laughing, and appeared to be enjoying himself.

“What the hell,” Peter said aloud.

His mother stopped chanting, and the face vanished from the mirror.

Everyone at the table seemed to relax.

Peter did as well.

His mother said, “Henry?”

His father reached beneath the table, and came up with a rectangular wood board. He moved the candles off to the side, and placed the board on their spot. The board looked ancient, and was covered in numbers, letters, and astrological signs. It was a talking board.

His mother said, “Ready, everyone?”

The others bobbed their heads. His father removed a heart-shaped planchette from his jacket pocket, and placed it onto the talking board. Everyone placed their fingertips onto the planchette, and scrunched up their faces. The planchette moved deliberately across the board, stopping briefly to touch on different letters and symbols, before moving on. Suddenly, his mother jerked in her chair as if being shocked by a cattle prod, while her face made horrible contortions. The other participants drew back in their chairs, clearly alarmed.

His father said, “Claire!”

His mother shook her head wildly, causing the pearls to flop around her neck. Her eyelids fluttered, revealing nothing but white. She had become possessed, and was no longer in control of herself. A stiff wind blew through the room, sending everyone’s hair on end. The candles went out, throwing the room into darkness.

Peter squirmed in his chair. He tried to remind himself that it was just a film, but it didn’t calm him down. His father relit the candles. Everyone was standing at their places except his mother, who’d collapsed onto the table and appeared to be passed out. His father gently lifted his mother’s head, and spoke in her ear.

“Are you all right?”

His mother sat up straight in her chair. Her eyes were now bloodshot, her beautiful face dark and ragged with age. Her fingernails had grown several inches, and resembled talons. An evil spirit had invaded her body.

Jumping up, his mother tossed her husband across the room with a flick of the wrist. He crashed against a wall, and winced in pain.

His mother clawed viciously at the air, causing the others to coil away in fear. She was like a wild animal, and appeared fully capable of killing someone. This was not the same woman who’d nurtured and raised him; it simply couldn’t be.

He tore his eyes away to look at the mirror behind the table. The visitor had returned to the glass, and was again laughing at everyone’s expense.

He looked back at his mother. She was wrestling with Reggie, who was attempting to grab her by the wrists. Reggie was a foot taller and outweighed his mother by a hundred pounds. It didn’t matter. His mother tossed poor Reggie over a chair like a child.

Lester Rowe was up next, grabbing his mother from behind in a bear hug. Lester was strong for his size, but no match for her. His mother broke free, and raked her fingernails across Rowe’s face. Ribbons of blood appeared, prompting her to laugh wickedly.