James Swain - Dark Magic

“No,” he said.

“It’s simple, my dear child. It’s called free will. The fact that you are possessed by a demon does not mean you must become evil. Being evil is a choice, just as being good is a choice. If you let the demon take over, it’s because you choose to.”

“You’re telling me that if I control my emotions, the demon won’t come out.”

“That’s right.”

What Milly was asking was absurd. How could he not grow angry every once in a while? There were times when a person had to get angry.

“My temper isn’t that bad,” he said.

“Yes, it is,” she corrected him. “Come closer.”

He leaned over the bed. Without warning, Milly slapped him in the face. He shot her a murderous stare. The monitors she was attached to started to beep, and her vital signs began moving in the wrong direction.

“Milly!” he said.

Her eyelids fluttered, and she sunk into her pillow. Max came to her side, and put his hand on her forehead.

“Stop this right now,” his teacher said.

Peter forced himself to calm down. Within moments Milly snapped to, and the monitors stopped their frantic beeping.

“Oh, my God, I’m so sorry,” he said.

“Believe me now?” she asked.

“Yes, I believe you.”

She again took his hand. This time when she spoke, he listened. “You must be stronger than the demon inside of you. Succumb to temptation, and you will lose your soul.”

“I feel like I’m losing it already,” he said.

“How so?”

“I killed a man who worked for me today. He was evil, and I suppose he deserved it, but I felt no regrets afterward. That’s not normal, is it?”

“You are still one of us,” Milly replied. “Isn’t he, Maximilian?”

“Indeed he is,” his teacher said.

“And you will stay one of us. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I must rest. It’s been a long day.”

Milly’s eyelids grew heavy, and just like that she was sound asleep. Peter glanced at the machines that she was attached to. The numbers had returned to normal.

“I’ll stay with her,” Max said. “Go home, and get some rest.”

“What about Holly?”

“I sent her home earlier.”

At least Holly listened to someone, Peter thought. He went to the door, turning to glance at Milly one more time. She looked so tiny and frail lying in that awful bed, and he could not help but feel that he was responsible for everything that had happened to her. He had accepted long ago that life wasn’t fair, a sentiment that became more profound the older he became.

“Goodnight,” he said.

“Be safe, Peter,” his teacher said.

“And you as well.”

Most New Yorkers were light sleepers. It came from living around so many people, and all the traffic. Peter was no exception. Any strange sound would lift him out of the deepest of sleeps, his radar on full alert. At three A.M., his eyes snapped open, and he stared into the familiar darkness of his bedroom. Liza stirred beside him.

“What’s wrong?” his girlfriend mumbled.

“I heard a strange noise. It sounded like little kids playing. There it is again.”

Falling silent, they listened to rain pelt the window.

“It’s just the wind,” she said.

“That’s not what I heard. The noise was inside.”

“Go back to sleep. You’ve had a hard couple of days.”

Liza kissed him in the dark. Coming home to find her waiting for him had been the best thing that had happened to him in a long time. It had restored his faith in the world, and given him hope that things might be returning to normal.

He drifted off. He heard the sound again. He slipped out of bed without awakening his girlfriend, found his robe, and padded barefoot into the hall, listening hard while trying to block out the storm. The noise was coming from downstairs. It sounded like a small invasion.

He padded down the stairs, and followed the noise into his workshop. He flipped on the light, and was surprised to discover the room was empty, save for the clutter of tricks scattered about. Perhaps Liza was right, and his imagination was getting the better of him.

He turned off the light. The noise came back, softer than before, as if emanating from the bottom of a deep well. He let his eyes adjust to the darkness, and scanned the room.

He settled on the Spirit Cabinet. The noise was coming from there. It sounded like a gang of playful children. He’d never been visited by the ghosts of children before, and wondered why they were here.

He entered the cabinet, and shut the door. The tambourine used to summon the spirits lay on the stool. He picked the tambourine up, and sat down. The voices filled the small space, and were singing a nursery song he did not recognize. Something about making giant snowmen, and watching them melt. He banged the tambourine against his palm, wanting to know more.

His world changed. He stood in the middle of a barren forest. It was winter, and fresh-fallen snow covered the ground. Five children ran past him on a narrow footpath, laughing and screaming as they did. They were bundled up with hats and coats and mittens. The oldest was no more than seven, the youngest around five, and he counted four boys and a blond-haired girl with an angel’s face. The significance of their number did not dawn on him until the little girl glanced over her shoulder, and waved to him as she ran.

“You’d better hurry,” she said.

His heart nearly broke. It was his mother.

“Wait!” he called after her.

“Come along,” she said, still running.

He chased her in his bathrobe and slippers. “Why are you running?”

“We’re trying to catch the kitty,” she said.

The cat. Milly had told him about the cat. It had strange markings on its forehead, and had lured his mother and father and their little friends to the frozen pond. The cat was evil.

“You have to stop,” he said.

His mother ignored him. She ran out of the forest into a clearing with a large frozen pond. As Peter came into the clearing, he spotted her four little friends standing by the pond’s edge, waiting for her. He tried to determine which one was his father. Then, he spotted the cat. It stood in the middle of the frozen pond, holding its leg as if injured. Jet black, it had a pronounced white star on its forehead. It emitted a shrill cry, begging to be helped. The children reacted as children do, and scurried onto the ice without thinking.

“No!” Peter shouted.

He ran onto the ice, desperate to pull them to safety. His life had been defined by what was about to happen here, and he wondered if he could change the outcome. Before he could find out, the ice gave way with a sickening crack. One by one, his parents and their friends dropped like stones, and vanished before his eyes. The cat skipped away, its injured leg miraculously healed. Then it was his turn, and he plunged into the icy darkness.

In many ways, living and dying were interchangeable, one unable to exist without the other. Peter knew he was dying as he sank to the bottom of the pond, yet felt remarkably alive, and not the least bit afraid. Perhaps this was because he knew what the future held, and that after this was over, he would one day live again.

His feet hit bottom. His mother was nearby, and looked like an angel floating in space. Nearby, her four little friends were thrashing about with bubbles exploding out of their mouths. He again tried to determine which of these boys was his father. The smallest had ruddy cheeks, just like his father had later in life, and Peter decided he was the one.

Peter shifted his attention to the other three. One day, these little boys would become the Order of Astrum, and cause widespread grief, including the death of his parents. It was hard to imagine that looking at them now, for they were young and totally innocent. He remembered what Milly had said about free will, and the choices he would have to make. Someday, these boys would choose evil, and never look back.