The hat tightened its grip and electricity rose in his spine.  Had this thing been responsible for the explosion at his father’s home?  Had it murdered Garth and his family? 

Pain shot through David’s arms.  In an instant, his hands weighed twenty pounds each, maybe more.  He tore his eyes away from the monster.  His hands had grown huge, flesh and bone had become massive granite clubs.

“Stay back, David,” Faye yelled.  Her rolled-up magazine lengthened.  It shone like a piece of the sun.  The air crackled with energy as she advanced on the creature, swinging the flaming rod.  The creature lunged at Faye, and the warded doorway became a curtain of light.  

Bellowing in obvious pain, the monster forced its arm through the curtain, grabbed Faye’s wrist, and bent her arm back.  She gasped and tried to twist away, but the monster’s grip held.  It pulled her close.  

“Duck!” Josie shouted.

“I can’t!  It’s holding me…  Like a shield.”

David’s vision focused down to a tunnel.  He brought up his fists and advanced.  He swung, first one then the other.  The curtain of light parted for him and both blows landed on the beast.  It bellowed again and staggered back into the fog-shrouded vestibule.

Faye wrenched free.  Flame shot from Josie’s outstretched fingers and raked the monster.  David strode past the threshold.  Behind him, the women yelled, but he was beyond hearing, beyond caring what happened to him.  He swung his fists like the massive clubs they had become.  Every punch landed, and David forced the monster back until it stood, pressed against the railings.  

David swung again, pouring all his strength into the blow.  At the last instant, the creature lashed out with a clawed foot.  The world vanished behind a blinding wall of light.  The monster’s foot struck the light.  It screamed in agony.  Sparks cascaded and David stumbled back, dizzy but unhurt; his hands once again merely hands.

Faye dragged him into the apartment as Josie drove lances of fire into the monster.  It bellowed again and collapsed into a cloud of greasy, foul-smelling smoke.  The wind gusted, driving away the fog and rending the cloud into streamers that blew into the cold, rainy morning.

Down in the parking lot, the emergency response team continued their investigation, apparently unaware of the battle that had just taken place.  Josie kicked the door shut.  She bent at the waist and pressed her hands against the broken latch.  Bright light pulsed, burning David’s eyes.  Josie backed off, rubbing her hands together vigorously.  The latch was again whole.

“We need to remember to set the deadbolt too,” she said.  “All the time.”  She turned the handle, and the heavy bolt snicked into place.

Mr. Bettencourt, the next door neighbor, pounded on the shared wall.  “It’s Saturday morning, you morons!” the old man yelled, his voice muffled by the wall.  “You wanna hold it down in there?”

“Sorry, Mr. B!” David called.  “We’re fighting monsters from the pits of hell over here, but we’ll be quieter.”  

Laughter bubbled up, bringing hysteria with it.  He tried to stifle the laughter, tried to get a grip on himself, but it was no use.  He stumbled to the couch, took off his hat, and put his face in his hands.  The laughter collapsed into tears and, finally, uncontrollable sobs.  He grabbed a throw pillow to muffle it.  

Someone draped his grandmother’s afghan over David’s shoulders.  “That’s good, kiddo,” Faye said.  “Just let it out.  It’ll be better.”

Gradually, the sobs faded.  He lay on his side, trying to get control of his emotions.  He hiccuped for a while.  His family was gone.  No chance to reconcile with Garth.  Someone — or something — had tried to kill him by blowing up his car.  And sent a monster to his apartment.  The world had changed into something dangerous and strange.  It was too much to process all at once.

“Sorry,” he murmured and tried to sit up.

“Oh, please,” Faye said.  “You did nothing wrong…  Well, apart from trying to take down a spell-pumped garco by yourself, that is.  We need to work on your battle strategy.  But once you figure out how to control it, that hat of yours is going to be a big help.”

“What’s a garco?”

“That hairy thing with the claws?  That’s a garco.  They’re actually little rodents…  Kind of cute—”

“I don’t think I’d go that far,” Josie said.  “But they’re dangerous to insects, mostly.”

“But they eat a lot, so with the right spell,” Faye said, “you can pump ‘em up and sic them on somebody.”

“See what I mean?  I’m totally out of my element here.  I feel like I should take a leave of absence from work and go hide somewhere.”

“Hmmm… the LOA thing might not be a bad idea, but hiding?  Not so much… at least not by yourself.  They know who you are.  They’re good at finding people they’ve ID’d.”

“So who’s after me?  Who killed my brother and his family?  And why?”

Faye chewed on her lower lip.  “I don’t know.  None of this makes sense.”

Someone knocked on the door to the apartment.  David grabbed for his hat only to fumble it.  The hat rolled under his coffee table.  “Dang it,” he muttered as he dove for the hat.

“Chill, David,” Faye said.  “That’s not a monster.  I can usually tell, and the vibes aren’t right.”

“I’ll mute the wards and get the door,” Josie said.

David’s face felt hot as he collected his hat and sank back onto the sofa.  Josie opened the door.  Though their new visitor seemed very young, he wore a fancier uniform than the previous officer.  He held out a badge for them to see and introduced himself as Lieutenant Steven Parker. 

For the next hour, Lieutenant Parker asked questions.  The questions were elaborations of what Officer Ford had asked.  It felt like Parker hoped that if he asked the same question in enough different ways, David would remember something else or, perhaps, change his story, but that didn’t happen.  Instead, David grew more and more hungry and light-headed.  

Finally, he held up his hand.  “Excuse me, Lieutenant Parker.  My friends and I are wiped out.  We were up late, and none of us have had anything to eat.  We were on our way to get breakfast when somebody tried to blow me up.  Can you at least give us a few minutes to eat something?”

Parker apologized.  He offered David his business card, which was quite a bit nicer than Officer Ford’s.  “Call that number as soon as you can.  We’ve swabbed for explosives downstairs.  The crew will haul your vehicle to a salvage yard.  You should receive a copy of our report within five business days.  You’ll need that for your insurance, though honestly, I doubt they’ll pay anything, given the fact that it was a deliberate attack.”

“My car…  Crap.  I’d sort of forgotten.  It’s going to be hard to get around… to get to work.”

“Actually, Mr. Dellarosa, I recommend that you take a leave of absence until we make more progress with the case.  You should keep a low profile, perhaps stay with family for a—”

David’s stomach lurched.  “I have no family, remember?” he snapped.  “Not after yesterday.”

The young lieutenant grimaced.  “Again, I’m sorry, sir.  Your feelings must be pretty raw right about now.”

Faye, who was sitting next to David on the sofa, clutched his hand and squeezed hard.  David bit down on his words.  Josie saw Lieutenant Parker to the door.  

“We’ll be in touch, Mr. Dellarosa,” Parker said as he left.

Josie closed the door and set the deadbolt.  “Sit tight,” she said as she headed for the kitchen, “I’ll get us something to eat.”

*     *     *

David dried the last plate and put it away.  Faye and Josie sat on the sofa, heads together, muttering.  They had a pad and a couple of pens and they took turns jotting notes.

Faye looked up as he tossed the dish towel onto the counter.  “Good,” she said, “you’re done.  The clock’s ticking.  We have six hours to sundown.  Let’s get on with it.”

“What, me worry?” he asked, trying to lighten the mood a little.

His heart lurched as Josie turned a positively feral grin his way.  “You don’t know the half of it, mister,” she said.

Part Five

Late in the afternoon, Josie ordered take out, and despite everything, he felt a little better after getting some food in his stomach.  But as the hours passed without incident, he felt more and more on edge.  He began to pace.

It was just past 1:00 a.m. when Faye, who had been sitting on a straight-backed chair with her eyes closed, suddenly opened her eyes and stood.  “Calm, David.  I realize you’re keyed up; we all are.  But I need you to sit still,” she said.

His tension spiked, and it took all his self control to hide his worry.  He puffed out a sigh.  “I feel like I should be doing something.  And I’m torn between hoping to get this confrontation, or whatever it is, over with and praying that nothing happens at all.”

For over an hour, Josie had stood absolutely still with her back to the wall.  Suddenly she sucked in a sharp breath and lifted her chin.  She turned her head left and right, sniffing the air.  He’d never seen her appear so serious, so fierce.  “Whatever-it-is, it’s out there,” she whispered, “circling.  Probing.” 

“How can you tell?” David asked.  

She gestured for silence.  “We need deeper shadows.  Turn down the lights.”

David did a quick pass through the apartment.  He turned off all the lights save the small one over the kitchen stove. 

“Good,” Josie hissed and stepped into the darkest spot in the room, the hall that led to the bathroom.

Faye pulled in a deep breath and closed her eyes.  After a few seconds, she exhaled slowly through her nose.  David wanted to ask her what she was doing.  He wanted to know who or what Josie had perceived, but he clenched his jaw on the questions.  

Gradually, Faye faded from view.  Her chair appeared empty.  Though he sensed his friends’ presence, David felt alone.  Exposed.

He twitched with pent-up energy, but pacing messed up Josie and Faye’s concentration.  He leaned against the wall next to his TV and tried to emulate Josie’s stillness.  At least the effort provided some mental focus.

The silence took on a palpable sense of menace.  His skin crawled with it.  A huge thud out on the balcony made him jump.  Heart hammering, he edged closer to the front wall of the apartment.  As he reached for the blinds, Faye appeared at his side.  She shook her head and tugged on his arm, drawing him away from the window.

The window shattered and blew in, ripping the blinds away.  Something darker than shadow flowed over the sill.  The darkness pooled near the center of the room.  David’s hat shifted, snugging down and gripping his head.  Energy lit up his spine.

There was a low chuckle, something malignant and dangerous.  The darkness sloughed away.  Skin pale and glowing, Garth emerged.  He loomed, nearly seven feet tall, hands on his hips, leering.

David swayed as he fought to stay on his feet.  It wasn’t Garth; it couldn’t be.  The cop had said Garth had been killed.  Anyway, Garth had been big, but he’d been overweight.  Dumpy and soft.  Nothing like this specter.  

As if reading David’s mind, the thing that resembled his brother threw back its head and laughed.  “Oh, it’s me all right, Davey.  I can take this form after the sun goes down.  Impressive, isn’t it?  If you weren’t so stupid, you’d be scared.  Real scared.”

“I don’t understand.  How?”

Power rippled the air around Garth.  “I hate my daytime shape.  Detest it.  But when the sun sets, I come into my power.”  Garth’s gaze sharpened.  He pointed at David.  “Take off the hat, Davey.  Do it now.”

Garth’s words battered him, making him take a step back.  His hands drifted toward the brim of Uncle Arber’s hat.  He shook his head, made fists of his hands, and forced them down to his sides.  Where were Faye and Josie?

“But you… Your family… The police said—”

“The police are idiots.  Emily and Kevin are at a hotel in Visalia.  Waiting for me to tie up a few loose ends… You being first and foremost on the list.”

“But there was an explosion.  Multiple fatalities.  Those were your friends!  Dad’s neighbors…”

Garth shrugged his massive shoulders.  “Collateral damage.  And camouflage.  We needed cover for our disappearing act.  Given a hot enough fire and a little magic, well, let’s just say identification will be spotty at best.  But I digress.  Take off the hat, Davey.  Drop it on the floor.”

“Why?”

“You were supposed to take it… Take all that crap to the dump.  That was the whole point of letting your miserable life continue.  I’ve waited a long time for this.  Too long.”

Something told him that every second he could delay was to his advantage.  “You already have Dad’s estate.  Why are you doing this?  What do you get out of it?”

“Power, Davey.  From Father’s line.  From my mother’s line.” 

“What’re you talking about.  We’re siblings!”

“Hardly.  Your mother’s power faded after your birth.  And Father detested her for it.  Detested her entire family — especially Uncle Weirdo.  Take off the goddamned hat, Davey.  I’m losing patience.”

“We had different mothers?”

Garth sputtered, half laughing and half angry.  “You are so incredibly stupid.  Of course we had different mothers.  Ever see any pictures of her holding me as a child?  Ever see her touch me even?  She knew better than that.  Father made sure of it.”

“I’m sorry, Garth, that you never felt the touch of—”

“Shut up!  She was weak.  You’re weak.  Father never should’ve tried to cross bloodlines.  Take off the hat.  Throw it on the floor.  NOW!”

Mr. Bettencourt pounded on the wall.  “Noise in the morning.  Yelling in the middle of the night.  I’m calling the cops!”

Garth jerked in surprise, and in that instant, Faye and Josie struck.  Fire lanced the darkness, hitting him from both sides.  He collapsed under their onslaught and dropped to his knees.

But Garth was not done.  Little by little, he shook off the effects of their magic.  He flung out his hands, turning their blows aside.  Their power sputtered out, and he lunged to his feet.  

Garth took a step toward David.  Another.  “I can’t touch the hat, Davey.  That rat bastard Arber made sure of it.  But I can sure-as-hell wring your lousy neck.  I’ll use your skinny ass to pound it flat.  And I’ll flay you alive and use your bleeding skin to wrap the hat so I can take it into the desert and burn it.  And I won’t bother to describe what I’ll do to your girlfriends, but you can be sure I’ll enjoy it.  Let your imagination fill in the gaps.”

No!  Faye and Josie had put their lives on the line to help him.  He couldn’t let Garth hurt them.  What could he do?  David’s hands and arms tingled, but there was no spell.  No transmutation of flesh to stone.  No shield of blinding light.  Garth took another step.  His brother’s hands were inches away.  

Faye and Josie struck again, forcing Garth to retreat.  But he bore the brunt of their strikes, his expression pained but unrelenting.  Soon they’d grow tired.

Where was the magic that had come to David’s aid before?  He’d practiced all day under his friends’ guidance.  Had he used up all his power?  Had it faded under the weight of Garth’s hatred?  

Garth laughed again, louder this time.  He made a fist and gestured.  David felt a blow that staggered him.  

Next door, Mr. Bettencourt continued to pound and yell, his words muffled but fierce.  Far from distracting Garth, the old neighbor’s anger seemed to amuse him.  Another blow rocked David back.

Desperate, he imagined his power flowing toward Faye and Josie.  He hadn’t the skill to engage Garth directly, but his strength might bolster his friends enough to make a difference.  Josie and Faye struck again, and this time their hits knocked Garth flat.

David’s power flowed to his friends.  He grew weak, too weak to stand, but he didn’t care.  He knelt on the floor, and their combined efforts seemed to be working.  Garth was shrinking, shriveling in on himself.  

He kept pushing his energy toward Faye and Josie, and it helped, but in the end, it wasn’t enough.  David toppled over, falling onto his side, conscious but unable to move.  Faye’s blows sputtered and flickered out.  A second later, Josie’s did the same.  Garth lay panting, visibly weaker but still alive.

Slowly, painfully, Garth pulled himself together.  Blood dripped from his mouth, and his eyes were shriveled grey orbs.  He shook himself like a wet dog.  Malign will flowed from him, soaking into David, making everything feel futile.  David’s breath came in gasps.  

“You’re weak,” Garth panted.  “You always were weak, you sniveling, little—”

The door banged open, and light flared, dazzling David’s eyes.  He squinted.  It was Mr. Bettencourt.  The old man wore slippers and was wrapped in a tartan bathrobe.  His gaze swept the room.

“Kids these days,” he snapped.  “You don’t know a damn thing about taking out evil sorcerers.”  He snapped his fingers and muttered a string of angular syllables.  Garth gasped, twitched a couple of times and collapsed.  His body shriveled, leaving behind a ragged, fist-sized stone.  

Sirens moaned, growing closer by the second.  Mr. Bettencourt fixed them with a rheumy glare.  “Tell the cops that someone tried to kick your door in.  There’s scuff marks to prove it.  And show ‘em the rock.  Say it broke the window.  If the cops leave it, throw the rock in the sea.” 

Faye and Josie, both looking the worse for wear, helped David stand.  “Um… Thanks, Mr. Bettencourt,” he managed.

“You’re welcome.  Now let an old man get some rest, will you?”  He started to turn away only to jerk slightly.  He stood up straighter, his gaze sharpened, and he jabbed a gnarled finger at David.  “Where’d you get that hat?” he asked.

“It belonged to my great uncle.  Why?”

“That wouldn’t be Arber Nikolia would it?”

“Yeah.  Great Uncle Arber.   He—”

“Well I’ll be a…  Try to stay out of trouble for a few hours, children.  I’ll be in touch.  We have work to do.”

***** End *****

Copyright © 2021, Michael C. Glaviano.  All rights reserved.

A noise dragged him from a fitful sleep.  What was that?  Soft footsteps? 

“Rise and shine, sleepy head,” Josie said, though she kept her voice blessedly low.  She flung back the drapes.  Cold, gray light filled the space.

David’s head ached, and his neck had a kink.  Images from the previous day, none of them particularly pleasant, flooded back.  He sat up and rubbed his face.

“Morning,” he mumbled.

“Yep.  It is.  What’s for breakfast?”

“I…  Not sure.  Saturday’s usually my grocery day.  How about I take us to breakfast?”

Faye, bundled in his robe and with her hair damp from the shower, padded into the living room.  “Sounds good!  J and I can scout around the building while you get yourself  together.”  

“Cool.  There’s a sweet little cafe just a few blocks from here.  We can walk.”

“Ordinarily, I’d be all in,” Josie said, “but it’s been raining off and on for hours, and we didn’t bring rain gear.”

“No problem.  We’ll take my car.”

David hustled through his morning routine.  He emerged from his room, pulling a sweatshirt over his head.  Faye and Josie sat on the couch whispering.  Their shoulders were hunched, and Faye’s left hand was closed in a tight fist.

“Hey, what’s wrong, guys?”

“Visitors… of an unfriendly sort,” Josie said.

“Now?”

Faye shook her head.  “No.  Last night.  Good thing we were here.”

“We’ll set wards before we leave for breakfast,” Josie said.

“But last night… I thought you said we only had to worry about… about stuff at night.”

Faye’s smile looked forced.  Worse, her face was pale.  “After dark is the worst, but some of the baddies can come ‘round in the daytime too.”  She gestured at the living room window.  “Especially in weather like this.”

David felt a pang of worry.  “So what do we do?”

“Sit tight, buddy.  We’ll tighten the perimeter.  It’ll only take a few minutes.”

Faye and Josie sprinkled things on the window sills.  They pinned some old-looking medallions on the inside of his door.  There were some muttered chants.  

Josie walked up to him.  “Stand up.  Give me your hands, okay?  Do not let go… or pull away.”

“Right.”

She grabbed his hands and shut her eyes.  Nothing happened at first, and David started to feel silly.  He cleared his throat.

“Hush,” she whispered.  “Get ready…  Here goes.”

Her hands grew warm, then suddenly hotter than human hands should ever be.  David flinched and at the last second remembered her instructions.  He gritted his teeth and hung on.  After a long two or three minutes, Josie opened her eyes and nodded.  She crossed to the door of his apartment.  David was certain, well almost certain, that sparks jumped from Josie’s fingertips to the knob and deadbolt. 

“Good,” Josie murmured.  Her face was drawn, her eyes dull.  “The locks know you now.  That ought to slow down any unwanted visitors.”  

“You okay?” he asked.

She brightened a little.  “Coffee and breakfast’ll fix me up.  I’m starved.”

Faye pointed toward the end table.  “You should wear Arber’s hat.”

“Really?  Well, okay, I guess.”  

Once again, the old fedora settled into place like it belonged there.  He grabbed his keys and a jacket and they headed down the portico toward the stairs. 

They paused at the vestibule.  The wind kicked up, blowing the rain sideways.  Faye and Josie buttoned their coats.  

“Why don’t you guys wait here,” David said.  “I’ll get the car.  No sense in—”

“Is it in plain sight?” Faye asked.  “The car, I mean.”

He pointed.  “Yeah.  See?  It’s the dark blue Prius.”

“Okay, thanks.”  Just make sure to stay where we can see you.”

“It’s really that bad?” he asked.

They just looked at him.  He shrugged and set out through the rain.  When he got about fifteen feet from his car, Uncle Arber’s hat tightened, an almost painful band around his head.  He halted, mid-stride.  His scalp tingled.  Prickles ran up and down his spine.  He pushed the button on the key fob.  Behind him, one of the women — Faye, he thought — yelled.  He half turned and caught a glimpse of a police cruiser as it pulled into the lot. 

There was another yell.  Something grabbed his leg and jerked hard, pulling him off balance.  He windmilled his arms but couldn’t quite get his feet under him.  Over he went, and of course he landed in a rain-filled pothole.  Cold water ran up his arms.  “Well crap,” he muttered as he started to push himself up.  The world whited out and an instant later, a blast sent him tumbling across the wet asphalt.  All he could hear was ringing in his ears. 

Pieces of metal and burning plastic fell all around.  Something landed on him, knocking him flat.  Again, he tried to push himself up.  He caught sight of his car, or rather of the burning wreckage of it, and retched.  All that came up was bile.  He shook his head, trying to clear it, trying to figure out what to do.  Somebody grabbed his arm, lifted him, and half-carried him away from the fire.

He got his legs under him, but they shook so badly that he was afraid they’d give out.  They reached the apartment building’s vestibule.  Faye and Josie were there.  They had tears on their faces.  

As the world came into better focus, David realized that a uniformed police officer had gotten him to safety.  The guy was big, like a linebacker.  His badge read “Ford.”  The cop was talking, but David couldn’t make out the words.  He pointed to his ears.  “Can’t hear anything,” he yelled.  “The blast…”

Officer Ford pointed to the building and raised his eyebrows.  David nodded and took a few steps toward the stairs.  He was still wobbly and was glad when Faye and Josie got on each side of him and helped him stay on his feet.

By the time they reached his apartment and David got it unlocked, the ringing in his ears had faded a little.  He caught the sounds of approaching emergency vehicles. 

“I think I can hear now,” he said.  “Better, anyway.”

“I need you folks to stay in the apartment.  The fire department and the bomb squad are on their way.  I have to get back downstairs, but the paramedics’ll be up.  Either I or another officer will be back too.”  

“I’m fine.  I don’t need a paramedic.”

Ford looked skeptical.  “It’s your choice, but someone should check you over.”

“No, really, Officer.  You got me out of danger.  I was stunned for a minute, that’s all.  

“We’ll stay with David,” Faye said, “and make sure he’s okay.”

Ford peered more closely at David.  “David?” he asked.  “That wouldn’t be David Dellarosa by any chance?”

“Yeah.  That’s me,” David said.  

“And that… that was your car?”

“Yeah.  I don’t get it.  How could it just blow up?”

“I’m afraid I have some bad news, Mr. Dellarosa.  Your brother, his wife, and son were killed last night.”

David’s vision shrank down to a narrow tunnel.  Suddenly, he couldn’t catch his breath.  He staggered back, stumbled and sat down hard.  “No.  That’s not…”  

Ford offered a steadying hand as he struggled to get his feet under him.  “Take it easy, Mr. Dellarosa.  We realize this must come as a terrible—”

“How… What happened?”

“Explosion and fire.  We thought it was a faulty valve on a large barbecue.  They were at your recently-deceased father’s home.  But given what’s just happened here…”  The big cop shook his head.  “Quite a coincidence.”

“I don’t understand; I was there.”

“You were?  When did you leave?” 

“There was a reception at his house.  After my father’s funeral.  I didn’t feel up to it, so I came home.”

“Was there a falling out?”

“No.  Nothing like that.  I just…”  David tried to focus.  “Garth?” he asked, “and Emily and Kevin?”

“I’m afraid so.  Actually there were multiple fatalities.  We’re not yet sure how many.  That winding, narrow road… by the time the fire department got there, the house was engulfed.  And the gas explosions…”  Officer Ford’s gaze swept over the living room, taking in the open boxes.  “You going somewhere?” he asked.

“What?  No.  Why?”

“Packing boxes.”

“That’s stuff Garth wanted me to haul away.”

“Mind if I take a look?” Ford asked.

David shook his head.  “Go for it.  I need to sit down.”

Josie helped him to the sofa.  He felt numb.  Nothing made sense.

Faye cleared her throat.  “We were looking through the boxes last night.  Just something to do.”

The officer rifled through the boxes. “Financial records… and what looks like personal correspondence.  Maybe some diaries.”

“Yes,” Faye said. “We think it’s from his grandparents’ generation.”

“Do all three of you live here?” Ford asked.  

“No.  Josie and I came over to stay with David…  We didn’t want him to be alone last night.”

Ford was silent for a moment before turning back to the boxes.  “And your brother wanted all this discarded?”

“Um, yeah.  He did.  There are some jigsaw puzzles too.”

“So why didn’t you?”

“Huh?”

“Why did you bring these things into your apartment?”

“I…” David’s voice trailed off.  Suddenly it all seemed like too much trouble.  He shook his head and stared at the floor.

Faye settled onto the couch next to David.  She put her arm around his shoulders.  It felt like a lifeline.  

“He’s exhausted,” she said.  “And bereaved.  And, given all that’s happened, I think he’s in shock.  Can you not push him?”

“Sorry, ma’am,” Ford said.  “We need to ask questions.  It’s our job.  Last night there was a horrible fire with multiple fatalities.  A few minutes ago, Mr. Dellarosa’s car exploded.  We need to put the pieces together.”

“Even so—”

“I have to get downstairs, Mr. Dellarosa,” he said.  “Someone will be up later to interview you.  In the meantime, try to get some rest…”  The big cop hesitated.  “And be careful.  Pay attention to your surroundings.  You were remarkably lucky down there.  Didn’t even lose your hat.”

His hat.  Great Uncle Arber’s hat.  David had forgotten he was still wearing it.  He put his hand to the brim.  As before, the hat clung for a second before releasing.  He turned the hat over in his hands.

Faye stood.  “Do you have a business card, Officer Ford?  Any way we can get in touch if we need to?”

“Sure.  Here you go.”  Ford pulled a business card out of his shirt pocket.  “I’ll see myself out.  You folks take care.”  He pulled the door shut.  

“Well, at least he was real,” Josie whispered.

“Yeah.  That’s why I asked for his card,” Faye said.

“Real?” David asked.  “What do you mean?”

“He was human,” Josie said.  

“What?!” 

“Ssh.  Keep your voice low.  I meant just what I said; that cop is nothing more than what he seems: a person with a job to do.  Not some weird thing that’s looking to feed on those few humans who still possess a little power.”

David’s hands shook.  He flexed his fingers and ran his hands through his hair.  “I… pushed the key fob.  Then I tripped.  Pretty lucky.  Otherwise I’d be…”  He shivered.

Faye sat next to him and took his hands in hers.  Warmth seemed to flow into him.  “It wasn’t luck, David,” she said.

“Huh?”

“It was Josie.  Both of us felt the trigger.  She reached out and tripped you.”

“From across the parking lot?”

Josie gave him a thin-lipped smile.  “Yep.  From across the parking lot.  Pretty good, huh?”

“But how’d you—”

“We’ll talk later.  But we really need to eat something.”

“There’s leftover pizza,” David said.

“No, thanks.  Let me rummage around in your cupboards.  There has to be something.”  She stalked over to the kitchen and started opening doors.  “Hmmm… Good.  Okay, I’ve got it.”

“You want some help?” David asked.  

Faye arched an eyebrow at him.  “Lie back; put up your feet.  We’ll talk more while we eat.”

“Breakfast in about half an hour,” Josie called.

After everything that had happened, David was surprised how good the prospect of food sounded.  He levered himself off the couch.  “Need any—”

“Put your hat on, David,” Faye hissed.  She was staring at the door to his apartment.

“What?”

“Ssh.  Your hat.  Put it on.  Now.”  She snatched a magazine from David’s coffee table, rolled the magazine into a tight cylinder, and chanted in a strange language.  It sounded like nonsense syllables, but all of a sudden, the air crackled with energy.

Heart pounding, he grabbed the old fedora from the coffee table.  Once again, it felt weird how the hat seemed to snug into place… weird but good.  

“Okay, so now what?  Are we—”

Something struck the door, rattling it in its frame.  Josie ran into the room just as a second, harder blow sprung the latch.  The door slammed open.  Dense fog poured into the apartment, and something leered at them from the threshold.

***** End of Part III *****

Please return next week for another installment!

Copyright © 2021, Michael C. Glaviano.  All rights reserved.

When he arrived home, David intended to fix himself something to eat and prep for Monday’s meeting with the VP of Engineering.  Unfortunately, he made the mistake of carting the boxes up to his apartment.  I’ll just check out a few things, he told himself.  

Three hours later, shaky with hunger, his mind was spinning.  He surveyed the various piles that filled the living room of his apartment.  The whole thing was, Garth’s pejorative notwithstanding, weird.  It felt like an elaborate joke, but why?  And to what purpose?  The papers, the journals and letters.  The strange, obviously handmade tools.  All of it had lain in that garage for twenty years.  Who was the joke intended for?  Only the puzzles were what they seemed.  

Even the hat…  He’d been wearing it all evening.  Besides reminding him of his great uncle, the hat felt oddly familiar.  Like an old friend.  But how could that be?

He rummaged in his kitchen for something quick that’d get his blood sugar out of the basement, settling at last on a spoonful of peanut butter.  He needed another set of eyes to look this over.  Ideally, someone with a clear head to go with those eyes.  And an open mind.

David scrolled through his contacts.  Paul Reynolds would be good.  Paul worked for a contemporary news magazine.  He covered the arts, mostly, with emphasis on performing arts, but Paul was first and foremost a journalist, with a journalist’s sensibilities.  David thumbed the number. 

“Paul Reynolds.”

“Paul.  David Dellarosa here.  You have a minute?”

“Yeah, just about that much time.  I’ve got a deadline.”

“Oh… Okay, sorry.  Maybe I should call back.  Or try somebody else.”

“What’s wrong?  You sound strange.”

“Long story.  Short version is I’ve gotten ahold of a bunch of stuff — journals and letters, mostly, but there are some other things too.  It all belonged to an elderly relative.  A great uncle.”

“Hmmm...  And?”

“Well.  I don’t know how to say this, exactly, but the written materials are… well..”

“Spit it out, David.”

“Well, you’re going to think I’m crazy, but.  Oh, hell.  Man, the stuff is weird.  Seriously weird.”

“That’s pretty vague.  Weird how?  Was the guy a nutcase?”

“No.  Anything but.”

“Well, how old was he?  Sometimes people get…”

“Huh-uh.  He always seemed completely lucid.  Mysterious, maybe, but not like that.”

“Give me something to work with, David.”

“Crap.  Okay.  The stuff seems, well… occult?  Sort of like magic, I guess.”

There was a long silence.  When Reynolds spoke again, his voice sounded remote.  Chilly, even.  “That’s not my thing.  Not my thing at all.  Listen.  I really have to get back to work.  I’ll talk to you soon.  We’ll get together over beers or something.”

The call ended.  David stared at his phone.  “That went well,” he muttered.

His second try was Corey Turner, a musician buddy.  Corey was a good guy, but David had some anxiety about relying on him.  Corey was frequently on the road.  He lived a hard life, and he smoked a fair amount of weed.  When he was clear-headed, he was smart and funny, but sometimes…  David’s call rang into voicemail.  He started to leave a message but decided he’d better look elsewhere.  Who else?

He almost called his ex-girlfriend, Margaret Applegate, but decided against it.  While their break-up had been relatively cordial, she was prone to read things into their subsequent interactions.  He didn’t feel up to a stroll through an eggshell-laden landscape.  More to the point, Margaret detested anything mysterious.  And in her mind, “mysterious” covered a lot of territory.  Their relationship troubles had begun when she found out he’d studied advanced math.  Chances are she’d react similarly to Paul Reynolds only more so.

And the effects of that spoonful of peanut butter were fading fast.  He needed to eat something real.  David was looking for his keys when his phone rang.  He stared at the name.  Faye O’Connor.  Wow!  Of all his friends, Faye was the right person to call.  He should have thought of her first.

He thumbed the accept icon.  “Hey, Faye,” he said.  “Funny you should call.  I—”

“Are you okay?”

What a strange question.  “Um, yeah.  Sure.  But listen, it’s been a long day, and I’m starved.  Would you and Josie like to meet for dinner?”

“Don’t go anywhere, David.  Josie’s already ordered pizza.  We’ll pick it up on our way over.  Sound good?”

“Well, sure.  Thanks, but the place is sort of a mess.  That’s what I wanted to talk—”

“Really.  Just hold the fort.  Try to relax.  Grab a beer if you have any.  We’ll bring some Bass.  That’s one of your faves, right?”

“Um, yeah.  Thanks, but—”  

“Great.  Talk to you soon, buddy.  Stay put.  Don’t go anywhere.”

She ended the call.  Puzzled, David peered at his phone.  What had that been about?  After a minute he went into the bathroom, set the hat on the back of the toilet tank and splashed cold water on his face.  It helped a little, but he still felt muzzy and wiped out.  He headed for the living room, but then he remembered the hat, so he retraced his steps.  Again, the hat settled into place like it belonged there.  After some hesitation, he took Faye’s suggestion and opened a beer.

Faye O’Connor was an engineering manager, one of David’s peers at a previous company.  She was razor sharp, and they’d collaborated on a couple of big projects, jointly-managing their combined teams.  Despite the minefields inherent in such situations, they’d worked well together, and the projects had been a success.  

They’d both moved on to other companies, but they got together socially fairly often.  Nothing romantic, Faye’s preferences in that department disqualified David.  And anyway, she was in a relationship.  But they liked each other.  

Her girlfriend, Josie, had a great sense of humor, and all three of them had similar tastes.  Most importantly, David trusted her… trusted them both, actually.  If anyone would take an openminded look at what David had found — or thought he’d found — it’d be Faye O’Connor and Josie Chiang.

David paced back and forth.  He straightened the piles of papers and did his best to put the journals in chronological order.  It turned out that some of them contained wild stories rather than real events.  Had his great uncle been a writer?  He set those volumes to one side.

Even though he’d barely touched the beer, his empty stomach coupled with the alcohol and the odd events made him light-headed.  He plopped onto the couch and slumped down.

The back of the couch pushed Uncle Arber’s hat forward.  David took it off and cradled the hat, turning it over in his hands.  He sat up straighter and slipped it back in place.  Just as before, the hat settled comfortably, like he’d worn it for years.

He must’ve dozed off, because when the doorbell rang he jerked awake.  For a moment, he didn’t know where he was.  Wild, dreamlike images persisted: a vast plain, armies wielding primitive weapons.  Lances of fire and light.  David tried to focus on the images, to remember them, but they wriggled away, fading into his subconscious.  The doorbell rang again, this time accompanied by loud knocking.

“David!” someone called.  Faye.  “Are you okay, David?  Can you let us in?”

Why did he feel so tired?  His head throbbed and eyes wouldn’t focus.  No.  That wasn’t right.  His apartment was filled with fog!  What the hell?  

“Hang on,” he mumbled.  He lurched to his feet.  The pain in his head made him gasp, but he made his way to the door.

“Glad you’re here,” he said as he opened the door.  “I’m not feeling so—”

Josie, encumbered by two large pizza boxes, did a huge double take.  Her eyes went wide.  “OH. MY. GOD,” she said.  “The hat!  He’s wearing—”

“Shush,” hissed Faye.  “Get the door, J.”  

In one, graceful movement, Faye dropped her suitcase, knelt, and placed a six-pack of Bass on the floor.  She grabbed David’s arm and half supported, half dragged him into the apartment.  Josie darted inside just long enough to deposit the pizza on the kitchen table before running back for the beer and the suitcase.

“What’s going on?” David asked, as Faye helped him onto the couch.

“I’m so sorry,” she said.  “We’ll get you sorted out, David.  I promise.  We should’ve asked you about the hat.  If you’d found it.”

“Uncle Arber’s hat?”

“Yes.  Can you take it off?”

He grabbed the brim of the old brown fedora.  The hat seemed to settle more firmly in place.  “Come on,” he muttered and tugged.  The hat popped loose.  The fog evaporated, taking his blazing headache with it.

“Now that’s seriously weird,” he said.  “How’d you know about my great uncle’s hat?  How’s that possible?  Here.”  He held the hat out to Faye.  

She shrank back.  “Oh, no.  I don’t dare touch it.  Are you okay?”

“Well, yeah.  I think so.  I had a headache and my eyes were all foggy.”

“That last bit’s because you invoked a huge fog bank.  I’m impressed… and sort of amazed you’re still alive.”

“Invoked?  As in ‘Conjured up?’  But that’s…”  David let his voice trail off.  Crazy?  Yeah.  Ten kinds of crazy.  But it was also the sort of thing that had driven him to seek advice in the first place.  The sort of thing he’d found in Great Uncle Arber’s journals.

Josie walked out of the kitchen bearing plates full of pizza.  The aroma drove everything but the emptiness in his stomach from David’s head.

“Here you go,” Josie said.  “This’ll help.”

“Thanks!”  David took a huge bite, leaned back, and closed his eyes.  He worked his way through his first slice.  He leaned over and plucked his beer from the coaster on the end table.  He took a few sips and the weirdness retreated further.

“Better?” Josie asked.

“Yeah.  That’s great.  But how did you guys know about…” he waved his pizza slice at the papers.  At the journals and at Uncle Arber’s fedora.

“Settle in,” Faye said.  “It’s going to be a long night.”

*     *     *

At midnight, they’d switched from pizza and beer to coffee.  It was 2 a.m. now.  Eyes burning with fatigue, David cradled the hot cup in his hands.  The coffee smelled good, but it’d been a long, emotional day, and exhaustion was fighting the caffeine.  He felt jittery but very slow and stupid.

“So… you’re saying that my great uncle… was some kind of sorcerer, and he drafted me to be his successor when I was like eight years old?” he asked.

Josie nodded.  Her eyes looked droopy and bloodshot, but she smiled and took a sip of her coffee.  “An alert went out when you tried on the hat this afternoon, but we’d already noticed something about you.”

“I picked up on it when we worked together at KDN,” Faye said.

David rubbed his eyes.  “No way.  How?”

“Subtle stuff.  A lot of it had to do with your work, the way you approached technical problems.”

“Sheesh.  And all this time I thought you liked hanging around with me because I’m such a sweet, easygoing guy.”

“That too, David.  But this afternoon you only wore it long enough to cause a few ripples.”

“But then when I got home…”  

“Right.  When you got home, you wore the hat for a couple of hours.  We knew for sure then.  And we contacted the Home Office.”

“The Home Office?”

She waved her hand.  “There’s an organization—”

“If that’s what you want to call it,” Josie laughed.  “There’s only about a dozen of us.”

“Yeah.  We try to help each other out.”

Josie’s expression switched from its typical lightheartedness to serious.  She leaned forward, putting her elbows on her knees and stared hard into David’s eyes.  “All those years ago… When Arber had you wear his hat.  I think he somehow tuned it to you.”

“That’s why you didn’t want to touch it?”

Faye matched Josie’s serious expression and gestured at the old fedora.  “Yeah.  His hat might have hurt you if Arber hadn’t introduced you to it himself.”

“Or at least knocked you on your butt,” Josie added.  

“Um… listen, guys.  I’m trying to be openminded here, I really am.  But magic?”

Faye rested her hand on his forearm.  “We know, David.  It took us a long time to believe it too.  And there’s just so much that’s been lost.” 

“Most of the things in those notebooks and letters are just wacky,” he said.  “And the diagrams of those weird machines make no sense.”

“Once the sun comes up, we’ll anchor some wards around your apartment, then it’ll be safe to—”

“Safer, anyway,” Josie said.  “Safer to show you a few things.”

Faye’s lips pinched together a little and she frowned.  “J’s right; it’s never 100% safe.  But the really awful stuff—”

“The things you really don’t want sniffing around…”

“Go to ground in the daylight hours.  Mostly.”

“So we’re talking about… about creatures?  This is right out of 1930’s pulp magazines.”

“Welcome to our world,” Josie said.

“It’s his world too, J,” Faye said.  “He’s just didn’t know how to look for it.  Didn’t know about the… the…”

Josie made her voice deep.  She opened her eyes super-wide and bent her fingers like claws.  “The things.  That go bump.  In the night.”

Faye laughed a little.  “That’s you, Sweetie, when you’ve had a few too many.” 

Their effort to lighten the mood fell flat for David.  “You’d think he might’ve said something about it.  My great uncle, I mean.”

“Who would he tell?” Faye said.  “Your childhood self?  Your parents?”

David winced at the thought and shook his head.  “What about my grandmother?  Or one of her sisters?”

“We checked as best we could.  Arber left no record of talking to his family about his decision,” Josie said.  She and Faye shared a quick look.  

David wondered, briefly, what passed between them, but he was too tired to push it. “Do you think they even knew about it?  About him?” he asked.

Again the shared look.  “We doubt it.  Arber was… unconventional.”

“Did you ever meet him?”

Josie’s eyebrows shot up.  “The Chief Sorcerer of the Western Realm?  I wish.  We’re pretty new on the scene.”

“He was really nice to me.  The nicest of anyone in my family.”

Faye spoke slowly.  Carefully.  “Listen, David.  J and I talked about this on the way over.  Our guess — and it’s really only that — is that Arber Nikolia saw something in you.  He knew he wouldn’t live long enough to… to take you under his wing…”

Josie picked up the thread.  “So he wrapped a cocoon of spells around you, to keep you safe ’til you grew up.”

“But we should bag this for now,” Faye said.  “Let’s all try to get a little rest.  We’ll pick it up first thing in the morning.”

“And…  Don’t take this wrong, David,” Josie added, “but you probably noticed our suitcase.  We think it’d be better if we stayed here tonight—”

Faye smiled.  “Just to keep an eye on things.”

Josie leaned over and poked him in the ribs.  “On you, actually.  Until you learn enough to stay out of trouble.”

“Really?  I mean, I’ve managed to survive for thirty-two years without—”

“Everything’s different now,” Faye said.  “Leaving you alone would be bad news.”

David smiled at his friends.  “To be honest, I’m glad… happy to have you,” he said.  “It’s been a long day, and Uncle Arber’s stuff is the best part of it… Well, except for having two of my favorite people stay over.”  

It got quiet in the apartment.  David hoped he hadn’t made things weird by letting his feelings show.  The scene with Garth and the estate had left him more desolate than he’d admit to anyone.  It’d be nice to wake up to something other than an empty apartment.

Josie squinted at him.  “Boy, we need to find you a girlfriend.”  She turned to Faye.  “He does like women, right?”

“Enough, J.  You’re not making things better.”

“But, does—”

“Yes, Josie.  I like women.  For a while I thought it’d work out with Margaret and me, but…”  He shrugged.  “Anyway,  I’m glad you guys are here.  “You take my bed.  I’ll crash on the sofa.  It’s—”

“No way, kiddo,” Faye said.  “That’s not right.”

“Come on.  Let me pretend like I’m an actual host.  Anyway, I’ve slept on the couch enough times just nodding off while I was working on a project.”

“But…”

“You won’t get cooties.  I changed the sheets yesterday.”

Faye’s cheeks flushed.  “That’s not what I meant, David.”

“Good.  It’s settled then.  There are clean towels in the hall closet.  Let me grab a pillow and use the facilities for a few minutes.  I’ll be out of your hair in no time.”

The household quieted.  Though still buzzed from the strangeness, to say nothing of the late-night coffee intake, David felt pretty good.  Exhaustion and estrangement with his brother notwithstanding, he had friends, two of whom were in the next room. 

He lay on the couch, staring at the ceiling, snuggled under an old Afghan.  Connections, family connections and connections of friendship and work, swirled in his head.  An oblique thought bubbled up: his Grandma Violet, who had been Great Uncle Arber’s youngest sister, had crocheted this Afghan.  She’d given it to David when he completed his bachelor’s degree — the only family member to acknowledge that milestone.  He wished Uncle Arber had lived long enough to be there…

****End of Part II***
Please return next week for another installment!

Copyright © 2021, Michael C. Glaviano.  All rights reserved.

David and Garth stood on the gravel path next to the oversize garage.  David was doing his level best to be gracious, but it wasn’t easy.  Garth had inherited the entire estate.  Their father’s will had been quite explicit in that regard.

“Tough luck, Davey,” Garth said, though his smile said otherwise. 

David’s older brother knew he hated the nickname, but there’s no way he’d take the bait.  He forced himself to shrug, to keep tension out of his voice.  “Guess I’m not all that surprised, the way he acted toward me the last few years.  Still, it kind of hurts.  I mean it’s not like—”

“It’s your lifestyle.  You did a lot of stuff he didn’t like.”

Now that stung.  Especially coming from Garth.  “Right.  I put myself through school and got a job.  How dare I?”

Garth puffed up his chest.  His jaw jutted out.  “Hey.  Don’t get defensive, Davey.  You made your choice, and it pissed the old man off.”

Time to change the subject.  “Listen, Garth.  Thanks for inviting me to the reception, but I’m kind of wiped out by… by everything.  The funeral was pretty rough, and I have a long drive ahead of me.  I’d better get going.” 

Garth’s upper lip curled.  “Busy, huh?  I thought guys like you could take a day off for little things like, oh I don’t know… your father’s death.”

David’s right fist clenched.  His field of view narrowed, and he shifted his weight.  Heat surged up his spine.  A solid hit on that soft, leering face…  

His older brother was taller and a lot heavier, but Garth must’ve seen something that scared him because he took a quick step back.  That gave David just enough breathing room to regain control, and the moment passed.  He forced his fist to relax.  “Leave it alone, Garth,” he said.  “I’ve got a big day Monday.  Probably take most of the weekend to prep for it.”

Garth’s smug expression returned, but now it seemed thin, belied by his sudden pallor and the sweat on his forehead.  His breath stank of fear.  “You… you don’t even want to hang out with Dad’s friends?  See?  That’s what I’m talking about; you think you’re too good for ‘em.”

“Those are your friends, Garth.  And a handful of the neighbors.  Those few of our father’s friends who are still alive aren’t in any condition to attend a party.  Only Bob Shrimpter made it to the funeral, and I’m not sure he knew what was going on.”

“You… you just don’t get it, do you?”

David almost laughed.  His older brother had always been a bully and, like most bullies, he was a coward.  “Like I said, Garth, I want to get on the road.  Just give me a call when the dust settles, and we’ll get together.  Maybe we can talk things out.  Okay?” 

“Um… actually, I could use a favor.”

Now there’s a surprise.  David suppressed a sigh.  “Really?  What?”

Garth opened the side door of the garage and flicked on the light.  “I’ve got the estate people coming on Monday afternoon.”

“And?”

“Well, they’re interested in Dad’s tools.  I guess some of them are antiques.  But…”

“Just tell me, Garth.  What do you need?”

“I can’t climb into that storage loft.  My bad back and all.”

“So you want me to climb up there?”

“Yeah.  And look for tools.  It won’t take long.  Maybe twenty minutes.  There’s not that many boxes up there.”

“And if there are tools?”

“Uh, I’ll check ‘em out.  If they’re any good we’ll put ‘em on the workbench for the estate people.  Come on, Davey.  You can afford that much time.”

“Why can’t your son do it?  Kevin’s seventeen, and it’s summer vacation.”

“Emily nixed that.  She doesn’t want him up there.  Afraid he’ll hurt himself.  Or get bit by a black widow.  Anyway, I don’t trust the kid to know the difference between a screwdriver and a book.”

The old loft…  David donned what he hoped was a casual, slightly bored expression.  He peered up at the rafters.  He doubted Garth had any idea what that dusty little space had meant to him.  No one in the family had known about it.  A few minutes alone up there would be good.  It’d provide some closure.  Of course, it’d be a mistake to admit that.  He shook his head and wrinkled his nose.  “I don’t know, Garth…”

“C’mon, Davey.  Just get the boxes open and tell me what’s there.  Maybe there’ll be some stuff I can’t sell.  You could have it.”

Gee thanks, big-bro. “Fine.  Whatever.”

“Great!  I’ll be back in about fifteen minutes.”  

With a perfunctory wave, Garth turned away.  His footsteps crunched toward the house.  Despite the racket from the house, the garage felt heavy.  Still.

David scrambled to the top of the ladder.  Decades ago, their father had hauled several sheets of plywood up into the rafters and tacked them down to make a low-ceilinged storage area.  That was around the time the last of their grandparents’ generation had died.  The loft had quickly filled with boxes — things that no one valued enough to use but didn’t want to discard.  

David had been about eleven years old then, and he’d lost no time in rearranging the boxes to create a private space for himself.  It was a place where he could escape his father’s rejection, his mother’s alcohol-soaked withdrawal, and his older brother’s cruelty.  For nearly five years, it had been his refuge.  He’d read up there.  He’d studied, and done his homework…  Discovered his talent for mathematics.  And, around the time of his fifteenth birthday, made out with Katy McCruthers. 

Once Garth sold the property, David’s sanctuary — more-or-less the best part of his childhood — would be gone.  This was a chance to say good-bye, and it was worth more than twenty minutes’ of his time.

Of course the space was smaller, more cramped, and a lot dustier than he remembered.  And in the two decades since he’d last climbed the ladder, someone had gotten rid of most of the boxes.  He grabbed one at random and tore off a strip of desiccated packing tape. 

But then a memory roared into his head.  There’d been one box that he really cared about.  Had it been discarded?  He remembered it vividly.  Most of the boxes had been of a similar size and shape — wine cases mostly.  A couple had been larger cartons.  The one David cared about was different from the others: smaller and more like a cube.  David shuffled through the remaining boxes.  

There it was!  It had layers of tape, layers that he’d put there.  Hands shaking, David peeled away the brittle tape.  His heart surged as he tore open the flaps.  A dark brown felt fedora lay there.  Great Uncle Arber’s hat.

David’s clearest memories of the old man came from family gatherings.  There was always an air of mystery about him.  Uncle Arber traveled “for his work,” although David never learned exactly what his great uncle did for a living.  And though he turned up more often than not, Uncle Arber’s presence always seemed special, a matter of intense discussion until the moment he arrived.

David settled the hat in place.  It fit perfectly.  He closed his eyes and thought back…

*     *     *     

“Do you think Arber’ll make it?” asked Great Aunt Rose, who surveilled the street with a corner of the curtains pulled back.

Grandma Violet shook her head and sighed.  “I hope he does.  I left a message for him, but—”

“He never returns calls,” snapped Great Aunt Louisa.  “Mark my words; our dinner will be ruined by the time he gets here — presuming he bothers to put in an appearance.”  

Great Aunt Louisa was the eldest.  She had always seemed fierce and kind of scary to young David.  She’d pinned the hated nickname, “Davey,” on him.

After what seemed like a long time, but in reality was only thirty minutes or so, Rose whispered excitedly, “He’s here!  His car just pulled up.”

There was a firm knock on the front door, and a deep voice called, “Anybody home?” 

“Look what the cat dragged in,” Great Aunt Louisa said.  “Took your sweet time, I see.”  But she was first to hug Great Uncle Arber, to take his arm and pull him into the living room.

Arber’s eyes twinkled as his sisters fussed over him.  Younger relatives passed through the living room and paid their respects, but David stood off to the side and watched.  Eventually, the hubbub died down, and he found himself the object of the old man’s regard.

Solemnly, Uncle Arber extended his immense mitt and engulfed David’s hand.  The big man squinted his eyes and frowned in mock confusion.  “And who’s this?” he asked.  “An intrepid sailor home from storm-tossed seas?  An adventurer just returned from the Kalahari?  Wait!  I know; he’s a great scholar, come to lecture us on the mysteries of the universe.”

“Stop it, Arber,” Great Aunt Louisa snapped.  “You know very well.  It’s little Davey.  The youngest.”

The old man laughed.  He crouched, looked David in the eye, and asked, “Would you wear my hat, David?  I need someone to keep it warm for me.”

Of all the relatives, only Great Uncle Arber called him “David.” 

So of course David nodded and the old fedora dropped onto his head.  It mashed down his ears, which, like so many other things, had scandalized his mother.  Garth teased him about it but never dared touch the hat.  

And, except for at dinner, when his mother blearily insisted he set it aside, David wore the fedora all day long.   When it was time to go home, he felt a little sad.  Even so, he stood up as straight and tall as he could when he returned the hat to its owner.  

Uncle Arber smiled at him, and shook his hand again.  “Thank you for taking care of my hat.  Hats get to know a person, and I’m sure my old fedora likes you.  You’re a good man, David.  You’ll do well in life.  I look forward to seeing you again.”

*     *     *

David blinked and shook his head.  “Wow.  Haven’t thought about that stuff in ages,” he whispered.  He took off the hat, looked at it, and put it back on.  Amazing, how good it felt.

He glanced at his watch.  It’d been over ten minutes since Garth left.  Better get going on the rest of the boxes.  He counted twelve of them.  He put Uncle Arber’s hat back in its box and folded the flaps.

Half of the boxes contained what appeared to be old financial records.  David shoved those off to the side.  Two boxes held jigsaw puzzles.  One carton, the largest of the lot, had a set of magnifying glasses and a couple of small toolboxes.  It looked like equipment for model building or maybe jewelry repair, though David couldn’t remember anyone in the family doing things remotely like that.  Garth would probably want that one.

The remaining boxes held an assortment of letters, old notebooks and bound journals.  David pulled out one.  He frowned.  The handwriting on the label looked old-fashioned and vaguely familiar.  His heart beat faster.  The name on the cover was Arber Nikolia.

He thumbed through the notebook.  Though old-fashioned, the handwriting was precise and clear.  Each entry was dated.  He grabbed another book and opened it at random.  Again, the neat handwriting and carefully dated entries.  This wasn’t just a diary; it chronicled key events in his great uncle’s life.

He pulled out all the journals.  One box had gotten wet, probably from a spilled soda, and the top two journals were stained, with warped pages.  The cover of one was a mess, and several of its pages were badly damaged.  The second notebook was okay after the first page or two.  All the other journals looked to be in fine condition.  

A loud voice from the garage floor made David jump.  “So, you sleeping up there, or did you find anything good?” Garth shouted.

David thought quickly.  He’d found nothing of financial value, but he knew Garth’s instincts.  His brother’s natural response would be to deny any request. 

“A little,” David said.  “Come on up.”

“Hello?  Earth to Davey?  If I could climb around up there, I wouldn’t have asked for your help.”

“You don’t have to climb onto the platform.  Just—”

“Just tell me what you found.”

“Okay.  I think most of this is old tax stuff.  I only checked a few of the dates, but I think it’s from over twenty years ago.”

“That’s it?  Don’t be holding out on me.”

“Hang on.  There’s… well, I’m not sure but I think it’s stuff… um, from Grandma Violet’s family maybe?”

“Stuff?  You mean like antiques?”

“No.  Nothing like that.”

“What then.”

“Some letters.  Notebooks.  Like…”

“Like a diary?”

“I guess.  But it’s all in old-fashioned handwriting.  Some of the pages are messed up.  You can barely make it out.“

“Let’s see.”

David grabbed the damaged journal and climbed over to the ladder.  “Here you go,” he said, and tossed it.

Garth snatched the journal out of the air.  His nose wrinkled, and he dropped the journal like it was a hot potato.  He wiped his hands on his pants.  “Thanks a lot, Davey.  It’s all moldy.  You know I’m allergic to stuff like that.”

“You asked me to sort through the stuff.  You don’t like how I’m handling it, so how about I leave and you deal with it?”  David started down the ladder.

“Hey, hey, hey.  Chill, man.  You find anything else?”

“I found his hat.”

“Yeah…  Uh, what hat?”

“Great Uncle Arber’s brown fedora.  You want to see it?”

“Geeze.  That thing’d have to be at least fifty years old.  What kind of shape is it in?”

“Probably more than that.  Let me get it; you can try it on.”

“No way.  The thing’s probably got mange.  What else?”

“I found two boxes with jigsaw puzzles.  One with tools.”

“Sweet!  You should’ve told me that right off.”

“So, you want to bring everything down?”

“In a minute.  I better climb up there.  I still think you’re holding out on me.”

David backed toward the boxes while his brother panted his way up the ladder. 

Garth stopped, breathing hard, with his head and chest above the platform.  “Okay,” he said.  “Show me.”

David pointed to the pile of journals.  “See?” he said.  “Just a bunch of old notebooks.”

“Show me another one.  But you hold it this time.”

David picked up the other journal that had been damaged.  He opened the first couple of pages and offered the book to Garth.  “Here.  Take a look.”

Garth made shooing motions.  “I told you.  I don’t want to touch it.  What else?”

David slid the boxes with the jigsaw puzzles to the top of the ladder so Garth could look inside.  While Garth looked at the puzzles, David dragged a box of financial records over. 

“Here’s these,” he said.  “I think it’s…  Well, honestly, I don’t know who these belonged to.  At first I thought it might be Dad’s old taxes, but I don’t see his name on anything.”

Garth grabbed a couple of sheets off the top of the box.  “Trash.  Looks like stuff from Great Uncle Weirdo.”  He tossed the papers aside.

“Cut it out, Garth.  His name was Arber.  Our Great Uncle Arber Nikolia, and he was a good guy…  You want to see his hat?”

“Forget about the stupid hat.  He was a weirdo.  You like him so much, you take his stuff away.  Let’s see the tools.”

Yes!  “Check.  Here you go.”  

David slid the box containing the tools over to Garth.  His older brother pawed half-heartedly through the things.  “These aren’t real antiques.  It’s just weird old crap.  Can’t even recognize most of it.  Probably broken.”

“What about the puzzles?”

“Nah.  They’re junk.  Probably missing pieces.”

“Great.  Well, that was a half hour well spent.  Climb down, will you?  I need to get on the road.”

“Hey.  You promised you’d haul this crap away for me!”

“Did I say that?  I don’t think I said that.”

“Geez, Davey.  I thought you wanted to be helpful.  Keep me from wrecking my back any worse.”

David held up his hands in mock surrender.  “All right, Garth.  I’ll haul it away for fifty bucks.”

“You gotta be kidding me.  I’ll give you five.”

“Sorry, Garth.  No can do.  The minimum dump fee is twenty bucks.  I’m not going in the hole to haul away your—”

“When did you turn into such a hard-ass?  Twenty-five.”

“Forty.”

“Thirty-five.  That’s my best offer, Davey.  Anyway, I’m giving you all of Uncle Weirdo’s stuff.”

“Okay, fine.”  David held out his hand.  “Give me the money, and I’ll hand the boxes down.”

Garth squinted up at him.  “Uh.  I gotta get my wallet.  You haul the junk down.  I’ll leave the money in your car.”

“You’re not even going to help me carry the boxes out to my car?”

“My back, remember?  Anyway, I’m paying you thirty bucks.”

“No.  You’re paying me thirty-five.  And I get to pick through—”

“Uncle Weirdo’s junk.  Talk about a waste.  You’re gonna end up throwing it out, Davey.  Just save time and take it to the dump…  Listen, I gotta get back to the party.  People expect it.”  Garth backed down the ladder.  For someone with a bad back, he moved fast.  He was out of the garage in ten seconds.

It took David another half hour to wrestle the boxes to the bottom of the ladder.  He carried a stack out to the trunk of his car.  He made two more trips before he thought about the money he’d negotiated with his brother.  

He went to the driver’s side.  There was an envelope on the seat.  It contained two tens, a five, and three ones.  “What a sweet guy,” David said.  “A real prince.”

David glanced up at the house.  The party was in full swing: music, laughter.  The whole nine yards.  Garth would have a big spread with good food, and that was okay.  Better than, actually.  Their father would have liked it — including the part about David not being there.  

Hard not to resent that a little, but what could he do?  Go up and cause a scene over seven dollars?  He sighed and turned away.  Two or three more trips to the garage should take care of it… hauling away Garth’s discards.  At least it’d be quiet at his apartment.  Most of the time that was okay.  Tonight, well, at least nobody’d call him “Davey.”

****End of Part I***
Please return next week for another installment!

Copyright © 2021, Michael C. Glaviano.  All rights reserved.

I even made sure the old grand — a Steinway, no less, and a ballroom model instead of a baby — was tuned.  Sure, the keys had gone a bit yellow, and a few of them were chipped, but that piano could still roar.  It’d been in the Savoy and before that in the lobby of the Commodore Hotel.  Basie had played that piano.  Ellington too.  And Monk, bless him, before the madness took hold.  

Why, one time, when I was young, Charlie told me…  Whatever.  As if anyone cared.  Sometimes it was all I could do to hang onto the towel.  

And now this: a Saturday night, the third one in June.  The Summer Solstice.  It should have been awesome for business, but around noon the weather had gone sour.  Instead of a warm evening for first night of summer, with tour buses lined up and down Third Street, we had heavy skies and a cold, damp wind.  

That was bad news, seriously bad.  In recent years, Lady Fortune hadn’t exactly smiled on my club.  It broke my heart to think about it, so I tried not to.  Still, the writing, as they say, was on the wall: if business didn’t look up soon, I’d have to close the place.  Shutting down the Gates of Jazz.  It felt like the end of the world.  Off in the distance, thunder rumbled, confirmation of my mood.

Two of the regulars, Wack-job Shirley and Wet Marvin, sat at a table, nursing beers.  Oh, and of course Big Pat was there.  Yep.  Big Pat, all five feet seven and a hundred and thirty pounds of him, held down his usual place on the piano bench.  He noodled a little, just a few riffs, but the notes trailed off before anything like a song emerged.  Mostly, the poor old guy just sat there with his shoulders slumped, staring.  His tip jar held a dollar and change.  Of course, given his audience, that was quite a haul.  He looked sort of cold.  Cold and miserable.  Or maybe just worn out.  I knew the feeling.

Anyway, I put on a fresh pot of coffee.  It smelled real good, like summer.  I patted Big Pat’s bony shoulder and set the cup on a coaster next to the music stand.

“On the house, BP,” I whispered.  “Don’t spill it on my piano.”

He started slightly and met my gaze.  His eyes had gone a little cloudy, but down deep, the sparkle was still there.  He tossed off a two-octave phrase, B-flat blues of course, and favored me with a nod and half a smile.  “Much obliged, Miss Annie,” he said and took a sip.  He closed his eyes and sighed.  “My, my.  You do make a fine cup of joe.”

“Yeah, well, just don’t get used to it.”

Thunder grumbled again.  It sounded a lot louder, like a storm gearing up for a hard night.  I went back to polishing the bar, for all the good it did.  

There was a crash, almost an explosion.  My ears felt like they’d collapsed in on themselves.  Sparks jumped around the room, and bits of plaster blew off the walls.  The lights crashed, flickered once, and went out.

“Who let the dog in?” shrieked Wack-job Shirley.  She cackled as if she’d reached the pinnacle of wit.

Wet Marvin blew his nose — I knew it was him because he was always doing that.  Hence the nickname.  “I warned Annie about that dog, Shirl-girl,” he said, “but she just don’t listen.”

“Don’t listen.  Nope,” Shirley said.  “And I was just gonna show you this nice pattern of rings.  I made ‘em on the table with my beer glass.

I puffed out a sigh.  My heart ached, but sometimes you have to just face things.  “That’s all, folks,” I said.  “Let’s call it a…”

But then the lights came back up.  They looked different, warmer somehow.  Thunder crashed again, and rain began to drum on the roof.  

All four of us jumped when a horn blared out front.  Was that the rumble of a big diesel engine?  The mother of all air brakes hissed, and I heard laughter.

 Wack-job Shirley scooted her chair back and lunged to her feet.  “Can’t a girl get a little rest?  I’ve a mind to go out there and give ‘em—”

I patted the air and, as quick as the old pins could manage, jogged over to her table.  “Hang on, Shirley,” I said.  “Stay chill.  I’ve got this.”

She humphed.  “Well, I never thought a classy place like this would—”  

The front door banged open, cutting off the rest of her sentence.  A man in a tux held the door steady against the wind and rain.  An elegant woman, all slink, high-heels, diamond tiara, and white fur stole, crossed the threshold.  

She was a real farm girl, that one.  She moved like she had a crop of wheat on one hip and crop of rye on the other, and when she walked, she rotated the crops.  She caught sight of me and switched on a megawatt smile.  “This must be the place,” she said.

“Er… Welcome,” I told her as I backed toward the bar.  “Welcome to the Gates of Jazz.”

Off to my right, Big Pat worked his way to his feet.  His double take wiped the floor with Buster Keaton’s best.  “Bbb… Bonnie?” he stammered.  “Bonnie delRay?” 

I swear, impossible though it seemed, her smile grew even brighter.  We’re talking welding goggles here.  “The same, Patrick,” she laughed.

Big Pat swayed.  He clutched the corner of the piano.  “But you.  You’re… You…”

Bonnie shrugged, a gesture that brought livid Baptists and vice squad raids to mind.  “So, you on the keys tonight, Patrick?” she asked.

The old man’s eyes darted in my direction.  Why not?  I gave him a nod and a thumbs up.

Big Pat grinned and his eyes twinkled.  He pulled his shoulders back and stood up just as tall as he could manage.  “Well, I suppose I am, Bonnie,” he said.  “Yes.  I am indeed.” 

“Well let’s hear what you’ve got then,” she said.

He settled onto that old piano bench and eased right into “Ain’t Misbehavin’.”  After playing the form straight through, he went off, exploring uncharted territory.  Going places I hadn’t heard him visit in years.  BP wrapped it up and slid right into another Waller tune, this time “Honeysuckle Rose.”  Somehow, his voice had shed its old-man quaver.  He sounded relaxed and strong.  And totally in his element.

Bonnie sashayed over and watched Big Pat work.  She bent at the waist, put her elbow on the corner of the piano, and her chin on her fist.  Her dress was cut belly-button low, and if she was playing cards, you’d say all her chips were on the table.  I had a brief flash of worry.  What if the old man had a heart attack?  What the hell; he’d die happy, playing Fats Waller with a pretty girl batting her eyes at him.

But Big Pat never faltered.  He played like the storm had blown forty years off his hands. I wanted nothing more than to grab a chair and listen, but right then the door banged open again.  Trailing a cloud of tobacco and reefer smoke that would give the Surgeon General nightmares for a year, more people crowded into my bar.  At least half the guys wore fancy tuxes, and even the casually-dressed men sported suits and ties.  And I swear there were a handful of zoot suits, complete with spats, Panama hats and four foot watch chains.  

The women were all sequins, feathers and fitted gowns.  They had red lipstick and eyebrows sharp enough to cut ice.  At least a third of them brandished cigarette holders.

I reeled in my jaw.  Strangeness aside, everyone, without exception, looked like they belonged in the Gates of Jazz.  Jazz danced through the smoke and the perfume.  Jazz sang in the women’s banter and in the men’s baritone laughter.  These people moved like jazz.  Laughed like it.  They loved it just as much as I did.

Outside, the storm lashed the front of the club, but inside, we got down to business.  I hustled back behind the bar and started making drinks.  And what drinks they were!  Nobody wanted a microbrew from West Nipomo.  And you could forget about robust Cabs and buttery Chardonnays.  

Suddenly, it was all Manhattans and Martinis.  Alexanders, made with vodka instead of brandy.  Somebody wanted a Sidecar.  Another demanded a Singapore Sling, the original version from 1915.  The cash register, had it not been electronic, would’ve rung its bell off.  We needed this night.  I needed it.  But I couldn’t possibly do it alone.

“Wet Marvin!  Wack-job!” I shouted. 

“What?”  

“What?”

“Party’s over for you two.  Get your sorry butts into the kitchen.  I’ve got more customers than I can handle.  You want to keep this joint open, you gotta pitch in.”

In perfect unison, they tilted their heads to the side and gave me The Look.

I waved them toward the kitchen door.  “Yeah, yeah.  You guys keep it together for me, and I’ll pay you five percent of the bar take.  Each.”

Shirley rolled her eyes.  Marvin sniffed.  He arched an eyebrow.  “Highway robbery,” I muttered.  “Okay.  How about five percent each plus tips?”

Marvin snapped a sharp salute.  “Aye-aye, Cap’n Annie,” he barked.  I swear, he all but sprinted for the kitchen.

“Finger foods, Marvin,” I yelled.  “Plates of ‘em.  There’s tons of stuff in the pantry.  And don’t forget to wash your hands!”  Thank the Gods of Jazz that I’d just done the week’s shopping for the club.

Wack-job Shirley gave me a grin the size of a Kansas City T-bone.  Her eyes looked clear and focused.  She paused on the way to the kitchen, and I listed the ingredients she could prep.  Shirley asked a couple of shockingly-lucid questions, nodded once, and followed Marvin.

The crowd kept growing, and before long I had more customers than the Gates of Jazz had seen in a decade, probably longer.  Across the room, Big Pat seemed to have shed a few more birthdays.  He sat up straight.  His left foot kept time while his right worked the pedals.  I put my head down and focused on the drink orders.  

My stomach lurched as a tight press-roll on a snare backed half-note triplets on the bell of a ride cymbal.  Big Pat grinned over his shoulder as some guy on tenor sax speared the stratosphere.  What the hell?  Three new musicians, all in black suits, ties, and shined shoes, had claimed the space around the Steinway.  

I squinted through the smoke.  Was that Nate Carter?  And who was on doghouse?  Last I’d heard, Willy Nicholson was in a memory care facility in Fresno, but there he was, looking fine and making that big old bass sing.

They rolled into an old barroom ballad.  “Angel Eyes,” I thought, but halfway through, they turned the corner and popped into a swing version of  “I Thought About You.”  Carter traded fours with Big Pat.  They ran through the form one more time and KO’d the ending like they’d been playing it all year.  The drummer, who looked just like a thirty-something version of Kenny Rosen, tapped his sticks together four times and the quartet launched “How High the Moon.”

Who were these guys?  The sons of people I’d known years ago?  Reincarnations?  Ice lanced through my belly.  Was I dead?  Was this some sort of afterlife for jazz-loving bartenders?   Some kind of time warp?

I shrugged off the icicle.  I felt fine — better than, actually.  If this was the afterlife, bring it on.  The orders continued to come fast and furious.  The musicians, whoever they were, sounded like the young, strong geniuses I’d known in my youth, more than a half-century earlier.  

Every solo smoked.  Every tune swung.  At every table, all across the room, the crowd sat, eyes locked on the quartet.  Meanwhile, six tuxedo-clad gentlemen rearranged the tables, making room for a handful of couples to dance. 

 The band played ’til closing time.  The audience members jumped to their feet, and the applause went on for ten minutes straight.  Outside, the storm kept battering the old building, but the thunder and the rain sounded like cheering to me.  I unplugged the sign in the window and, tired down to my bones, leaned against the edge of the bar.  What now?

Big Pat stood up.  He mugged for the crowd.  “Thanks folks,” he said.  “You guys are great.”  He jabbed a finger at the tip jar — now a beer pitcher stuffed with Jacksons and Franklins.  “My cup runneth over.”  The applause started up again, but BP waved it off.  “We’re digging this big time, but we need a fifteen minute break.  A little R&R.  We’ll be right back.”

In the end, Big Pat’s quartet played ‘til quarter to five in the goddamn morning.  I was washing glassware when I realized that the music had changed.  I glanced up just as Pat riffed his way through a two-five-one in Eb.  It sounded fine, and he followed it with the mother of all blues piano solos, but I did a double-take: Carter, Nicholson, and Rosen had vanished.

Something else had changed, something about the vibe in my club.  It took me a while to get it.  Finally, I realized the storm had finally blown itself out. 

Big Pat kept playing.  He finessed the intro to David Egan’s “The Blues How They Linger,” which was weird, since he’d come up years before Egan had been born.  Pat’s voice sounded tired but clear and strong.  When had he learned that song, let-alone memorized the lyrics?  

Weirder still was how my old friend adapted Mingus’s musical eulogy to Lester Young, “Goodbye Pork Pie Hat,” for his solo.  Chills scampered up my back as Big Pat worked his way into the last verse of “The Blues How They Linger.”  The final Eb7 rang out.  

The old man stood.  He gave a low, solemn bow.  The audience applauded for the longest time.  Whatever this night had been, it was over.

I was dead on my feet, which by the way, felt like they’d carried me to the top of Kilimanjaro and back.  Shrugging off the exhaustion, I stationed myself by the door.  Big Pat, Shirley, and Marvin dragged themselves over and stood by my side.  The House of Windsor had nothing on us; like some royal receiving line, we shook hands with the guests as they filed out of my club.  It was cool and still outside, without a hint of clouds.  The air smelled clean.  Crisp.

Bonnie delRay was the last one to leave.  Amazingly, she looked just as fresh and sexy has she had when she first waltzed through the door.  She held Big Pat’s hands in hers and stared into his eyes for a second before leaning in and planting a firm kiss on the old man’s lips.  When she stepped back, Bonnie hesitated, like maybe she wanted to say something, but then she just shook her head.  She turned that megawatt smile on all of us, waved, and vanished into the bus.  

The door to the Greyhound hissed shut.  The big diesel rumbled to life.  With one final blast of the horn, the bus headed into the sunrise.  

I saw my friends out and locked the door.  As I tottered to my apartment, I jammed my hands into my pockets and, surprised, pulled out rolls of cash.  I remembered then; the last half hour or so, there’d been no more room in the register.  In forty-five years, I’d never had a month, let-alone a night, remotely like this one.  

The Gates of Jazz would live to swing for another year.  

Copyright © 2021, Michael C. Glaviano.  All rights reserved.

“But if it’s the house in the photos—” Hannah insisted.   

“Lower your voice.  Better yet, just stop.  You’re acting like a spoiled child.”

Hannah glanced at the nearest table where an elderly woman in a green overcoat huddled over a cup of coffee and a grilled cheese sandwich.  A shopping bag with a frayed handle leaned against the woman’s ankles. 

No one else in the diner was within earshot, but Hannah leaned in and forced herself to speak calmly.  Softly.  “I think it’s the house, Jerry.  The one I dreamed about.  The house that’s described in my great aunt’s diary.  The one in the photo where she’s standing on the front porch.  I’m sure…  Well, almost sure.”

“So what?  And why live in a rundown hovel when we could get a new condo in a better neighborhood?”  

“And anyway, I’m certain there’s something behind the basement stairs.”

He sniffed.  “Yeah.  Dust and mouse shit.”

“Now you’re just being mean.”

“Think about it, Hannah.  You had maybe all of two minutes alone in the basement before the agent got worried about personal liability lawsuits and tottered downstairs to make sure you were okay.  I was afraid the old fart would have a stroke.”

“There’s no harm in looking again.  And the agent seemed like a nice man.  Anyway, the house isn’t that bad.”

“Yes, it is that bad.  And I don’t get why you’re so obsessed with the place.    Just because some loony old bat—”

“Cut it out.  It’s not just the house, Jerry.  What if it really is my great aunt’s place?  Look at the street.  It’s just like—”

“I’d rather not.  They whole neighborhood’s a disaster.”

“Not a disaster.  Just old.  Just like the diary said.  Anyway, this house has been kept up better than anything else on the street.”

“There are a lot of crappy old houses in a lot of crappy, rundown neighborhoods, Hannah.  In this town and a thousand others.”

Why was he so dead-set against this?  She bit her lip and glanced at the old woman again before continuing.  Focused as she was on her coffee and her own meagre lunch, the woman seemed completely oblivious to their conversation.  Even so, Hannah lowered her voice further.  “But this house,” she whispered.  “It knew we were there.  That we were thinking of—”

“Listen to yourself.  Do you know how that sounds?”

She clamped her jaw shut on the first words that came to mind.  And the second.  Her face felt hot.  She struggled for control and grabbed hold of it.  Mostly.  “Maybe we need to let the idea settle a bit.  We can think about…” she began.

But Jerry was just getting started.  Silverware bounced as he smacked his fist on the table.  The dining room went quiet, but he seemed not to notice.  “You need to grow up, Hannah,” he snapped.  “I’m not setting foot in that house again, let alone putting an offer on it.  The place is a dump, so get over whatever fantasy you’ve built in that little pea brain of yours.”

His words felt like a slap, and the expression on his face curdled her stomach.  And in that moment she saw, perhaps for the first time, what it would be like to marry this man.  To be married to him.  Relief vied with disappointment and won.

She slid back, her chair scraping on the shabby linoleum.  She stood, fumbled in her purse, pulled out a few dollars, and tossed them at her fiancé.  No, check that.  Her ex-fiancé.

She took a deep breath and forced steadiness into her voice.  “I’m going to call the agent,” she said.  “And I’m going back in that house and figure out what’s behind those stairs.  Then I’ll go over the whole place, inch-by-inch and see what else I can find.  And if it turns out to be what I think it is, I’m buying that house.”

His lip curled.  “And if it’s not?”

She pulled the engagement ring off her finger and placed it in the center of the table.  “Not your problem, Jerry.  Not your problem,” she said.  

“I’m warning you, Hanna.  You walk out of here and it’s over.”

“Figured that out, did you?  Bye.”

The cold hit her as soon as she left the diner, and she hugged her coat closer.  She hurried to the corner and ducked into the shelter of a storefront long enough to call the real estate agent, but the call rang into voicemail.  “This is Hannah Allaire,” she said, her voice almost steady.  “I’d like to look at the Collier Street property again.  I’m heading over there now.  Please give me a call.  Better yet, it’d be great if you could meet me there.”

She put her head down and bulled her way through the chill.  Three blocks later, she stood in front of the old house.  She shivered with excitement as much as the cold as she stared up at the front porch.

A horn blared, making her jump.  “Give it up, Hannah,” Jerry shouted.  “Get in the fucking car.”

She waved him off, but instead of leaving, he lunged from the car, dashed over, and grabbed her arm.  

“Nobody walks out on me,” he grated.  

“It’s over, Jerry.  I think I knew it all along, but I denied my own instincts.  Or tried to.  Let go of my arm.  You’re hurting me.”

But he squeezed harder.  “I don’t think so.  You’re coming to my place.  Now.”

A flash of light and a thunderclap made them both jump.  The old woman from the coffee shop appeared, seemingly out of nowhere.  She clucked her tongue, stepped up close, and stabbed a hatpin into Jerry’s hand.  

Jerry gasped.  “What the fuck?  Why you crazy old bitch.  I’ll…”  But his glare collapsed into a look of puzzlement.  He dropped Hannah’s arm and staggered back.  Bright blue streaks spread from the wound.  His eyes rolled back in his head and he collapsed.   He coughed and flailed his arms and legs.  His movements grew more and more feeble until, at last, he curled in on himself.  

The wind blew harder.  Hannah watched with a mixture of horror and fascination as Jerry crumbled into ashes.  A gust of icy wind scattered the remains.  

Silence descended.  The old woman’s hat pin lay on the sidewalk.  She retrieved the pin, blew on it, and threaded it through the lapel of her coat.  She rolled up Jerry’s empty clothes and stuffed them into her bag.  She tied his shoelaces together and with a smooth, easy sweep of her arm, sent the shoes spinning into the air.  They wrapped around a power line and hung there, a mute reminder of what had transpired.

“I’ll get rid of those later,” the woman said.  “Did he hurt you, dear?”

Hannah forced her mouth closed.  “No.  Not really.  But what did you do to—”

The woman patted her hair into place.  “It’s called a ‘reflection spell’ — it feeds off intent.  Amplifies it.  Turns it back on the person.”

“Intent?  What do you mean?”

The old woman pursed her lips.  “That young man intended you grievous harm.”

“Are you sure?  I… I mean, I know he was angry and all, but—”

“I’m afraid he was far more than angry, dear.  The magic never lies.”

Hannah began to shake.  Something cold and quite distinct from the weather took up residence in her belly.  “Magic?”

The woman took her hand.  Almost immediately, warmth and strength flowed into Hanna.  Something uncoiled inside and the shaking went away.  

“It will be all right,” the woman whispered.  “I promise you.”

“But—”

“When I was young, I studied reflective magic — and many other things — with the woman who lived in that house.”

“Really?  Because I think she might have been—”

The old woman’s eyes sparkled.  “Part of your family, yes.  I’ve had the strongest premonition lately, but I wasn’t 100 percent sure until you stood up to that bully in the diner.  Rose Allaire was my teacher, you see.”

Hannah’s heart thudded with excitement.  “All I have are her diaries and a few old photos.  And… and a feeling about the place.  You actually knew her?”

“I knew her very well.  She was a fine woman and a powerful sorceress.  But now you must compose yourself.  We’ve important business to conclude.”  She tilted her head at the street as a new Toyota sedan pulled up to the curb.  

The real estate agent climbed out.  He was a paunchy, middle-aged man with gentle eyes. “I was surprised to hear from you, Ms. Allaire,” he said.  “Surprised and pleased.”  

She chewed on her lower lip, took a breath, and forged ahead.  “If possible, I’d like to spend some time really poking around.  I have a feeling about this place.”

“Do you now?  A feeling, you say?”  The agent’s eyebrows rose.  His gaze shifted to the old woman.  “So, were you right, Margaret?  Is she…?”

“Related to Rose.  Yes.  Her great niece.”

Copyright © 2021, Michael C. Glaviano.  All rights reserved.

Of course he recognized the absurdity of those feelings.  Justice was for those with the means to purchase it.  Still, if he’d had legal representation…  But of course that was only for indigent and the richest of the rich.  Until a month ago, he’d been gainfully employed and was, therefore, neither.  So he sat there, alone, to face the mercy of the court.

The door to the jury room swung open.

The jury, all thirteen of them men, each and every one carefully selected for below-median social status and high financial vulnerability, filed into the courtroom.  They stood shoulder-to-shoulder, fidgeting, eyes on the floor.  They looked nearly as scared as he felt.

Tension ratcheted up as the judge turned a flat, reptilian gaze upon the jurors.  “Have you reached a verdict?” he asked finally.

Head bowed, the foreman turned toward the bench.  He crushed his hat in work-roughened hands. “We have, Your Honor.”

“Let the accused stand and face the jury,” intoned the judge.

The bailiff jabbed him with a baton.  “Stand up, loser,” the bailiff muttered.

Shackles rattled as he pushed himself up.  He tried to stand up straight, but the chains were too short.  “Stand still,” hissed the bailiff and poked him again, harder this time.

Across the flag-draped courtroom, the judge looked him up and down.  The distinguished jurist’s upper lip curled, distorting his aristocratic features.  The judge slung a quick glance at the jury.  “And what is your verdict?” he asked, as if there were any doubt.

“We find the accused guilty of holding antisocial beliefs,” said the jury foreman.

The judge nodded once.  “As it should be.”  He cleared his throat.  “Does the prisoner wish to make a statement?”

This was his last chance.  He took a breath.  “Your Honor.  I only wish that—”

But the bailiff struck him hard in his lower back and he fell facedown onto the floor.”

“I thought not,” the judge said and slammed the gavel.  “Your are hereby stripped of all rights and privileges as a Citizen of the Republic.  You will serve your sentence, duration to be determined, in solitary confinement.  Get this thing out of my sight, Bailiff.”

*     *     *

On the morning of his Intake Day, less than twenty-four hours after the guilty verdict, he was dragged from a windowless van.  Two guards force-marched him through a sterile hallway.  The shackles kept him from matching their stride, and they were not gentle as they hauled him to his feet after his third fall.

He felt dizzy and sick by the time they reached a door.  One of the guards stabbed some numbers into a keypad and the door hissed to the side.  He faced a small room.  There was a gurney with restraints. 

They stripped him naked, strapped him to the gurney, and left him.  The room was cold,  and by the time the med tech came in, he was shivering uncontrollably.  The tech wore a surgical mask and avoided looking directly at him.  He felt a sharp pain in his upper arm, and the room whited out.

Pain brought him awake.  His hands and feet throbbed with it.  His mouth screamed with it.  He ran his tongue around his gums.  All his teeth were gone!  His head felt colder than before, as did his pubic region.  Evidently, they’d shaved him bald.

And his balls ached horribly.  Had they castrated him?  He couldn’t raise his head to see, but something had definitely changed.  Something was not right.

With infinite difficulty, he turned his head and curled his right hand up so he could see the backs of his fingers.  He wept then.  All his nails had been surgically removed.  Ugly black stitches criss-crossed the ends of his fingers.  

The door hissed open, and another med tech came in.  The tech checked him over and patted him roughly on the side of his face.  “Well, you came through prep well enough,” the tech said.  “No signs of infection, so it looks like you’ll serve out your sentence.  You poor, pathetic fuck.”

He tried to speak, to ask what had been done to him, but his first three times came out inarticulate croaks.  “What happened to my balls?” he managed finally.

The tech tilted his head to the side.  He snorted.  “Noticed that, did you?  Well, you’re going to want to avoid any form of sexual arousal.  I hear those testicular implants feel like you’re being kicked by a mule when they trigger.”

“Why?  Why do this?  I’m only a—”

“An Enemy of the People is what you are.  You should have thought about the consequences before you published lies and advocated armed insurrection.”

“I did neither of those things!”

But the only reply was another sharp pain in his arm.  Once again he fell unconscious.

*     *     *

The lights came on, harsh and dazzling after the pitch-blackness of sleep time.  Before he could react, the Sleeping Shelf slammed back into the wall, dumping him onto the metal floor grid.  He lay there, trying to collect what remained of his wits.  He needed to do something.  What?

Electroshocks spasmed his muscles, and too late, he remembered: he must always stand or sit within a single square of the floor grid.  The shocks continued as he fought to control his limbs, to curl into a ball.  

Desperate, gasping, he hauled first one leg then the other in close to his chest.  He hugged his arms tight around his legs.  The sudden absence of pain felt wonderful, but he knew better than to linger.  He’d been here for many cycles of light and dark.  Far too many to count.  By pain and trial-and-error he’d learned that the Cell had many ways to torment him.  

With a groan, he forced himself to stand.  Slow walking was permitted, so he paced around the room on unsteady legs.  Through more pain, more trial and error, he’d determined exactly how much movement was allowed.  He paused and stretched his hands overhead, taking care to keep his elbows bent.  It felt good to straighten his battered body, and he wanted to maintain that privilege for as long as he could, so after one quick stretch, he resumed his slow traversal of the room.  

Four steps.  Pivot slowly.  Repeat. 

The Cell was nearly featureless.  Walls, floor and ceilings shone steadily, eliminating any hint of shadow.  There was a slot for the Food Tray.  There was the slot where the Sleeping Shelf emerged for dark time.  There was the place in the floor where he could relieve himself.  If he squatted there, a port irised open.  He did his business and moved away.  Lingering brought Punishment.

And there were the sluice gates.

Twice each Light Time, the sluice gates opened.  Water flooded the Cell.  If the purpose was hygiene, the water would be tepid.  Mostly.  There were, of course, random floods of water either scalding or just above freezing. 

His hair had never grown back.  He figured there was something in the Gruel that stunted the follicles.

The sameness, the lack of stimulation of any kind was the worst.  For the longest time, he’d hoped he would go completely bonkers, but even that had been denied him.  More Gruel additives, he figured.  

Of course he’d tried to drown himself, but the junctions of the floor grid were micro-drains.  The water could be sucked out within seconds.  And they obviously monitored his breathing.  Punishment had been harsh.  Lesson Learned.

Four steps.  Pivot slowly.  Repeat. 

Another stretch would feel so good, and to straighten all his limbs at once would be divine.  He paused and glanced up, but he immediately stifled the urge.  With a shudder, he resumed his pacing.

Just once, he’d made the mistake of touching the low ceiling.  Immediately, manacles had emerged, trapping his wrists and ankles.  The manacles had drawn his limbs until he’d been sure his shoulders and hips would be dislocated.  When he was painfully stretched to his full length, the shocks had started.  They went on and on.  

He’d shat himself that day.  The sluicing, alternating hot and frigid, had gone on and on too.  Lesson Learned.

There was a soft chime.  One of the few breaks in the silence.  The Food Slot opened, revealing the Plastic Tray.  He altered his pacing slightly, but took care not to hurry.  Hurrying was evidence of hunger.  Hunger prompted withdrawal of food, or, occasionally, less palatable Gruel.  

He’d tried to starve himself too, but that had led to more Punishment.  A meal skipped meant floor grids heated to a painful level, one that made it difficult to maintain his steady pacing.  And the room was, evidently, mounted on gimbals.  A second meal skipped resulted in the room tilting randomly and severely enough that he stumbled and fell.  Then the shocks started.  Lesson Learned.

He pulled the Plastic Tray from the Food Slot.  Carefully, he slurped the watery Gruel.  Not too fast.  Not too slowly.  

His concentration on the Gruel betrayed him, and he made the mistake of straddling two tiles in the metal floor grid.  There was a sudden jolt.  He jerked and spilled some of the Gruel.  

His heart thudded in his chest.  Would he be Punished for the spill?  He knelt, taking care to keep inside a single square and slurped the Gruel from the floor.  He tried to get most of it up.  Anyway, the Sluices would take care of the remainder.

Evidently his response wasn’t acceptable.  The room tilted sharply, and he stumbled, staggering into the glowing wall above the Food Slot.  He smacked his face against the glowing wall.  There was a jolt of electricity and he lurched back.  The Gruel on his chin left a slight smudge on the surface.  

He reached for the smudge but hesitated.  Touching the walls could easily result in Punishment.  And it was, after all, a little smudge.  

He finished the last of the Gruel and slid the Plastic Tray into the Food Slot.  He took care to keep his hands outside the Food Slot at all times.  The Food Slot snapped shut and he resumed his slow pacing.  

Four steps.  Pivot slowly.  Repeat.

Something caught his eye: an alteration of the sameness.  The little smudge of leftover Gruel on the wall above the Food Slot was still there.  The Sluices never rose that high.  The splotch would remain until it flaked away.  

His stomach lurched, and he nearly stumbled, but his heart stirred with excitement rather than fear. He’d inadvertently caused a change, had put a mark on his environment.  And he’d gotten away with it!  

He did his best to maintain his steady pace.  Surely the Cell monitored his movements.  And what about his vital signs?  The Cell’s systems probably kept track of those too.  Quickly, he averted his gaze.  He took a deep, slow breath and with feigned nonchalance, turned away.

Four Steps.  Pivot slowly. 

Four Steps.  Pivot slowly.

Four Steps.  Pivot slowly.

But now, every third or fourth time he faced the Food Slot, he permitted himself the tiniest glance at the smudge on the wall.

He was real.  Alive.  And now he had a goal.  What else could he do?  How many subtle changes could he accomplish?  A scuff here.  A slight stain there.  These might all add up.  They might keep him… not sane, exactly.  He knew better than that.  

But might he at least retain some sense of self?

*     *     *

Gruel smudges were fine, but bloodstains were even better.  It had happened by accident.  Once, in the waning minutes of Light Time, he happened to be padding past the Sleeping Ledge slot just as the Ledge shot out of the wall.  The Ledge’s corner nicked his thigh.  

He stumbled and recovered, continuing the pacing with his finger pressed to the wound.  It stung.  Careful to maintain his even stride, he shot a glance at his fingertip.  The Ledge had drawn a bit of blood.

Four Steps.  Pivot slowly.

He lengthened his stride slightly, and just before his next Pivot, he brushed his fingertip over the wall.  Of course there was  a shock, but he expected that and was prepared.  He flinched back and returned to his pacing.  

His heart thrummed with excitement, and he did his best to breathe deeply, to dampen any signs of enthusiasm.  

Four Steps.  Pivot slowly.

Four Steps.  Pivot slowly.

Jaw clenched, he kept his eyes on the metal floor squares for as long as he could, all the while continuing his back-and-forth.  At last, once he’d regained his composure, he risked the tiniest glance.  He’d left a faint mark on the wall.  Now he had two spots!

*     *     *

Of course nothing was permanent, and in retrospect, he decided that it was probably for the best.  Occasionally, seemingly at random, many Sluices would open.  Water would jet everywhere, drenching him and leaving everything wet.  These major wet-downs washed away his Marks.  

At first this upset him, but he soon realized that the major Water Events didn’t matter.  The erasure of individual smudges and spots was unimportant.  What counted was that he’d acted on his environment, that he’d made the Marks in the first place.  That he’d pushed back.  However evanescent it was, he’d left a mark.

And wasn’t that the way of the External World?  Buildings decayed.  Paintings went moldy and faded.  Books crumbled into dust.  Empires rose and fell.  Lives were lived.  In the end, everyone’s marks faded.

So he waited and paced and slept and awakened and paced some more until the walls were completely dry.  Then, at his next meal, he left a bit of Gruel on his chin and pretended to stumble.  As before, he paid with a jolt of electricity but left behind a small smudge.  

He’d created a Game.  Something in plain view but at the same time invisible.  His heart soared with the enormity of it.

*     *     *

Eventually, the shocks stopped.  It took him a while to notice, and though it meant that something had changed, he missed the Game.  He was old by then.  He could tell from the creak in his bones and the way his eyes struggled to make out his Marks.  

Soon after, they came for him.  His heart nearly stopped when a Door opened and someone ducked into his Cell.  He’d forgotten how to speak, forgotten most of his words, but they were solicitous.  They spoke softly.  They even gave him a robe to wear, though they had to help him get the belt right.  When had his hands grown so gnarled and weak?

The old, cruel regime had fallen, they said, collapsed beneath the weight of its own depravity, though such complex ideas seemed alien to him.  Too abstract to fathom.  

They took care of him, nursed him back to a semblance of health.  They did something that made brand new teeth grow in his shrunken gums.  His hair began to grow, and it itched.  They fixed his eyes and even restored his fingernails and toenails.  They claimed they’d removed the implant in his testicles too, but at his age, such things scarcely mattered.

And they gave him clothes and a place to stay.  He had a nice room that kept itself clean without Sluices or Punishments.  Instead of Gruel, he had real food, though it took a while to get used to his new teeth.

He was interviewed many times.  His interviews were collected in a book, they said.  They told him that his book sold well.  He wondered about that.  How could he have written a book without noticing?  

Anyway, they said that he’d never need to worry about money or food or shelter.  Not ever.  That was nice, though until they told him, it’d never occurred to him to worry about those things.

In short, the new regime did all they could to undo the harm that the old regime had caused him.  And though he was often bewildered by things, he truly appreciated the kindness with which he was treated.

Still, sometimes, in the quiet hours of a sleepless night, he would get up.  He’d take off his pajamas and shuffle back and forth in his room, leaving small Marks on the walls.  And afterwards, he’d lie back and look at what he’d done.  It felt good.  Like he was still in the Game.

Copyright © 2021, Michael C. Glaviano.  All rights reserved.

The elevator was an ancient hydraulic thing that combined the noise of a locomotive with the speed of a glacier.  It also smelled like old gym socks and burnt coffee.  Worst of all, the contraption jounced along as if it teetered on the brink of collapse.  The overhead light flickered constantly, and Gordon didn’t like to think about being trapped inside the stifling, claustrophobic space.  

He scuffed his foot on the linoleum floor of the elevator car.  He tapped his pen on the side of his clipboard as he scanned his ever-expanding ToDo list.  How was he going to manage it all?  He stifled the urge to pace back and forth; the car was much too small for that.  

The head of the Division, Dean Roberts, was the source of nearly all the items on the list.  Roberts had direct budgetary control over two-thirds of all research programs, including Gordon’s.  If the dean wasn’t onboard with someone’s project, it never got done.  Work ground to a halt.  Careers were stifled.  When Dean Roberts asked you to do something for him, you did it as quickly and as well as you could manage.

Secretly, in an attempt to wriggle out from under the dean’s thumb, Gordon had been working on his own grant proposal.  As far as he could tell, his future depended on establishing a modicum of independence.  Sadly, it seemed like ages since he’d had time to work on his proposal.  “Requests” from the dean kept getting in the way. 

And now this: hand delivery of a report to someone in the old research tower.  Couldn’t Roberts have emailed it?  Or, if he was worried about security, why not use red-envelope interoffice mail? 

He shoved aside his frustration.  Just get the errand done, he told himself.  After all, the dean must have his reasons.  And if Gordon hustled, he could be back to his own office within the hour.  That wouldn’t be too bad.

At last, the elevator ground to a halt on the fifth floor.  An especially loud clunk made him jump.  Sure, he’d heard that maintenance in the old research tower was nonexistent, but weren’t elevators supposed to be certified by third-party safety inspectors?  

With a loud chime that made him start again, the doors shuddered open to reveal a dimly-lit space, and Gordon, his gaze fixed on his ToDo list, bustled across the threshold.  Unfortunately, the elevator hadn’t aligned properly with the floor.  He tripped, and the report, his clipboard, and pen all flew in different directions.  Windmilling his arms, Gordon staggered into a nearby equipment rack. 

Of course the rack hadn’t been secured, and as soon as he touched it, the whole jury-rigged assembly toppled over.  Fortunately, the neighboring rack was bolted down and halted the domino effect before it could really get going. 

A klaxon sounded, and sparks cascaded from several pieces of equipment.  Ominous smells wafted through the lab, making Gordon sneeze.  Would he be chastised for damaging an ongoing experiment?  The fifth floor, the personal fiefdom of Damien Philips, was considered almost sacred territory.  Worse, Philips and the dean had been friends since grad school.

Gordon stooped and retrieved his clipboard and the bound report.  His pen, one of his favorites, had skittered off into the jumble of equipment.  His sister had given him that pen — a present to celebrate his being accepted to a position in the institute’s Research Division.  But there was no way Gordon could paw through that untidy heap.  Who knew what lay beneath that rats’ nest of wire and metal boxes?

The klaxon cut off.  Somewhere, deep inside the shadowed warren of gadgetry, a sheetmetal door, something one might encounter on a supply cabinet, slammed shut.  A quavery voice called.  “Everyone all right?  Not on fire, I trust?”

Gordon cringed.  Maybe a bit of self-deprecating humor would help.  “Sorry about that, sir,” he called.  “I’m, er, congenitally clumsy.  It’s a wonder I…  I haven’t electrocuted myself.”

“Hold on, then.  I’ll be right there.  Time I took a break anyway.”

From off to the right came the sound of switches being thrown.  A ventilation fan kicked in.  Overhead lights came up.  A wizened little man emerged from the tangle of equipment. 

The man wore his gray hair long, pulled back and secured with a twist of wire.  At least it looked like a twist of wire.  His lab coat, though patched at the elbows, was pressed and clean.  His bright gaze took in the scene.  “Oh, I think not,” he said.  “Some of the equipment voltages run a bit high.  But the current’s miniscule.  If you touch the wrong thing, you’ll get a good wallop, but electrocution is unlikely.”

Gordon breathed a silent sigh of relief at the man’s unassuming manner.  “As long as I haven’t damaged anything, sir—”

The old man stuck out his hand.  “Not to worry,” he said.  “I’m Damien Philips, by the way.  Colleagues tend to use the surname, and I generally answer to it well enough.”  He paused and gave a hearty chuckle.  “If I’m paying attention, that is.”  

Gordon hesitated for an instant before accepting the proffered hand.  He met the old man’s grip and found it to be surprisingly firm.  “Gordon Banks,” he said, trying to keep his voice even.  He hoped his hands weren’t too cold and clammy.

Philips’ gaze drifted off to the side.  “Would you care for some tea, Mr. Banks?  I’ve recently acquired a lovely Darjeeling.”

“Well, thank you, Professor.  But you see, I’m—”

“In a hurry, are you?”

“No.  I mean yes.  I mean, thanks just the same, but I really need to get back.”

“Shame.  The tea is quite nice.  And I’ve some biscuits around here.  Somewhere.”  Philips rummaged in a desk that Gordon hadn’t noticed, given that it was buried under layers of electronic… things.

“Dean Roberts sent me.  I’m supposed to—”

“Yes, yes.  He told me you’d be over.”

“Me?  Dean Roberts mentioned me by na—”

Professor Phillips fluttered his hands.  “Well… he said someone would be over.  Someone with legs younger than mine.  Important, that…  Strong legs, I mean.”

Okay.  Time, past time actually, to retreat.  Gordon extended the folder.  “Um, perhaps you’d like to—”

“How is Robbie, by-the-way?  We correspond regularly but rarely get together in person these days.”  The old man gestured at the surrounding chaos.  “My research, you see…”

“The dean is well, Professor.  And here’s his report.  I’ll let you get back to… to your work.”

Was Damien Philips stifling a smile?  If so, it didn’t reach his eyes.  “Lately, it’s been exciting here in the lab,” the professor said.  “I’m getting ready to take my system to the next level.”  

“I see.  Um, the dean’s report, sir?”

At last Philips accepted the document.  “Thank you,” he murmured as he absently ran his hands over the cover.  But then his expression brightened.  His eyebrows wagged up and down.  “Let’s see about that tea then, shall we, Mr. Banks?”

Gordon’s stomach lurched in sympathy.  Was the old man lonely?  Teetering on the brink of cognitive decline?  He wished he had more time, but he didn’t.  His own chances, meager as they were, depended on stealing little bits of time for himself.  “Th— Thank you, but I— I really should be going, sir,” he stammered, embarrassed for them both.

“No time for a cuppa then?  Oh, well.  Perhaps another time.”  

“Ah, yes.  Perhaps.  So… if there’s nothing else, may I have your signature?”  He patted his shirt pocket.  Right.  His favorite pen had been gobbled up by the professor’s lab.  “Do you happen to have a pen?  I seem to have lost mine.”

“You know, young man,” Philips said, brandishing the bound document as though he batted away flying insects.  “I’ve been waiting for Robbie to finish this.  Amazing, that with all his other responsibilities, he’s found time to work on the theoretical underpinnings of inter-dimensional…  Well, we won’t bore you with that.  But let me assure you; the man possesses an intellect of the highest order.”

Gordon nodded.  He held his breath and extended the clipboard.  Philips pulled a marker from his lab coat and scribbled something on the form.  Mission accomplished.

The old man bent his head, squinted at the label on the front cover of the report, and perched a pair of reading glasses on the end of his nose.  He chewed on his lower lip while he paged back and forth a few times.  “Well done, Robbie,” he murmured.  “First class work.  First class indeed.”

From somewhere deep in the bowels of the lab, a chime rang three times.  Professor Philips stiffened.  He looked up from the report, arched an eyebrow, and fixed Gordon with an almost feral grin.  “Just in time,” he murmured.  “And as usual, Robbie is spot on.  You are indeed perfect.”

Gordon recoiled at the sudden change in the old man’s demeanor.  “Excuse me, sir?”  

But as quickly as it had appeared, the grin evaporated.  Philips turned away and flipped a few more pages of the report.  

Relief surged.  With the old man so engrossed, Gordon could make a graceful exit.  He detoured around the professor and pressed the elevator’s call button.  There was no response.

Philips looked up.  Again, he produced a half-smile that stopped at his lips.  “I’m afraid that won’t work, Mr. Banks,” he said.  “No, you’ll not leave by that route.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“The call button for this floor is broken.  Gave up reporting it years ago.”

“Well then how do you—”

Philips pointed off to the right.

“The stairs?”

The professor chuckled good-naturedly, but the glint in his eyes telegraphed something that made Gordon take a step back.  What was going on?  

“Last I checked, the elevator button on the fourth floor works fine,” Philips said.  “Second floor too, though if you’re that far down, you might as well continue to the mezzanine.  There are some overstuffed chairs in a niche.  Perfect for a nap on a rainy afternoon.”

“Well… I’ll be sure to, hmm, keep that in mind, sir.”

“Perhaps I should accompany you?  Make certain you reach the… proper door, as it were?”

Suddenly, Gordon wanted nothing more than to get away from that steely gaze, that fake smile.  “Thank you, no.” 

The professor’s voice sharpened.  “Quite sure, are you?  You realize how treacherous stairs can be, don’t you?   It would be a shame if you were to—”

“Really, Professor.  It’s not necessary.”  Gordon dragged open the heavy door.  The stairs were metal, the walls unfinished masonry.  At some point in the building’s past, lamps had been strung, but they were obsolete globes that buzzed and flickered unpleasantly.

As the door swung closed behind Gordon, Damien Philips called out.  “A bit of advice, Mr. Banks.  Do not tarry…  Oh, and do I suggest you count the flights.  Remember, there are two flights per floor!”

Count the floors?  Now that was strange.  Why would he need to do that?  Gordon hurried down the stairs, turned at the landing and continued until he reached a blank, gray-painted, steel door, a twin to the one on the floor above. 

There, he thought.  Now that wasn’t so difficult, was it?  

But the knob didn’t turn in his hand.  He knocked on the door, softly at first, but then harder.  “Hello?” he called.  “Anyone there?” 

Heavy silence answered.  Well, the professor had mentioned the second floor.  Gordon puffed out a sigh, turned away from the door and continued his descent. The lights suddenly dimmed, and as he turned the corner, several lamps failed altogether.  He stumbled, barely catching himself on the safety rail.  His heart thudded in his chest as he imagined himself tumbling down the metal stairs.  Faint illumination trickled down from the upper floors.  He took a deep shuddering breath and, taking care to keep his hand on the railing, walked a few more steps.  

Gordon paused.  He craned his neck to look up.  The stairs climbed toward the roof.  How many floors did the research tower possess?  Nine, was it?  A dozen?  He peered down, over the railing.  The stairs descended into deepening gloom… perhaps all the way to the basement.  At any rate, he couldn’t make out the bottom.  A new thought bubbled up.  What if the second floor were locked as well?

Maybe it would be prudent to retreat.  He reversed course, but as he climbed, more lights winked on and off.  Somewhere above him, heavy machinery began to drone.  At least he thought it was the upper floors.  The acoustics in the stairwell made certainty impossible.  

Shadows closed in as more lamps failed.  The lights flared briefly, dazzling his vision before going out altogether.  Panting, his heart pounding, Gordon clutched the stair rail and peered into the darkness.  How many people even used the old research tower?  What if Professor Philips were the only one?  Suddenly, Philips didn’t seem like such bad company after all.  Perhaps he should return to the fifth floor and regroup.

A few lights flickered on and Gordon began to run up the stairs.  As he climbed the noise from the machinery grew louder, so loud he that he could no longer hear his feet on the treads.  He passed the third floor and continued to the fourth.  At least he thought it was the fourth.  Breath ragged, he staggered up the next two flights and grasped the handle of the stairwell door.  

The knob came off in his hand.  Shocked, he flinched back, and the doorknob slipped from his grasp.  It bounced over the edge of the stairs and fell into the darkness.  He lunged after it, only to drop his clipboard, which followed the doorknob into the depths.  

Gordon Banks pounded on the door, but the dynamo or motor or whatever-it-was thundered in his ears.  The floor vibrated.  The air rippled, and the stairwell seemed to tilt, to spin around him.  What was happening?  Little-by-little, machinery spun down.  Dizzy, he continued up the stairs.  The door to the next level was locked, as was the next.  And the one after that.  He sank onto the steps and tried to collect his thoughts.  

What floor was he on?  The seventh, he thought, but he was no longer sure.  Well, there was one way to find out for certain.  Hand on the rail, he trotted, just as fast as he dared, down the poorly-lit stairway.  He counted the floors as he descended.  One, two, three…  But the floors went on and on.  Panic surged, and he forced it down.  His legs burned and his knees throbbed. 

When the count reached sixteen, panic overtopped his resolve and he screamed for help.  He began to try every door.  Most were locked.  One opened on pitch darkness, another on dense fog and the reek of death.  Some knobs burned his hand; icicles depended from others.  One door opened to reveal red sands that extended to a barren horizon.  Another gave access to a thin strand.  He peered out, bitter cold making his eyes stream.  Beyond the strand, a great, tentacled beast surged from slate gray waves, flinging itself upon the beach.  He slammed the door in terror.

And deep down, farther than he’d dared travel, voices echoed through the darkness.  There were screams and shouts.  Curses and insane gibbering.  

Gordon realized that finishing his research proposal was no longer a priority.

Copyright © 2021, Michael C. Glaviano.  All rights reserved.

When the sprite paused to catch her breath, the cicadas buzzed, impatient at the break in the game.  Catching her second wind, the sprite invited her demon-friend, a small dust devil, to join in.  Back and forth, around and up, the detritus flew.  All the while, the scrap of cloth fluttered from its station on the old iron bar. 

At first, the crows complained about the disorder, the noise, and the mess.  They, after all, considered themselves purveyors of all silly games and chaos, both innocent and otherwise.  Soon, however, the corvid love of play overtopped their reticence, and five or six of the glossy birds took turns surfing between the arms of the sprite and the blunt horns of the friendly demon.

For a long time, no one noticed the clouds gathering on the hills to the east.  It was the crows, wary even in the throes of their sport, who first spied the interlopers.  With a flash of feather and a raucous chorus of warning, the aerial portion of the game collapsed.  As if certain of an impending downpour, the crows hurried west toward the shelter of a line of cypresses.  

The dust devil bade his friend the wind sprite good-bye.  He scudded off, swirling in the wake of the birds.  Storm on the horizon or not, there were still feathers to ruffle.

A bit sad then, the sprite waved her farewell.  Still, she had to admit that it was late in the summer.  These days she tired easily, and a nap seemed just the thing.  But before she lay down, she caressed the scrap of cloth, which through everything held fast to its spot on the rusty iron bar just outside the gate.  

The screen door banged open, and Mother called her brood for lunch and afternoon lessons.  Still excited from their game with the wind and the birds, the children chattered as they ran for the house.  Mother waited until the smallest one scampered over the threshold before latching the screen and closing the stout front door.

And safe in that quiet place outside of time, where the seasons go to wait their turn, the wind sprite dozed.  Meanwhile, daffodils, irises, and tulips settled in their beds, anticipating their deep winter slumber.  In the front yard, the first raindrops of autumn pattered on the dusty ground.

Copyright © 2020, Michael C. Glaviano.  All rights reserved.

“Your eye’s red, Grandpa Ben,” Willa said.  “Did it get hurt?”

“What?  No, little one.”  He dragged his sleeve over his face. “It’s only… only a wisp of smoke from the fire.”

He stirred cocoa powder into the hot milk.  The trick was keeping it just shy of boiling.  That’d dissolve the chocolate while keeping the milk film to a minimum.  Flo’d had magic for that too, but he’d have to rely on more mundane skills.  His and Flo’s talents had been complementary.  He sighed, quietly, so as not to make little Willa fret.  

“It’s almost ready, Granddaughter,” he said.  “Hot chocolate on a winter’s night.  Nothing quite like it.”

She nodded solemnly.  “That’s what Grandma Flo says.”

He forced a smile.  “You remember Grandma Flo, do you?  I’m sure that would please her.”

“She talks to me.  At night.”

“Ah, in your dreams.  Good… I’m glad.”

“There’s smoke in your eye again, Grandpa.”

“So… there is,” he croaked.  He cleared his throat and tried again.  “I do believe this hot chocolate is ready.  Would you like some?”

Willa’s face broke into a big grin.  “Yes, please!”

Ben poured the chocolate into mugs.  “Now take it slowly, Willa.  It’s hot, so blow on it.  Maybe spooning a bit out would work best.” 

Left to his own devices, he’d prefer mulled wine or maybe some brandy.  Still, hot chocolate with Willa was a treat not to be missed.  Already, the five-year-old showed hints of magical ability.  That would have delighted Flo.  And it would be a comfort if Willa were to—

“There’s something in mine!” she said.  “Floating on top.”

“What?  Let me see.  Perhaps Grandpa didn’t stir it properly.”

He pulled the mug close and peered inside.  The chocolate looked perfectly fine.  Perfectly ordinary, and Ben almost said so.  But at the last instant, he caught Willa’s earnest expression.

“Hmmm.  Grandpa’s eyes aren’t what they used to be.  Suppose you tell me what you see.”

Willa dragged the mug back, slopping a little in the process.  The five year old frowned at the mess.

“Don’t worry, little one; I’ll clean the table after we finish.”

“You cooked, Grandpa!  You shouldn’t have to clean up.  I can do it.”

“Really, dear.  It’s no trouble…”

But Willa squinted at the puddle of chocolate.  She clenched her little hand into a fist and flicked her fingers.  The spilled liquid leaped into the hearth and, with the briefest of hisses, vanished.  

Ben clamped his jaw shut to keep from gaping, but Willa seemed to think nothing of what she’d done.  “Now stir it some more, Grandpa.”

He complied and asked, “What do you see, Granddaughter?”

“Well, it’s sparkly.”

“Sparkly?”

Willa nodded and tapped a grubby index finger on the rough tabletop.  “Like little sparks in the fireplace.  Lots of ‘em.”

“So these sparks… are they like fire?”

Her eyes filled with light, and for a moment, her voice lost its little-girl lilt.  “No, Grandfather.  These are all different colors.  They remind me of those meadow flowers in springtime.  Only brighter.”

Ben’s heart beat faster.  He recalled that trip vividly, but how could Willa remember it?  It had been two years previous, months before his wife had taken ill.  It seemed that not only could his granddaughter, who was barely five, teach herself simple magic, she could also recall seasons past.  If only Flo had lived to see this!  

But he dare not let his excitement show.  Brilliant and talented though she was, Willa was still a little girl.  There would be plenty of time for serious things.  He dredged up his best, grandfatherly chuckle.  “Ah, yes.  I understand,” he said, “at least I think I do.”

Childish innocence returned to her voice.  “You see them too?”

“No.  Not for a long time now.”

“Since before Grandma Flo died?”

“Yes.  Though I remember them well.”

“What are they?”

“They are stardust, Willa.  This is the night of falling stars, and magic is afoot.  It seems that a few bits of stardust have found your hot chocolate.”

“Can I drink them up?”

“Definitely.”

She took a sip.  A faint nimbus of light surrounded her, and power rippled the air.  “Stars taste good, Grandpa Ben!”

Copyright © 2020, Michael C. Glaviano.  All rights reserved.