Friday Nightmares Read online

  It was as if I were sensing the imprint he’d left on the world. I could still smell the smoke from his cigars and that brown leather jacket that he wore even in the middle of July. I could still see him there, in that chair…

  I shook off the nostalgia and remembered what I came there for in the first place. The password. I walked toward the computer and plopped myself down on the desk chair. Rusty whined until I picked him up and I turned the computer on. He was my ever-present moral support.

  Like many witches and wizards, my dad was never keen on keeping up with technology. It took a lot of nagging to convince him to get even a basic cell phone. His computer was a big, clunky desktop, the kind that belonged in a junkyard rather than on a desk, and I was skeptical as to whether I’d even be able to get the ancient thing to work. It certainly hadn’t been working yesterday when I tried for over two hours.

  I pressed the button on the modem and waited a spell. The computer loaded up after some chugging, hit a blue screen, and then abruptly stopped, frozen.

  Great. Just great. The screen of death and I hadn’t even gotten to the home page yet. That wasn’t a good sign.

  Or maybe…

  Maybe the password wasn’t meant to be manually entered. We were wizards, after all, and technology wasn’t immune to being enchanted to work the way you wanted it to.

  I channeled my Mana — that ancient magical energy that flowed through the veins of every Spellcrafter — and drew it into the palms of my hands. And then, I said the word — “reserare” — and felt the Mana leave my soul in the form of a spell.

  The blue screen turned black for a second and then the computer flickered into life. I was greeted with a green landscape and a cluttering of icons and folders, most of which seemed to have no organizational scheme whatsoever. For all his smarts about magic and the occult, my dad had no idea how to organize a desktop.

  But it didn’t matter. The most important thing was that I had just opened a path forward.

  So, where did I go next?

  My pulse quickened and my heart pounded. It felt like I was doing something invasive, something taboo. Dad clearly wanted me to gain access to his computer, or he wouldn’t have left that password hidden on the bottom of his will, but I was still uneasy. Rusty gave me an encouraging lick on the face as I browsed.

  I scanned the titles on the folders that crowded my father’s desktop. Many of them had dates going as far back as 2006 while others had names: some I recognized, others I didn’t. He had helped countless people since he opened up shop, and most of their stories were saved on this same ancient computer.

  I tried the folder on the bottom of the screen first, the one labeled “GM”. I hovered my mouse over the date to see that it’d been updated on September 29 — which was one day before he died.

  My thudding heart leapt all the way up to my throat.

  This was it.

  This was the case he’d been working on before he was found mutilated in the woods, miles outside of the city limits.

  I clicked on the beige folder. Contained within was a single Word document labeled “O’MACKEY”. I clicked on that one, and here is what appeared on the screen:

  “CLIENT #981: GABRIEL O’MACKEY”

  ADDRESS: 421 North Avenue, Boston.

  -APPEARANCE: Red-haired, bald in patches. Short, maybe 5’8. Stocky.

  -Heard about me from a friend.

  -Employee of the Boston Museum of Ancient History. Curator, he says: been working there thirty-one years come September. Likes it, but looking forward to retirement.

  -Says he’s a wizard, too. Got no reason to disbelieve him.

  -Came to me because of concern over a new exhibit that’s debuting in a few weeks: “Real Witchcraft”. Says “awful things” have been happening since they acquired an ancient spell book of some type. One employee killed under mysterious circumstances so far since it’s been acquired; director refuses to call off the exhibit, however.

  -Rumors are floating around that the book is cursed.

  -I plan to use a Cloaking spell to pose as a reporter to ask questions at the museum.

  -Relevant link is attached below:

  -“MAN FOUND MURDERED IN APARTMENT IDENTIFIED.”

  I clicked it.

  This took me straight to a Boston Globe article about a curator who’d been found dead. He was an employee of the Boston Museum of Ancient History, where he’d been for over thirty years.

  He, like my father, was found murdered with a snake scrawled into his chest.

  I clicked out of the article and immediately turned away from the computer screen. I felt like I’d been dunked in a tub of ice-cold water. I was looking at the actual final case my father had ever embarked upon — the only one he’d opened and never shut. My dad, who didn’t leave anything unfinished, not even an afternoon snack. It was almost sacrilegious.

  He’d turned up dead in the woods only one day after first speaking with this Gabriel O’Mackey guy. Based on the circumstances, I was strongly suspecting something paranormal was going on.

  Number one, my dad wouldn’t be taken down by some run-of-the-mill psycho with a knife. Not after all the freaky things he faced down without even batting an eyelash. Number two, it couldn’t be a coincidence that there’s an ancient spell book involved.

  So, where did I go from there? O’Mackey was the best lead I had thus far. That meant I definitely wanted to question him first.

  Hopefully, it wouldn’t take me down the same path which had led to my father’s death. But do we ever have any say in what paths we take? Maybe Fate decides both the path and the destination. The only thing that’s truly up to us is the method we take to get there.

  BANG.

  BANG.

  BANG.

  A series of heavy knocks came from the entrance, rattling the entire door. Rusty jumped off of my lap and whimpered, cowering under the desk in fear. My first instinct was to join him. Who could be coming to Candle Investigations so early in the morning before the open sign was even turned on? Given the circumstances, I couldn’t imagine it was anyone good. Images of evil sorcerers and creatures with fangs flashed through my mind, the Dictionary Infernal come to life.

  But there was nothing evil about the girl standing below the overhang that led into the office. Instead there was everything familiar about her, from the colorful hijab wrapped around her head to the hurricane of skirts and shawls that swished and swirled as she moved. Enisa Yousefi was the sister I never had and I was always happy to see her. But why was she here? And so early, too.

  I undid the lock and opened the door, stepping aside to let her in. Rusty’s mood changed from frightened to overjoyed as he saw who it was, and rushed forward to greet her with his stubby little tail wagging to and fro.

  “Hey, Enisa,” I said, giving her the biggest hug I could muster. “How are –”

  “Don’t ‘how are’ me, Henry Candle. You, sir, have some explaining to do.”

  “Explaining?” I asked, playing dumb. “What do I have to explain?”

  “A lot.” She sauntered over to the couch and plopped herself down, facing me with a stern look on her face. “When were you planning on telling me you decided to take over Candle Investigations?”

  Oh, crap.

  I was hoping I could keep this a secret from Enisa for as long as I possibly could. She wasn’t the kind of girl who was content to sit around daydreaming about boys. She was a go-getter, a problem-solver, and the big sister I’d never had. There was no way she would let me embark on this venture alone — which was exactly why she couldn’t know. She’d want to be as involved as she possibly could, and nothing good ever came out of being involved in the supernatural.

  “Did Gramps tell you that?”

  “A true sleuth never reveals her sources,” Enisa said. “Answer the question.”

  “So I might’ve taken on a case,” I said. “What’s the big deal?”

  “The big deal? Henry, the big deal is that your father died d
oing this job,” Enisa said. “And look at how much experience he had. Did you even think this through?”

  “I didn’t really have time to. It sort of happened accidentally. One minute I was here cleaning out his desk and the next I was banishing a Darkon that was haunting a can of tomatoes from some lady’s apartment.”

  “An accident? That doesn’t sound like an accident to me. Did you trip and fall onto the haunted can of tomatoes?”

  “Almost, actually. It was thanks to Rusty here that I didn’t.”

  “A can of tomatoes, though?” She crooked an eyebrow. “Seriously?”

  “Seriously. And that’s only the tip of the iceberg. I’ve been reading his case files, Enisa, and they’re insane. I’m talking vanishing people. Demonic possession. Darkcrafter covens. Satan worshippers in the federal government. But the scariest part is that after facing down all of that, this last case is what finally did him in. Something was somehow worse than all of those other things combined — and that something has kept me up since the night he died. I have to find out what it is. I have to.”

  A peal of thunder shook the Earth, causing the building to tremble in fear. Both Rusty and Enisa looked startled, the former scurrying underneath the desk and the latter looking nervously over her shoulder. Candle Investigations produced shadows where there was supposed to be light. The thunderstorm outside only amplified that effect.

  “I get it. I’m sorry if I sounded angry,” Enisa said, pulling me in for a hug. “I’m just worried about you.”

  “I know you are,” I said softly. “But I have to find out who killed him and stop them before they murder someone else.”

  “Or you.”

  “Or me.”

  Another loud knock came at the door and almost sent us both jumping out of our own skins. What was with people surprising me today, of all days? I was on edge until I saw a shaggy mess of green hair. Frankie Kato had arrived, and now the party could begin.

  If Enisa was my best friend, then Frankie was our best friend. We met him on the first day of sixth grade and instantly clicked. I was the peanut butter, Enisa was the jelly, and Frankie was the, uh… bread. He and his family had just moved to Boston from California the prior summer, and you could tell. He was all West Coast, all the time. He walked into Dunwich Junior High that September not knowing a soul. As fate would have it, we were the first two people he met at school, and the rest was history.

  Today the Japanese punk rocker was wearing a black Rolling Stones t-shirt and a pair of jeans that were ripped at the knees. It was the same pair he had on virtually every other day, and Grams always offered to sew them up for him whenever he came over.

  He barged in like a forlorn lover objecting to a marriage, looking uncharacteristically — and therefore comically — dramatic.

  What now?

  “Henry. Dude,” he shouted, jerking his head back so that his bangs were out of his eyes. “Don’t do it. This is a big mistake.”

  “What’re you talking about?” I asked him. “What’s a big mistake?”

  “Taking over Candle Paranormal Investigations! I’m telling you now, don’t do it. Open your own pug massage parlor or pancake bar or-or, uh, literally anything else.” He walked forward and placed his hands on my shoulders, grabbing them tightly. “Just don’t do this.”

  “What?” I said. Then, looking to Enisa: “How did he-”

  “Too late, Frankie,” Enisa interjected, slapping a hand to her forehead. “I beat you to the punch.”

  “Dammit,” Frankie said. “So, uh... do I still get my free hot chocolate or…”

  “You offered him a free hot chocolate in exchange for telling me not to take over Candle Investigations?” I said. “Seriously, Enisa?”

  “How else was I going to get him here at ten in the morning?” Enisa said, shrugging her shoulders. “You know Frankie. He moves for nothing but sugar.”

  Frankie sunk down into the chair next to Enisa and shut his mouth, looking defeated. I had known Frankie long enough to realize he could be persuaded of anything so long as there was enough of a treat to back up the persuasion. So I couldn’t blame Enisa for the attempt, especially when coupled with her concern for my well-being. But I could blame her for trying to recruit others in the hopes of somehow swaying my choice, which was mine and mine alone.

  “Either way, you’re both too late,” I said. “I’ve already decided to take over the business; I’ve already reopened my father’s last case. I need to find out what happened to him. Or else I may be in even deeper trouble than I previously thought.”

  “Deeper trouble?” Frankie asked. “What do you mean?”

  “This.” I reached into my pocket and yanked out yesterday’s message, holding it up so they could see. “Someone from the Council of Magi appeared to me last night and gave me this. He told me it’s from my father, and that I’m the only one who can read it. ‘BEWARE, HENRY,” it says. ‘HE WILL COME FOR YOU, TOO.’”

  “He?” Enisa repeated, crossing her arms. “Who’s ‘he’?”

  “Um, Pennywise the Clown?” guessed Frankie.

  “No, that’s ‘IT,-” I said. “And I don’t know who he is. That’s what I came here to find out. I got into his computer and looked up his last case file. And then you guys came barging in to scare the shit out of me.”

  “Sorry,” she said. “Gramps told me you were here and, well… I kinda freaked. None of us want what happened to your dad to happen to you, too. That’s all.”

  “But it will.” Another flash of lightning, so perfectly timed. I couldn’t help but wonder if Stephen King was writing my life story. “This isn’t ending with him. I have a feeling these deaths are only the beginning.”

  “Ooh, I have an idea,” Frankie announced. “Maybe we can film you during the process of finding out what happened to your dad. This mystery case would make a great first episode of Ghost Hustlers.”

  Frankie had gotten it into his head ever since I (accidentally) came out of the broom closet that we could turn my family business into a viral Youtube sensation. No matter how many times I tried to explain to him the multitude of reasons why it wouldn’t work, he still persisted as if it was the best idea anyone ever came up with. There was also the fact that humans weren’t supposed to know about magic, but these two humans – my best friends – did.

  “Ghost Hustlers is not happening,” I said. “Period. Ghosts don’t respond well to being hustled and Darkon don’t show up on camera.”

  “Plus, the name is weird. Ghost Hustlers make it sound like we’re running an otherworldly den of prostitution,” Enisa chimed in. “Not exactly the best thing to put on a business card, is it?”

  “So the name is negotiable,” Frankie said, leaning back in his chair and placing his black hi-top Chucks with neon-green laces onto the desk. “I’m more worried about snagging all of those sweet views.”

  “You can’t get sweet views if you’re lying dead in a ditch somewhere,” I said. “Hunting the forces of darkness isn’t a game. It’s a dangerous and heavy responsibility. If I didn’t have to do it to save my magic, I never would. And now that my own life is being threatened, I have to find out what killed him- or it’s going to kill me, too.”

  “Which is why you should let us help you, especially if you’re in some kind of danger,” Enisa said. “Three heads are better than one. Even if one of them does belong to Frankie.”

  I could see her point about the dangers of embarking on this journey alone. I had been thrown into a world of supernatural terror after minimal training by my father. I barely knew how to banish a Darkon, and if I had to duel a Darkcrafter, I would be dead in a hot second. If whatever came for my father was coming for me, I’d need all the help I could get.

  Enisa was brilliant, but in a scientific, analytical manner; her intelligence lay in chemistry and medicine, not the supernatural. And Frankie was a guitarist. Neither one of them had even a single drop of magical blood in their veins. What could they do against the forces of darkness? It
was an army of blind led by the visually impaired. But maybe — just maybe — that was exactly why I needed them.

  Maybe we could learn together.

  “My dad wasn’t always a lone wolf,” I admitted. “He had my mom to help him at first. She also didn’t have any magic. Do you know where she is now? She’s dead. And not from natural causes.”

  “We know,” said Enisa softly. “And I think I speak for both of us when I say we’re ready to accept that risk if it means making sure you don’t end up dead, too.”

  “Yeah, bro,” Frankie echoed. “Remember when Eric Fisher was making fun of Enisa and I still punched his shit in even though he had about a hundred pounds on me? Same concept.”

  I did remember, and I had no doubt he'd do it again, too. It made me feel happy inside to know that I had such good friends I could depend on. I thought about what I’d do if one of them was in a similar situation, having to face down one of their parents’ killers before they suffered the same fate. The answer was easy: I would help them without hesitation, at any cost, whether they liked it or not. That was just the kind of friendship we had.

  “Thanks, you guys,” I said. “As hard as it is for me to admit it, I know deep down that you’re right. I’m just one wizard with a pug. I can’t do this alone.”

  “Nobody can,” replied Enisa. “But you’ll figure it out. With, of course, the help of your two best friends in the whole world.”

  “Then maybe I should let you know everything I found out so far today. Except… well. To be honest, I haven’t had any breakfast yet, and —”

  “Hot chocolate and waffles?” Frankie asked, hopefully. “As in, hot chocolate and waffles from the Brew?”

  “Nowhere else does it better,” Enisa said. “And besides, you’re right. I owe you one.”

  Supernatural murder mystery or no, I could always make time for a cup of hot chocolate in the cradle of autumn. I took another long look at the computer and at the dusty old office around me before leaving. I didn’t want this to be the only thing I had going for me. I wanted more from my life than reading dusty old books about monsters and how to defeat them. But still, I was one tiny step closer to finding out what happened to my dad, and that was enough of an accomplishment for one morning.