Chapter Sixteen

Dad wanted to stay up a while longer, I assume more for his peace of mind than mine. I get it. He desired comprehension and through that, a little bit of comfort. That’s the way Dad rolls. Anything he understands, he thinks he can fix. But if it soars beyond his comfort zone, it unsettles him deeply. My eyelids felt like leaden window shades. Exhaustion had set in, but after one look at Dad, I knew I had to do what I could.

We stayed up for another hour, revisiting the events. He’d ask me a question, or tell me to repeat something for clarification, particularly when I resorted to deliberate ambiguity. I tried my best not to increase his worry-load, but he saw right through me.

I assured him the name of the game now would be the “buddy system.” I wouldn’t go anywhere alone, and I would try and make sure at least one adult hovered over us at all times. He leaned back and nodded with a large, semi-satisfied sigh.

We talked about getting the car fixed tomorrow, but I put that off. I told him Red could surely fix it for parts cost at school Monday and if not, give us a diagnosis. Right now, though, my priorities leaned toward preparations for tomorrow night. But I didn’t tell Dad that.

Before I went to bed, I plugged my phone into the charger and saw a ton of missed texts from Ian and Olivia. Too tired to text, I gave Ian a call, something teens don’t usually do.

“What’s up?” Ian answered. “Olivia texted me earlier and said you were missing. Damn, man. After what happened to Josh, don’t pull a stunt like that. Everything cool?”

“Well, define cool.” For the umpteenth time that night, I told the story.

“Dude, that’s messed up.”

“I know, right? Hey, isn’t your Mom always home?”

“Yeah, never leaves the place, drives me crazy.”

“Okay, cool. Hey, do you think she could run us somewhere tomorrow afternoon since my car’s dead?”

“Yeah, probably. Where we going?”

“We’re going to the mall…”

“Dude, I don’t know, that sounds kind of…chickish. But what the hell, I’m dying to get out of here. Why are we going to the mall?”

“I’ve got to buy some witchcraft supplies,” I said.

****

The abnormally cold weather hung around like a vulture looking for carrion. That morning, the skies floated in a dull, solemn gray, but at least the thunder, lightning, and brain-freezing wind had blown outta town. Even though we were only in November, it felt like the despairing negative degrees of February. I checked the weather on my phone. Sure enough, the forecast for tomorrow called for snow. I couldn’t believe it, but that’s Kansas for you.

Backtracking a bit, Dad hesitated to let me go out. I told him I needed to get out and clear my head, but that didn’t fly. After I explained to him Ian would be my shadow, and his mom had promised to drop us and pick us up at the mall doors, he finally relented.

“You do not leave the mall for any reason,” he said. I knew he didn’t want to let me go. Dad struggled with giving me more freedom and letting me find my wings, possibly because of what happened to Mom. Eventually, though, he thought it best not to fight me on this. And I loved him all the more for it.

“I won’t, Dad, I promise.” I bent down and gave him a quick one-armed hug. “See ya.” When the car horn blared in the driveway, I grabbed my winter coat. Like a roller derby superstar, Dad speedily shot to the front door and looked out to make sure Mrs. Stapleton sat behind the wheel. He gave a curt wave, which she returned.

As an afterthought, I turned around and said, “Hey, Dad, please double-lock the door after me, and don’t let anyone in, okay?”

He stared at me quizzically and then grinned. Embarrassed, I realized I had just “fathered” him. “I’ll be all right. Believe it or not, I can take care of myself,” he said, still grinning. I really didn’t think my dad would become a target for the killer, but after yesterday’s events, I couldn’t be too sure.

I piled in the back seat of the car. “Thanks a lot, Mrs. Stapleton.”

“Of course, Tex,” she said. “If it’s for school work, it has to be done, right?”

I shot Ian a puzzled look. He furrowed his eyebrows, slightly inclining his head as if to say, “Just go with it.”

“Um, yes, school work waits on no one,” I said.

When Mrs. Stapleton pulled in front of the mall’s large front doors, she placed the car in park and stared out the front windshield. Finally, she said, “Ian, are you sure I shouldn’t go with you?”

“Mom! No!” Ian scrunched down a bit, embarrassed, hoping no one had overheard this exchange.

“Okay, okay.” Mrs. Stapleton tossed her hands in the air and spread her fingers. “I just worry.”

“I know, Mom. We’ll be okay, and we’ll see you in about three hours.” He jumped out of the car, and I followed suit. Mrs. Stapleton craned her neck to see that we safely entered the mall. Ian dismissed her with a quick, impatient wave.

To me, the Maple Leaf Shopping Center resembled a huge, ghastly eyesore of prefab concrete buildings connected like interlocking toys designed by an off-his-meds architect. Full of department stores, clothing boutiques, health food outlets…yet you couldn’t find a single bookstore. For some reason, teenagers had made this the in place to go, where they spent endless hours cruising the two long levels, seeking out what amusement they could. Most of these kids didn’t have any money to shop—excluding the spoiled, rich kids, natch—just looking for some excitement to be found under the garish lights. I guess I couldn’t blame them, as there wasn’t much for kids to do in Kansas, especially if you didn’t drive. I’d only been there a handful of times before. On those occasions, Mom had carted me along with her on shopping sprees. Seems like such a long time ago.

Many of the shoppers and mall-walkers gaped at Ian, with his splinted upraised hand. After a while, he got sick of it. Turning angrily proactive, he’d say, “Hello,” or “Good day to you too,” or to one unfortunate woman, “Be careful, what I have is contagious.” He asked me if he should switch to Heil, Hitler due to the unfortunate positioning of his arm. I pleaded with him to not do so.

“I had to tell my mom we’re doing a sociology paper on the cult of shopping,” Ian explained. “She wasn’t going to let me out of her sight until I came up with that.”

I nodded. We all had our parental battles.

Not too long after our shopping binge started, Ian whipped out his phone and began to text one-handed. Quite efficient at it, his thumb flew across the screen.

“Uh-oh,” he said. “We got trouble.”

“What’s up?” I didn’t want any more trouble.

“We’d better go to the food court,” he said with a resigned sigh.

We rounded the corner. Standing in the center of hundreds of cheap plastic tables and chairs, waited Olivia. Her button-adorned purse slouched sassily off her shoulder while she impatiently tapped a black-sneakered foot. One hand perched on her hip, and the other held her cell phone open as she glared at it.

Oh, crap! I’d considered it mistake-worthy not to tell Olivia about our trip to the mall, but I honestly just wanted to keep her safe at home. In the here and now, looking at a pissed-off Olivia, my reasoning seemed kind of askew. But I figured the killer wouldn’t target two teen boys in a mall, whereas Olivia would be dangerously alone if she made a trip to the bathroom. Sexist? Maybe. Caring? Sure. In trouble? Absolutely. I primed myself for a severe tongue-lashing.

Olivia met me with a blood-chilling glare. “Oh, here they come,” she yelled. People sitting at the nearby tables stopped eating their artificial tacos and corn-dogs to watch the commotion. “Hi, girls! I can’t believe you’d even think to go to the mall on your own! How many times have I tried to get you to go? You little girls would probably get lost without me!”

While I felt ashamed and embarrassed, Ian giggled. I nudged him to shut up before things got worse.

“Olivia, I’m sorry,” I said. “I was just trying to protect you.” She whipped the hair over her eye behind her ear, the better to glower at me with. Her hand doubled up into a fist and pounded her hip.

“You don’t get to protect me! I think I’ve proven I can take care of myself. What’s going to happen to me at a mall that wouldn’t happen to you girlies?” Some of the food-court patrons gathered their trays to move farther away from the eye of Hurricane O’.

“Sorry, sorry, sorry,” I said. “I also didn’t think you’d approve of what I’m going to do, to be honest.” Uh-oh, I actually said that out loud.

“And what is it you’re planning on doing? Didn’t you learn your lesson last night?” She visibly shook with rage.

“I’m going to perform a simple…witchcraft spell,” I said, lowering my voice. “There’s nothing to it, really. I’m just going to see if a spirit will tell me who the killer is.” I shifted my eyes left to right, making sure no one still sat within earshot. My hand cupped to my mouth probably made me look more suspicious.

“Gah! So stupid! I can’t believe you were sending me to church while you two girls were going shopping.”

Ian laughed again. If looks could kill, Ian would’ve been a goner.

She grabbed a Styrofoam cup off a table and took a long drink out of the straw. “Okay, I’ve got my shot of caffeine. Let’s get shopping.” She pulled her giant purse tighter around her shoulder and brushed by us. She turned around and asked “Well? Are you coming or what?”

We hurried to catch up with her. “How did you know where to find us?” asked Ian.

“Because you dumb-asses only answer your phones half the time, I called Tex’s dad, who told me,” she spat. “Mom dropped me off here on her way to church. By the way, Ian, your mom’s giving me a ride home.”

“Okay,” said Ian, humbled. I wish I possessed Olivia’s magical effect on Ian. Some witch I am.

“You’ve got to quit doing this crap to me.” She walked in front of us, backward, making sure she held our attention. Along with everyone else’s attention in the mall. “I mean really!”

“Okay,” we both said.

“Now, gimme the witchy shopping list…”

****

Before we’d set out on our shopping spree that morning, I’d told Dad I had to go upstairs and finish my homework since I didn’t get a chance to do so on Saturday. I went into Mom’s study and did an inventory of what I needed to purchase.

Pushed up against the back wall loomed a curious piece of furniture. An antique, wooden, rectangular box stood at about five feet tall and approximately three feet wide. It reminded me of a monster-sized drawer resting on its end. Or an unfinished coffin, because these days that’s the way my mind rolled. Ornate hand-carved leaves ran around the trim edges. A small, cream-colored curtain, drawn across on a metal rod, hid an empty shelf behind it. Melted wax blemished the top of the cupboard.

As a kid, I remember asking Mom about the piece. She called it her “special armoire.” I never knew what she meant. But when you’re young and naive, you accept parents’ answers as truth and absolutely knew things would clear up with the wisdom of age.

It had to have been her altar. I doubted I could find one at the mall, so I checked this off my list. In her closet, I found some incense, on the crumbling end of its life. I took a whiff, thought it smelled decent, and decided even crumbling things would burn and give off the proper aroma. Another item off the list.

In her desk, I found some parchment paper. Check. I couldn’t find the last important item in her office, however.

Having struck out upstairs, I rummaged through the junk silverware drawer—not to be confused with our utensils drawer—and searched in vain for a dagger. A lot of dull steak knives jam-packed the drawer, which didn’t come close to defining a dagger to the best of my understanding. So I planned a trip to the knife store at the mall.

****

Hesitant as three rabbits crossing a highway at rush hour, we entered Greydon’s Knives. An overweight clerk looked up from his hunting magazine, eyeing us suspiciously. Olivia shook her head and sneered with obvious disdain at the knife-ware on display. Ian, on the other hand, found his new candy shop. Delighted at the sheer number of potentially damage-causing weapons, beckoning like shiny, metallic sirens, he touched everything not locked up under the glass case the clerk leaned on.

“Can I help you, kids?” He finally stood up and flipped his magazine onto the counter.

“Uh, yes,” I said. “Do you have anything by way of daggers?” I’d never foreseen myself asking this question to anyone.

“Daggers? What kind of ‘dagger’ are you looking for?”

“We’re putting on a small Renaissance Festival at school.” Olivia enunciated perfectly, attempting to sound older. At least she didn’t pull out her cockney accent again. “We would like something rustic, old-fashioned, and quite beautiful.” And here we go, next stop the East end of London.

The clerk grinned. “I think I know what’s going on here. You kids wouldn’t happen to be practitioners of the black arts, now, would you?” The way he said practitioners took forever as he dragged it out with at least four extra syllables. He leered creepily at Olivia while ignoring Ian and me.

“Well, not exactly,” continued Olivia, “but I do believe that’s the exact sort of item we’re looking to purchase.”

“Uh-hmmm.” He turned around, opened a cabinet behind him, and brought out a brown box, setting it down gently on a piece of cloth in front of us. With great reverence and more than a little show, he opened it. Within lay an arrangement of jewel-handled knives with twisting blades. Daggers, I suppose. Ian’s eyes positively sparkled.

“Yes, this will do splendidly. What is the going price for the cheapest knife here?” Olivia gave a haughty sniff.

“The ‘going price’?” he guffawed. “Well, the going price for the cheapest knife here would be…I’d say…about two hundred fifty dollars.” We stared at each other, stunned. I’d been prepared to go up to thirty dollars tops, but no way could I swing this. Based on his supercilious look, I suspect he hiked the price up on us young rubes.

“I see,” said Olivia. “You wouldn’t happen to have anything second-hand, would you?”

A slow, rumbling chuckle built, then exploded from the clerk’s large quivering belly. Clearly the most fun he’d had in a while. “Now, the going price for these here Black Magic artifacts is expensive, because, believe it or not, this is where I make the real cash. You wouldn’t believe how much black magic business I do here in Kansas. Why in the world do you think I opened up a store in the mall? Do ya’ really think all the other teeny-boppers out there want to buy knives?” He swept his chubby hand toward the mall’s hall.

“No, I suppose not.” I saw Olivia’s internal struggle not to rip him a new one, while Ian and I just stood by helplessly.

“Now, far be it from me to judge you for your personal…ah…beliefs, little lady.” Uh-oh. “But if you want the goods, you got to pay the price.” He stood there, mouth open, strands of saliva forming bridges between his upper and lower teeth.

Olivia clamped her lips tightly. “Could you rent us one for the night?”

“Hmmm, I’ve never had a request for something like that before. But for you, I suppose I could make an exception.” Ever so delicately, he pulled out the smallest knife in the box. “How does fifty bucks sound, little lady?” Uh-oh, again.

“It sounds like…” To my amazement, Olivia stomped on her brakes. “It sounds like I need to confer with my associates.” She turned around to face us. “Tex, how important is this to you?”

“Forget it, O’,” I whispered. “I only have thirty bucks.”

“How important is it?”

“I just want to put an end to this nightmare. I thought this might be the fastest, best way to do it. I mean, what’s the point of my…powers…if I don’t use them for good?”

“Fine,” she said. “But, promise me right now you’re not going to use it as a weapon of any sort. Okay?”

The thought had never crossed my mind. “No way. You know me better than that.”

She twirled around to face the clerk and whipped out a twenty-dollar bill from her pocket. “Sold!” The money slammed down onto the counter, prompting me to jump a bit. “Tex, let’s have your thirty dollars.”

Before I could object, the clerk said, “Okay, I just need to see picture ID that you’re twenty-one, or a signed approval from a parent.” He chuckled again. “You kids didn’t really think I was going to sell you a dagger to go perform black magic acts with live chickens, did you? I mean, I’ve got to abide by the law. No minors.”

Olivia snatched up the twenty-dollar bill and stashed it back into her pocket. “Okay, listen to me. I’m so glad we supplied some entertainment value to your sad, empty life, and you got some laughs.” The second she crossed her arms, I actually pitied the clerk. When he started putting away the knives, I felt relief.

“But I’ll tell you something,” she continued. “The next time you string somebody along like that, just remember they have a life. And you’ll go home, read your hunting magazines—doing only God knows what while you’re looking at the pictures—then you’ll come back to your stupid, sad little store of stupid toys and weapons.” The clerk’s ever-present grin vanished. She turned on her heels and said, “Let’s go, boys.” We left the store, Ian and I laughing.

Olivia said, “Wait a minute,” and ran back to the open door. “And don’t you ever call me ‘little lady,’ again, you…you gross man!”

Okay, I thought, we do need Olivia. How in the world we ever got anything accomplished without her is one of life’s great mysteries.

****

We finished our shopping spree with four white candles and a robe. I didn’t think it mattered what kind of robe I used—a robe is a robe, right?—so I bought the cheapest bathrobe I could find.

Olivia stood in the checkout line, just shaking her head. “Jesus, Tex, do you want some lovely bubble-bath to go along with that?”

“Are you planning on a nice romantic dinner for one?” chimed in Ian. The checkout girl stared blankly at us.

“Funny, guys.” I realized my purchases did make it look like I planned to pamper myself.

“You should’ve gone for the robe I pointed out to you.” Olivia sneered with disgust at the brown robe I picked out. “Honestly…so sucky.”

We waited by the front doors until Ian’s mom showed up. “I still need a dagger,” I said, wondering if a steak knife would do the trick.

“I’ve got an idea,” said Ian. “My dad goes hunting with a special knife he uses to gut deer with.” Olivia feigned a throwing up motion. “Would that work?” I thought it couldn’t hurt to try; probably better than a rusty steak knife.

On the way home, Ian asked his mom if we could stop by their house first because he had to give me something for our school assignment.

“Well, you know me, kids,” sang Mrs. Stapleton, delighted to be able to help further our academic pursuits. “Education is everything!”

Ian raced into the house, leaving us to make small talk with Mrs. Stapleton. Five minutes later, Ian returned holding a bogus stack of papers. He opened the back door, handed me the papers, and quietly dropped a large knife into my lap. Quickly, I scrambled to hide it in my coat pocket.

Mrs. Stapleton dropped me off first. “Say hello to your dad for me, Tex,” she said.

“Okay. Thanks for the ride, Mrs. Stapleton. Bye, guys. Text me tonight.” I got out of the car, shooing cats all the way up the sidewalk. Before I reached the front door, Olivia had already texted me.

—Yur sure this spell isn’t dangerous, right?—

I stood on the stoop, typing, and freezing. —Yes. Just going to contact Mom or friendly spirit. Nothing dangerous.—

Sadly, I found myself withholding the entire truth to her again. I didn’t intend to speed-dial Mom or a friendly spirit on my conjuring network.

“Dad, I’m home,” I yelled through the chained and bolted door, glad to see Dad took my suggestion to heart.

“Just a minute.” His voice sounded muted, far away, probably from the kitchen.

“Did your dad lock you out of the house, Richard?” called out the all-too-familiar, nasal voice from next door. Out on his porch-vigil and bundled up to beat the cold, Mr. Cavanaugh indulged in his favorite past-time: getting all up in my business.

“Yeah, something like that, Mr. Cavanaugh.” Under my breath, I cursed. Cold jags of air spat plumed from my mouth.

“You must’ve been especially naughty,” he purred.

Hurry up, Dad.

Once unlocked, I flew inside, hoping Dad wouldn’t notice the plastic bag I carried.

“How was the shopping adventure?” He eyeballed the bag. “What’d you buy?”

“Ah, I bought…a bathrobe. It gets cold upstairs going to the bathroom in the mornings.”

“Oh… You should’ve told me, son, I would’ve been happy to buy you one.”

“Dad, you and I both know it came from you anyway since my allowance is my only income.”

“Glad you see it that way,” he said, laughing. “Come on, dinner’s about ready.”

****

We finished dinner—chili again, welcome on a cold night—and jumped directly into putting the dishes away.

“Did you and your friends have fun at the mall today?” Although Dad concentrated on drying a bowl, he couldn’t help but sneak glances at me.

Honestly—unbelievably—we had had fun. Something I just realized. I found this astonishing, in the light of everything going on, particularly the death of Josh. It gave me a little bit of hope.

“Yeah, actually, we did.”

Dad made arrangements for a work friend to pick both of us up tomorrow morning and drop me at school. I said goodnight and bounded up the stairs. Almost ten-thirty, it was a little too early to perform my spell, but not too early to start on the preparations. Soooo many preparations in witchcraft. Maybe I could find an apprentice on Craig’s List.

With my plastic mall sack of goods in hand, I entered Mom’s study. Carefully, I rolled up the large multi-colored rug covering most of the floor and scooted it underneath the window. I always thought it odd Mom had such a large barren space in her study, with nothing on top of the rug. But now I easily put two and two together. While I drew a large chalk circle on the hardwood floor, I envisioned Mom doing the same thing in the past.

I laid the library book—an old musty tome called The Book of Ancient Witchcraft and Spells—next to the circle and opened it to one of the bookmarked pages. With painstaking detail, I copied symbols, ancient lettering of some sort, pentagrams, and hexagrams lining the inside of the circle. I drew another circle within the circle, enclosing the drawings, leaving plenty of blank space in between them.

Dragging the altar across the floor, I positioned it in front of the circle. Next, I set four candles in small holders on the corners of the altar. Incense rested in a small oval bowl at the center of the candles.

At eleven-thirty, I had about twenty minutes before I could perform the ritual. With time to kill, I pondered how Mickey wouldn’t approve of my doing this potentially dangerous spell. But I wanted to keep her out of this entire serial killer business. Bad enough my friends and loved ones were drowning in the consuming whirlpool of madness. Whether by accident or design, too many people had been either hurt or killed lately, and it fell on me to stop it.

I put on my ill-fitting robe—Olivia would’ve hated how it looked—and fastened it tight. I lit the candles, careful to avoid dripping wax on the altar or my floor drawing. Before I lit the incense, I opened the window wide to let in a breeze, hoping it would diffuse the scent so as not to awaken Dad. The cold air blew lightly in, flapping the cream-colored curtains ever so gently. For ten minutes, I stood silently, nervously, gauging the wind, and determined the candles wouldn’t blow out. Step one complete.

I lit the incense and waited for the sickly, sweet odor of exotic perfume to permeate the room. The smell grew so intense my eyes watered, but it didn’t take much for this allergy-ridden witch boy to show symptoms. Cat hair and everything else witchy seemed to bother the hell outta me. Surely, there’s a special witch allergy pill for us outliers or something.

The next step—one I picked up from an Internet video (probably not the best source, but hey, desperate times and all that)—involved carefully pouring a ring of salt around the drawn circle. Not wanting to take any chances, I sorta kitchen-sinked my way through this entire deal, combining several different methods and spells of conjuring—like a chef creating a hodge-podge recipe in the kitchen—with the salt providing cautionary comfort, nothing essential.

Finally, I placed the hunting knife within reach next to the circle. Okay, just a few more minutes until showtime.

Two different methods had been presented to me during my research. The first involved conjuring up a spirit on the so-called astral plane. Even though this sounded safer and possibly less scary, I didn’t have the necessary crystal ball it called for. And I certainly didn’t want to take another day to find a crystal ball store. The second method, the one I chose, clearly came with some risk. I planned on dialing up a spirit on the physical plane. Mickey’d kill me if she knew—even books and Internet articles warned against it—but to me, it felt like my only option left.

I didn’t want to conjure—or contact—Mom again. The thought of disturbing her, or placing her in some kind of danger in the spiritual world, weighed too heavily on me. Of course, the same went for Josh. No way could I tolerate seeing his tortured spirit, especially if I yanked him out of a nice, peaceful afterlife of some sort. As of now, I really don’t know where my thoughts fit in regarding the spiritual world—especially the afterlife—but from what I’ve seen lately, it gives me pause there might be something out there.

But I sure didn’t mind dredging up the soul—if he ever had one—of Bob Bellman from the bowels of hell.

I wrote his name on a piece of parchment paper and placed it next to the bowl of incense on the altar. Grabbing the knife, I pantomimed the sign of the pentagram in the air in several different directions. Leaning over, keeping my feet perfectly still so as not to come anywhere near the circle and salt, I grabbed the parchment paper. I stared at it intently, chanting Bellman’s name over and over again.

My breath held, I stared into the center of the circle. I pulled out my cheat sheet and slowly read aloud, “I command and conjure you, Bob Bellman, to appear before me within my magical circle in a safe and friendly manner.” A slew of Latin words, which I attempted to read without slaying the ancient language, followed.

The air thickened, what I imagined London fog to be like, only denser. Time stopped, not a sound to be heard. A musty, rancid odor tortured my nostrils. My eyes flooded with irritation, worse than before from the incense. The earlier breeze vanished, the curtains hanging on the window still as death. Behind the altar, the windowpanes blurred. From a non-existent light source, a greenish tint eerily lit the room. An unearthly green blob—indistinct shapes mashed together—appeared, rotating, stopping within the center of the circle. Smoke circled and danced around the green mass. A pair of eyes, white as snow, formed at the center of this miniature tornado, staring back at me, unblinking. The all-too-familiar face began to form around the eyes, smoke swirling in and out as if teasing the spectral figure.

Soon, Bellman’s unibrow knit together above glaring eyes, followed by the nose, mouth, and green teeth, at home within the rest of his green face. The neck followed, the chest dropping down, birthing itself. Legs sprouted through the smoke, oddly detached and stepping out of line like an errant chorus girl. The full figure danced awkwardly about, shimmering, breaking apart, and reforming every few seconds. No arms, though. Good, harder for him to throttle me from beyond the grave.

Okay, with the curtain drawn back, the bad guy on stage, it felt like my cue to jump into witchy action. I cleared my throat, then did it again.

“What is your name, O spirit?” Well, duh. But proper protocol and all.

A loud ear-ripping shriek emanated from nowhere before Bellman’s mouth opened, exposing Bellman’s eternally rotting teeth. “Ro…bo…ert…Bel…uh…man,” replied the thing. Unbelievably, the spiritual Bellman spoke even more inarticulately than the late, not-so-great living version.

“In peace I welcome you, Bob Bellman, and in the name of the Mother Earth, the fire, the wind, and the water, I command you to stay where you are until dismissed and to answer all questions I put before you truthfully.” Upon seeing Bellman again—an even scarier than living Bellman—my junk tried to crawl up into my stomach. Suddenly on fire, sweat soaked me from my hair, my pits. My throat dried up, more arid than a desert. I thought this ugly chapter in my life had closed forever. Too late for regrets, all in.

A loud screech reverberated around the room. Green mists churned and merged, formed and reformed his body, a petulant puzzle in progress.

“Who killed you, Bellman?”

Abruptly, wind blasted through the window, stronger than before, and snapped the curtains back and forth. Then radio silence. Within the circle, green smoke obscured the figure. Kinda a major worry.

“Who killed you, Bellman?” I asked again, louder.

Bellman’s death visage poked out from the green wisps again, the blank eyes unseeing, the mouth gaping even wider. An awful banshee-like wail filled the room, ricocheting off the walls and ceiling. Suddenly, an arm appeared out of the clouds of Hell, a fat sausage-like finger extended, pointing at me. The crazed howling continued.

A huge, unnatural gust of wind barreled through the open window, knocking the curtains and rod to the floor. Startled, I lost my footing and stumbled backward. Attempting to counter-balance, I flung myself forward, arms stretched out. I fell to my knees with a loud thwack! My right hand landed on the salt and chalk circle line. I quickly pulled my hand out as if burnt. But the two concentric circles had been broken.

The altar slid across the floor backward and slammed against the window. The candles blew out, then tipped out of the candlesticks to the floor. I looked up into Bellman’s face leaning out of the circle directly above me. Grinning. Still sitting, I scrambled back, a panicked crab. Slowly, the thing lurched toward me, a cloud of green enveloping its lower body. I scrabbled to get up on shaking legs. With the knife, I frantically drew the sign of the pentagram several times. But the creature’s movement hastened. Next to the broken circle, I saw the book lying on the floor. My last chance.

I jumped to the right. The creature flailed about but couldn’t turn very quickly. Staying out of arms’ reach, I snagged the book. Intense heat rolled off of Bellman, growing more intense with each step closer. Quickly, I flipped the tome’s pages until I reached another bookmarked spell.

“I banish you, Bob Bellman, to return to your sphere of origin. By the authority of the true Mother of Earth, I command you to depart and harm no one on your travels,” I stuttered, words tumbling together like a verbal avalanche.

Bellman’s spirit stopped. Its arm still extended, the accusatory finger still pointing at me. Suddenly another death-wail bounced off the walls, ringing in my ears so badly, I dropped the knife. The knife thunked into the wooden floor, the handle wobbling to and fro, an inch from my big toe.

The thing quivered and shook. Its eyes moved apart, rolling across its dead face like scattershot pinballs. An ear rotated around to the front of the head. As the green mists encircled it, tighter and tighter, the spirit eroded and strangled until it became just a thin, roiling wisp of smoke. It disappeared with an anti-climactic plip.

Abominations from hell vanish with a plip?

The room temperature dropped, frigidly so. As fast as possible, I dashed to the circle and rubbed it out with my foot. No sense leaving the door to Hell open, thank you very much. I shut the window quietly, but it probably didn’t make a difference now since much louder things had occurred in the room.

For a few moments, I sat on the floor, hyperventilating. Recovering. After feeling like I could walk again, I picked up everything witch-related, stuffed it into my plastic shopping bag, and hastily tossed it into the closet. With one last look around the room, I ensured I hadn’t forgotten anything. Once I pulled the door shut behind me, the furnace’s welcome warmth embraced me. In the hallway, I peeked down the stairwell to see if Dad had awakened. Miraculously, all lights stayed off.

I tiptoed to my room and collapsed into the bed. As an afterthought, I got up again and locked my bedroom door before getting back under the covers. It probably wouldn’t keep ghosts out, but it couldn’t hurt.

Bellman stayed true to form in death, a vindictive, crazy bitch from hell. Or had he really meant to implicate me in his murder somehow by pointing at me? I pulled the covers over my head, still terrified of my boogeyman.

And no doubt about it, I screwed this one up royally.

The two women in my life—Olivia and Mickey—kept proving they were right, while I still hadn’t graduated from dumbass class. I shouldn’t have attempted this hare-brained spell, and tomorrow, I’d ask for Mickey’s help, something I should’ve done in the first place.

One way or another, this ends tomorrow.