Friday Nightmares Read online

  ~&~

  Soon enough, I was tucked away in the corner of one of the coziest cafes the city had to offer, sipping a mug of hot chocolate with extra marshmallows. Enisa and Frankie had also gotten hot chocolates; only Enisa had requested hers with mint and Frankie wanted his with a turbo shot of espresso.

  The Brew was the spookiest gathering place this side of Boston. The owners were a pair of married witches, and it was easy for me to tell, even if humans weren’t privy to that fact. Fake cobwebs and faux spiders hung from the ceiling, and pictures of alleged ghostly images, apparitions and orbs lined the walls. Flickering miniature jack-o-lanterns sat on each of the tabletops and the chalkboard menu behind the counter was scribbled with special lattes flavors such as “WITCHES BREW MOCHA” and “PUMPKIN SPICE AND EVERYTHING NICE.” Even though it was the perfect time of the year for it, I’d been frequenting the cafe enough to know these decorations stayed up all the way through Christmas and summer.

  We managed to snag a seat at a table beside the window, where we had a good view of the steady rain creating deep puddles on the sidewalk and pooling on the road outside. It was the type of day where an umbrella was more of a necessity than a luxury, especially if you didn’t want to deal with the sticky weight of damp cotton.

  It was just the three of us outcasts, chilling in a coffee shop and talking about the paranormal. Rusty was even allowed, thanks to the witchy owners, who knew how deep the bond was between a witch or wizard and their Familiar. It may as well have been the perfect October afternoon, had it not been for the backdrop of bloody father-murdering going on.

  That really put a damper on things.

  “So let me make sure I got all this straight,” Enisa was saying as she let her drink cool. “There’s a good chance that your father was investigating this spell book that is going on display at the museum before he died. And later today, you’re going to question this Gabriel guy who works at said museum, despite the decent chance you could also end up murdered just as your father was. Plus, he may be sending you messages from beyond the grave warning you about how much danger you’re in.”

  “That about sums it up, yeah,” I replied, taking a sip of mine.

  “Henry Candle, you’re the craziest friend I’ve ever had. And if you become the deadest friend I’ve ever had, I might just have to dig you up and kill you again. I swear it in the names of Cassandra Clare and John Green and you know I don’t take either of those names lightly.”

  “Dude,” said Frankie, who wasn’t so much sipping his hot chocolate as he was gulping it. “What're you even going to say to him? ‘Hey, what's up? Do you know who killed my dad’?”

  “Yeah, that’d be a good way to get a door slammed in my face and the cops called,” I said. “I promise that I didn’t learn to talk yesterday.”

  “The most important thing to ask him about is that spell book,” said Enisa. “I feel like that’s at the center of this investigation.”

  I nodded. “At least for now. And that means I’m also going to have to do what my dad was planning on doing in the first place: infiltrate the museum and discover more about it.”

  “Can we come?” asked Frankie. “I’ve always wanted to infiltrate something.”

  “I’m going to have to use some heavy-duty disguise magic for the museum, the kind that only works on witches and wizards. I’ve never really done it before and I don’t want to risk you guys getting stuck in a form you can’t get yourselves out of.”

  That wasn’t a lie. Casting a long-term spell on a non-magical person was risky. It affected them differently than it affected us, and therefore made it completely unpredictable. But I didn’t want to exclude them from the search for the killer entirely, and I couldn’t deny that I needed their help.

  “But there is something you can do,” I continued. “Find out as much information as you can about the murder of that museum employee, Marcus Robinson. Also, look into the history of the museum, if you can.”

  “We’ll do that,” said Frankie. “Or Enisa will do it and I’ll cheer her on.”

  “The most likely scenario,” agreed Enisa. “So, it’s permanent? You’re officially the new owner of Candle Paranormal Investigations?”

  “It’s not actually official until Halloween, but yes. I am. My father left it to me in his will.”

  “But you never wanted this, Henry. Not for as long as I’ve known you.”

  “I don’t have a choice, Enisa,” I said. “I have to take it over. If I don’t put my name on that nameplate on Halloween night, I’ll be out of my magic. And that means no more Henry and Rusty.”

  “How can he just do that? Take away your magic. That’s so unfair.”

  “It’s been that way since Candle Paranormal Investigations first began in the early eighteen hundreds. My great-great-grandfather started the tradition. We have to decide to take over the business on the first Halloween of our sixteenth birthdays, or our magic is forfeit.”

  “And I thought my parents were bad for making me take over Lucky Sevens,” muttered Frankie. “All I have to do when I grow up is sling bourbon chicken, not slay demons.”

  “My dad had to make the same ‘choice’ and I’m sure it wasn’t easy for him, either. But before I can actually take it over and make it mine, I need to find out what happened to him. That’s my main concern right now.”

  “I know, Henry. I know. Just be careful, okay? Something’s wrong, and it’s not just the rainy day outside.”

  I understood because I felt it, too. To say that something was amiss would be understating it. It was the same sensation of being watched that I’d felt when I was on my way home last night, and it gave me a chill that not even the warmth of a fireside hot chocolate in the cradle of autumn could extinguish.

  A wave of misgiving washed over me at the thought of involving myself even further. But at the same time, I didn’t think abandoning this whole thing would guarantee my safety from whatever powerful, deepening darkness had murdered my father. I was already involved by virtue of being his only son, and thereby the last of the Candle wizards.

  I needed to face down the darkness and emerge victoriously.

  It was in my blood.

  Unfortunately, so was an early grave.

  Four

  Big Boy Magic

  I honestly wasn’t sure what to expect when I arrived at the address supplied to me by the case file. There was a car in the driveway of the squat white-linoleum home, and a light was on in the window. Signs of life.

  I put it into park and hopped out of the car, opening an umbrella to shield me from the steady pitter-patter of rain. Then I moved up to the door, notepad in hand, ignoring once more the nagging sensation that something was observing me as closely as one might observe an ant in a farm. I rang the doorbell and it chimed once, twice, three times. Several seconds after the third ding, the door eased open just a hair and a man poked his head out.

  The man peeking out matched my father’s description of Gabriel O’Mackey spot-on. He was petite, plump, and red-faced, like an overripe apple that’d clung to the tree for one season too long. His orange hair was ruffled in spots as if he’d just climbed out of bed. The white t-shirt and flannel pants seemed to agree with my guess.

  “What do you want?” It came out of his mouth as one big, long, cranky word.

  “Um, are you Mr. O’Mackey?” I asked, putting on a cordial smile. Grams had always likened my smile to a beam of sunshine on a cloudy day, and I took it to heart. “How are you doing today?”

  He furrowed his brow and closed the door, just a tad. “Who the hell are you?”

  Sorry I didn’t introduce myself. I guess you have a right to be suspicious. My name is Henry Candle, son of James Candle, of Candle Paranormal Investigations.” If this rang any bells, they were totally silent. I went on. “Um, I was wondering if I could maybe talk to you about your case, Mr. O’Mackey. You see, my father passed away just recently, and yours was the final case he —”

  “Go away,” h
e snapped.

  And then, he slammed the door right in my face.

  If you’ve ever had a door slammed right in your literal face, you should know that it stung. Bad. He couldn’t have offended me more if he punched me right in the mouth and walked away. But I wasn’t ready to give up just yet.

  Not when there were innocent lives on the line.

  I rang the doorbell again. And again. And again. After about five tries, he opened the door once more- and he looked much angrier this time.

  “I thought I told you to —"

  “You have to help me,” I said. “I’m trying to find out why my dad died and if anyone else is in danger, including me. I see that one of your co-workers is gone, and I don’t want the same thing to happen to you. As a fellow Spellcrafter, please open your door and let me in so we can talk. I’m begging you.”

  Spellcrafter. It was the word we witches and wizards used to distinguish ourselves from stage magicians and tween wannabes that painted their nails black and listened to Marilyn Manson. It was a passionate plea, one that I hoped could open even his closed mind.

  And so it did. He opened his door up a hair more and stepped aside.

  “Fine, then,” he said, even though he didn’t sound too happy about it. “Come on in. And don’t meander, either; I want to see you hustle. No good to leave the door open too long in a time like this.”

  We entered his home quickly, filing in one by one. It wasn’t exactly the neatest place in the world: there were pizza boxes on the counters, and magazines strewn about the floor, and an ironing board was halfway into the kitchen and halfway out. Grams would have a heart attack to see such a cluttered living space. But a cluttered living space reflected a cluttered mind, and this grumpy man had a head full of mess.

  “Take a seat anywhere you’d like,” he said, and then he plopped himself back down on the couch. I obeyed, taking a seat on the love seat adjacent to him. Rusty remained on the floor, which I thought was only polite. “Ask your questions. Don’t expect many answers, though. I still don’t know what’s going on myself.”

  “All right,” I said, opening my notebook. “First of all, thanks for letting me in. I know that was probably hard for you.”

  I waited for a response, but all I got was a blank stare and a grunt. I decided it was best to just get to the actual reason why I was here and cut the small talk.

  “Anyway. Like I said, my dad recently died a little over a month ago. This morning I was going through his most recent case files when I stumbled across yours. His last one.”

  “What an honor,” said O’Mackey, thick with sarcasm. “My life’s in such danger that the people who try to help me end up dead.”

  “It doesn’t have to be that way, though. I can help.”

  “You, help?” He scoffed. “This is big boy magic. The kind of magic that even the most seasoned Spellcrafters the world over would have trouble taming. Nothing an amateur wizard like yourself has any business meddling in, Candle or no.”

  “Tell that to the Candle ancestors. They all took over the family business when they turned sixteen. And now I am, too, since my dad’s dead and gone.”

  “Hmph. What a special family tradition.”

  “I’m not here to talk about that, though. I’m here to talk about this exhibit. The ‘Real Witchcraft’ thing?”

  He gave a bitter, humorless laugh. “That’s the one. Ironic, isn’t it? Couple of people at the museum are Spellcrafters, too, and intended for the exhibit to reveal our existence to non-magical folk. Said it was to dispel bigoted notions that all magic was evil. Look how that turned out? Maybe they were right.”

  Gutsy move. Some people had an inkling that magic and witchcraft were real, but usually, that inkling remained just that. Like the Darkon, magic never showed up on film or on camera, and most attempts at a public display of magic were stopped by the Council of Magi before they could even happen. Most of our kind preferred it’d stay that way, but there were those who were slowly pushing us “out of the broom closet,” so to speak.

  I wasn’t sure how I felt about that either way. More tolerance was always cool, but our world was in for a shock if (or when) that day came.

  “You think this exhibit has a direct correlation with the deaths of your co-worker and my father?”

  “I don’t think it does,” he replied. “I know it does.”

  The way he said that- as if it were as common sense as the sun rising and setting- gave me goosebumps. Serious goosebumps, all up and down my arms.

  “How do you know that it does?”

  “Because of all the weird things that’ve been happening ever since we acquired one piece in particular. It was a Grimoire, you see: meant to fit in with the ‘sacred magical texts’ portion of the exhibit. But I knew it was evil the first time I held it in my hands. I knew it from one look at that damn cover.”

  “What’d that cover look like?”

  “Like a monstrosity. It was bound in purple flesh and covered in stitches.”

  “Purple flesh?” I repeated. “You can’t mean… ”

  “I do. There’s only one being I know of with skin that color, and it’s not from this world. I couldn’t believe anyone in their right mind would bring something like that here, to this city, with that symbol etched into Darkon flesh.”

  I shuddered at the mere thought of the kind of dark magic that would be required for someone to conjure up a Darkon and skin it. And the spells which would be in a Grimoire like that…

  “What symbol was on the cover?” I asked.

  “A serpent eating itself, its mouth clutched it in its tail, forming a perfect circle. They call it an Ouroboros, and it’s one of the most ancient symbols of black magic there is.”

  At this, I was flabbergasted almost to the point of shock. I didn’t even know what to say next, so I just reached into my pocket, pulled out my phone, and showed him a picture.

  It wasn’t a pretty picture. I didn’t even want to save it to my phone, at first, and had almost deleted it on several different occasions to keep from viewing it. It was of a short-haired man wearing nothing but a pair of jeans, laying spread-eagle in a pool of his own blood. Grasped in his left fist was a slip of paper.

  Upon that paper were three letters: “T-E-P.” It was, cops said, the most baffling part of the whole confounding crime scene. What was the significance of those three letters, and why did he feel the need to bring that paper with him to do… whatever? What could he be digging up an hour out of the city limits, deep in the New England woods?

  It didn’t make any sense.

  But the worst part — the part that gave me the most chills — was the symbol carved onto his chest: a snake eating its own tail, stuck in an endless loop.

  An Ouroboros.

  I showed him the picture and he leaned in to examine it closer.

  “This is my father,” I explained. “This is how he was found in the middle of the woods, two days after helping you. And the symbol on his chest-”

  “-is the same one that was on the Grimoire,” he finished, furrowing his brow. “Dammit. Why’d you have to bring this into my home, boy? I’ve been scared shitless these past few weeks.”

  “You think you’re the only one who’s scared?” Now I was losing patience with him. “I can barely sleep at night because all I can see when I close my eyes is that picture. The man who taught me all I know about magic was just slaughtered. And if you don’t want to end up the same way, you’d better start telling me more so I can at least have the faintest glimmer of a shot at saving both our asses. Where is the Grimoire now?”

  He straightened up and crossed his arms, peering around the room as if attempting to confirm we really were alone. “It’s gone,” he said.

  “Gone?” I repeated. “What do you mean?”

  “I mean, it’s gone. Vanished the day after I met your dad. Nobody knows what happened to it.”

  But of course. This job would never be easy, would it? And without any idea what the Grimoir
e was about or who had written it, I had nothing to go on but a snake.

  “What was my dad planning to do about this?” I asked, feeling like I’d been struck by something very heavy. “Do you know why he was out in the woods the night he died?”

  “No clue. I only met him once. He told me he was going to ask some questions at the museum and get back to me. Haven’t heard from him since. I’m sorry to hear about your loss, but I’m not surprised.”

  I recalled one of the final portions of my father’s case notes — the part about going to the museum in disguise as a reporter — and realized he probably never got a chance to carry out his plan. Maybe I could be the one to do it.

  Maybe I had to be.

  Who knew what other secrets the museum was hiding?

  “Did they cancel the exhibit?” I asked.

  He shook his head. “Nope. It’s still on, believe it or not. Lots of the people at the museum are gung-ho about this whole Spellcrafter revelation talk. I don’t think they realize how few of us there are these days. We’d do better to stay hidden for good.”

  That sounded about right. Centuries of burning and persecution had finally caught up with us. All of the Spellcrafters in Boston could barely fill up a few city blocks, and we had one of the largest magical communities in the country.

  Still, I didn’t want to get into some type of political argument with him, since that was a topic that could drag on for hours. I decided it was time to go before I got dragged into one, however, with or without my content.

  “Thank you for your time,” I said, feeling anxious as I got up to my feet. “I’ll look into the matter and –“

  “Take my advice and just don’t,” he said, adamant. “Your father said he solved hundreds of cases and even he wasn’t a match for this thing. If some evil being or Darkcrafter is really out for blood, there’s no way you want to be caught in their path. Especially not at your age.”