Friday Nightmares Read online

  “Sorry, Grams,” I said. “I’ll go up and take a shower.”

  “And give Rusty one, too, while you’re at it!” she added, jerking the spoon out of reach of his wandering tongue. “Jesus, Mary, and Joseph! What did you two do today? Go rolling around in a ketchup factory?”

  I looked down at the pug. “Looks like we’ve been found out, Rusty.”

  That glare told me that my grandmother was not in a joking mood any longer. “Upstairs, now. The two of you. And no funny business. Got that?”

  “Got it,” I replied. If there was one thing Grams hated, it was “funny business.” especially if it came from her husband or her grandson. Serious business was always okay, though.

  “You and your grandfather will have a chat about what happened when you get cleaned up.” She turned around and hurried back into the kitchen, carrying the warm scent of apple pie and homemade crust with her as she went.

  And so upstairs we hurried, the two of us; rushing past portraits of long-dead Miller family ancestors and forest-green wallpaper. I didn’t dare do anything but hurry.

  Angry grandmothers scared me more than Darkon ever could.

  I peeled off my clothes and rushed into the shower, carting a hesitant Rusty along with me. Though he hated to be bathed, he hated physical activity more — and it required much less physical activity to just go along with me than it did to struggle. Once dry, I hurried off to my bedroom in search of sweatpants and a hoodie. Then I grabbed the mysterious message and settled down beneath a blanket, ready to decode this latest development in the ongoing saga of the murder of James Candle.

  Over the years, my bedroom had become like a holy monument to literature. Skinny books. Fat books. Good books. Bad books. Books with frayed pages and books whose pages were edged with gold. Books with hard covers, soft covers, and no covers at all. Fiction and non, horror and comedy, romance and tragedy: little pieces of my soul scattered about the floor.

  Rusty waddled over to the corner of the room I called his “pug nest” and plopped himself down on a plush doggie bed, which sat buried amidst a pile of bones and treats (but no tennis balls, for Rusty was not an active creature). My friends had always joked about who would win dominion over my room: the books or Rusty.

  I always said it depended on who got fatter first.

  There was a little knock on my door that almost made me jump through the roof and up to Jupiter. I was so easily scared these days because of my father’s death, but I didn’t think anyone could really blame me for it.

  “Come in,” I said, shoving the message beneath my pillow.

  The door creaked open to reveal my grandpa standing there, leaning on his cane.

  “Hey there, Cap’n,” he said, smiling so that his round spectacles squished up against his caterpillar eyebrows. He walked over to the edge of my bed and took a seat and I joined him there, ready for one of his famous, long-winded author speeches. “Your grandmother tells me you got in some kind of mess today involving ketchup?”

  He said it as if he were trying hard to bite back laughter, which was exactly why we got along so well. He had my humor and my passion for books, and we could relate on a fundamental level because of it. Alas, it was clear from his facial expression that he had to keep up a rouse of seriousness for his wife about the whole matter. I went right along with it and nodded.

  “Yep. It was very, uh… saucy,” I said. And then: “Can you keep a secret?

  “As long as you don’t tell her, you caught me eating the last of her blueberry scones last night and not Rusty.” He winked and I smiled. “What’s eating you up?”

  “Nice pun,” I said. If there was one thing Gramps loved more than dessert, it was puns. And then, more soberly, I said: “I, um… I took on a case today. One of Dad’s.”

  The smile instantly faded away from Gramps’ lips as if someone had slapped it off. “A case?” he repeated. “How?”

  “Some lady came in while I was there this morning cleaning out some of his stuff and I answered it.”

  “And what could have possessed you to do that?”

  “I know it sounds stupid, but I had to help,” I said, moving towards the defensive. “A Darkon was hiding in her apartment, and-“

  “And you thought you could banish it.” I nodded meekly and he frowned. “Your father was in a dangerous business, Henry. A very dangerous business indeed. He helped lots of people, sure, but look at what it led to.”

  Death. That's what it led to, even if Gramps didn't want to say so out loud. It’s funny, isn’t it, how death is always unspoken? It’s one of those words that demands to be said, but never has to be. It’s always there, always looming, always with us. And sometimes, it pounced, just as it did with my father and my mother before him.

  “I know, and I didn’t want to be involved at first. But you know what Dad said in his will. If I don’t decide to carry on the family business by the first Halloween after his death, my magic will disappear. And then what will I be?”

  “You’ll be Henry,” Gramps said, placing a hand on my shoulder. “Just a little more Miller than Candle. I realize how important your magic is to you, but losing it won’t change who you are or who you want to be.”

  I know he was trying to empathize, but he really couldn't comprehend how important my magic — or any witch or wizard’s magic, for that matter — was. There was more to it than making your toothbrush float or completing your Algebra homework in a split second. Losing magic would be like losing my sense of smell or sight. I’d be crippled, a broken husk without a soul. And my connection with Rusty would be severed, too: he’d lose his magic as well and become an ordinary pug who couldn’t understand my speech or help me out when I needed him to.

  “Magic is about more than just casting spells. It’s a way of life, the only one I’ve ever known.” I bowed my head. “It isn’t fair. I’m not like him. I’m not tough or street-smart. I’m not even good at investigating things.”

  “Now, that’s just not true. You’re good at more things than I could ever dream of.”

  “Reading doesn’t count, and neither does writing. I’m talking about real world stuff.”

  “Those can be real-world things. You’re so smart that the possibilities are virtually endless. Heck, I started my first book by the time I was your age, and all twelve of ‘em were New York Times best-sellers. Writing’s in your blood just as much as magic is, and I know which of the two you’d rather do more.”

  That was true. Gramps’s Sword of Penumbra epic fantasy series had earned him a fortune, a TV series and legions of fans the world over (of which I was the biggest). It was thanks to him that I knew I wanted to become a writer more than I did a paranormal investigator, a fact which frustrated my father to no end.

  “Writing’s my dream, but magic is my blood. Without it, I’m nothing.”

  “Is magic really worth your life? Henry, your father was murdered. And whoever or whatever — probably whatever — killed him is still out there. Now, I know you’re much more sensible than he ever was, and I thank God for that. But you’re teetering a dangerously close line here, and it’d be a damn foolish one to cross.”

  He was almost never so stern. It made me second-guess if taking over Candle Paranormal Investigations was really such a good idea after all. But then I remembered the secret message, one which I had purposely left out. My father’s murder and the danger associated with it were exactly the reasons why it was so important that I do so, my magic notwithstanding. If I didn’t figure out what happened to Dad, I could be next on the list.

  “I know. But you’re right: I am different from my dad.” I paused for a second to let this sink in. “I’d never take on a case that put my life in danger. I promise.”

  After I spoke this lie, Gramps fell silent for a few seconds. When he continued speaking, his strict tone had changed to a far sadder one.

  “That’s what your mother always told us,” he said. “Back when they first started dating. She met him only a month
after she joined the police force; coincidentally, she was working on a case that he also happened to be working on. We came to accept the fact that he was a wizard, even your grandmother, but we never did accept the danger he put our daughter in because of their relationship. Eventually, that relationship — that evil she encountered everyday — caused her death. I loved her to the stars and back, and losing you… well, that would be like losing her all over again.”

  I gave him a hug in lieu of a reply, one that was brief but full of sympathy. Just something to show him I shared his sentiments and that I also missed my mother in my own way, too, even though she passed away when I was only five.

  “Please don’t tell Grams about any of this,” I said when he pulled away. I was willing to beg if I had to. “You know how she is. She’ll freak and stay up all night every night worrying about me.”

  “Again, I say: just so long as you don’t tell her about the scones.” He rose, leaning on his cane as I helped him to his feet. “I can’t stop you from doing what you want to do. I’m too old for that, Henry, and you’re nearly a man. But you better be careful.”

  “I will. I have my vicious guard dog with me, remember?”

  He looked over at Rusty and laughed. “Guard dog of the biscuits, maybe. Goodnight, Henry. Remember that you’re special for more reasons than just your magic.”

  “Thanks, Gramps.” I gave him a hug. He left, closing the door as he went.

  I pulled the note out from beneath my pillow as soon as he was gone and read it once again.

  BEWARE, HENRY.

  HE WILL COME FOR YOU, TOO.

  Thinking of what those words could possibly mean sent a chill up my spine. Dad loved his cryptic clues as much as any wizard did, but not when it came to my safety. He would not have sent such a vague message if he didn’t have any other choice but to be vague. It was clear he had written it in haste, maybe even in the very hour of his death, or when he thought that death was imminent.

  Had he seen “him” coming, whoever “he” was? I didn’t know. The Council of Magi just about tore apart the whole city searching for Dad the day I told them he was missing but found nothing. Ironically enough, it was the human FBI who discovered him first after they discovered his abandoned car on the highway miles outside of Boston. His death, as far as I knew, was still officially under investigation.

  Was he now sending me messages from beyond the grave? I suppose that wasn’t unheard of for a wizard, but writing messages also wasn’t exactly my father’s style. He had never been a man of many words. The most he’d ever written me was in his-

  Will.

  That’s it!

  I hurried over to my desk, pulled open the drawer, and withdrew a manila envelope that had my name written on the front. It felt almost stupid to read his words once again. I’d already read them so many times that they’d practically been burned into my brain and tattooed onto my heart.

  Still. I had to check it again, in light of that latest message. What if there was something I hadn’t noticed the first time around? Or what if there was something else written there, something new? I pulled open the envelope and slid out the letter, my hands trembling.

  Dear Henry,

  If you’re reading this, it means I’m dead. If I’m not, that means my inheritance spell has obviously backfired, so make sure you tell me ASAP (unless I’m hiding from one of my many enemies and only pretending to be dead- in which case, go along with it until you receive word that I’m alive).

  Anyway. Now that I’m gone, I have something I need to ask of you. You know how important Candle Paranormal Investigations is to me. It’s the way in which I carried on the tradition started by my great-great-great-grandfather, Josiah Candle, when he first came over to New England from Britain, back when it was nothing more than a wee little fishing village. I don’t want that to go to waste. I don’t want all those people that need help to give up just because I’m not around anymore. You must carry on the family business. It is your duty to do so- and the consequences for not doing so will be dire.

  Our magic is inexorably tied to who we are as Candle wizards. So, too, is our history of using that to help others. Without the family business, our powers are useless. The people of this city depend on us to protect them from the forces of darkness, and it is in fighting the forces of darkness that we truly shine. You have until the first Halloween after my death to decide whether or not you’d like to take over the family business. If you fail to make a decision by midnight, your magic will vanish and you shall become fully human. And maybe that’s for the best. I know you’ve never been fond of our world and all that it entails. Maybe the human realm shall be kinder to you. You’ve always been softer than most.

  Anyway, this is a will, not a father-son bonding session. So I’m giving you the only thing I have to my name. As of the moment of my death, Candle Paranormal Investigations has fallen into your legal possession. What you do with it from here on out is your decision, whether you carry on our family business or turn it into a boring indie bookstore or some typical Henry shit like that.

  You can hate me for it if you want. I’m pretty sure you already do, anyway. Just as long as you become the hero I know you can be, it’s cool with me. Hate’s a good motivator. Almost as good as love.

  -Dad

  P.S.: The clock starts now. Good luck.

  I’d read it countless times, and still, the words sunk into my skin like needles. I could almost hear his voice — hear that ugly, mocking tone and see his sardonic little smirk. Why was it a sin in his eyes to want to exist amongst the living rather than the dead and the demonic? And why did he think I wasn’t as much of a man just because I wanted to choose my own fate in life?

  Don’t get me wrong. It’s not like I was ashamed of my magical heritage or anything like that. Us Candle wizards have been fighting the forces of darkness since our bloodline began, back in the days when merely being accused of using magic could get you roasted like a marshmallow. Every generation, without fail, the men in our family had chosen to carry on that tradition, eschewing the mundane life of a human in favor of the life of a wizard.

  I had known since I was five that I, too, would one day have to make the same choice.

  I just never thought that day would be coming so soon.

  But that was beside the point now. There was something else that caught my attention upon my re-reading of the will. My eyes drifted to the bottom of the page, where I saw something that I swore hadn’t been there before. I had read the letter backwards and forward, analyzing and dissecting each and every last turn-of-phrase. Surely I would’ve noticed if there was something else written there.

  And yet there it was: two letters and a single word, hastily scribbled as if it were written yesterday. Or maybe even today.

  P.W.: Reserare.

  I knew from Latin class last year that “researare” meant “unlock.” It was an odd choice of words, borderline nonsense, and seeing it bugged the heck out of me. I could only conclude it meant something; but what? And why couldn’t he have just told me what it meant?

  Why did my old man have to be so damn tricky?

  It wasn’t until I had logged onto my own computer to research it further that I realized what it could be. There was only one thing that made sense. I felt almost stupid that I hadn’t seen it right away.

  P. W.

  Password.

  As in the password for his computer, which I’d been searching desperately for since the moment he’d passed.

  It was there he’d stored all the details from every last one of his cases, including the last one he had been working on when he died. Getting into the computer was imperative for me. It’d have to happen first thing tomorrow morning. Without access, I’d never be able to find out what he knew and how dangerous that information really was.

  I crawled into bed and curled up under the quilt Grams had knit me last Christmas. Rusty joined me and was quick to sleep, falling into easy, crocodile-sounding snores at the f
oot of my bed. But one question came to me just as I closed my eyes, making sure that sleep would elude me until the early morning hours.

  If “he” had killed my father — the most powerful wizard I had ever known — what sort of chance did I stand?

  Three

  The Last (Worst) Case of James Candle

  The building that housed my father’s office was easy to miss unless you knew exactly what you were looking for. Its location was almost a paranormal mystery in and of itself: a stout little box sitting on a half-empty street on the edge of Boston, right around the block from where the city turned to highway.

  At its tiny size, it could easily have been mistaken by a passer-by for a comic shop, a cute little café, or maybe even a law office. But it was none of the above, though it had once been all of the above at one point or another. The frosted purple letters on the window now pegged it as CANDLE PARANORMAL INVESTIGATIONS, and the painting of a candle beside that agreed.

  That was the symbol of our family business, the half-melted candle with the dim little flame. I think it was appropriate, in a way. If ever you felt your flame flicker, this was the place where you belonged.

  It was a chilly Saturday morning, the kind that only October could summon. Rain had fallen during the drive from my grandparents’ house to the office, first as a trickle and then turning into a steady downpour. I pulled my dad’s old car up to the side of the curb and hurried to open the door before I could get soaked. Rusty zipped in past me and I came after, turning on the lights with a snap of my fingers.

  The scent of lemon Lysol and leftover smoke smacked me in the face, as familiar as an old sweater on a cold November morning. The office was just as scant inside as it was out: there was only one big room that contained my dad’s desk, a set of bookshelves, and two chairs in front of the desk where clients sat. There was also an uncomfortable old couch near the front of the storefront for sleeping when the cases dragged on into the wee hours, and countless Sigils — or magical symbols for protection — were scrawled upon the gray walls in black ink.