James Swain
Dark Magic
If witches could do any such miraculous things,
as these and other which are imputed to them,
they might do them again and again,
at any time or place, or at any man’s desire.
PART I
1
Visiting the spirit world was never easy. The other side was a shifting landscape of light and dark, where time moved forward and backward, and often stood still. It was here that fierce battles between the forces of good and evil were constantly being waged, with the earth’s outcome weighing in the balance. A visitor could get hurt, if he was not careful.
Peter Warlock knew the risks. He’d visited the spirit world many times, and always returned unharmed. He was at home there, as much as any person could be.
Striking a match, he lit the three white candles sitting on the dining room table in Milly Adams’ apartment. The wicks sparked to life, and he gazed into the faces of the six other psychics sitting around the table. As leader of the Friday night psychics, it was his job to make contact with the spirit world. Clasping the hands of the two women sitting beside him, he shut his eyes, and began to recite the words that allowed him to communicate with the dead.
His world changed. He found himself standing on the sidewalk in an unknown city. Swirling images bounced around him like a kaleidoscope, with scenes flashing by at warp speed. Men, women, and children staggered past, all of whom were dying before his very eyes. The images were torturous, and he twisted uncomfortably in his chair.
“What do you see?” Milly asked, squeezing his hand.
Peter tried to focus. He had a job to do, no matter how painful it might be.
“I’m standing on a street corner in a major metropolitan city. Something terrible has just occurred, and scores of people are dying on the sidewalk and in the street.”
“How are they dying?” Milly asked.
“They’re gasping for breath and going into convulsions. Then they just stop breathing.”
“Is it some type of attack?”
“I’m not sure. I don’t see any guns or bombs going off or anything like that.”
“Which city are you in?”
“I can’t tell. There are too many shadows to make out the street names.”
“Present day?”
“I think so. I see a movie poster on a building for a remake of
“That comes out next week,” Holly Adams whispered, squeezing his other hand.
“Look hard, Peter,” Milly said. “You have to find out where this attack is taking place.”
Still in his trance, Peter stepped off the curb to search for a familiar landmark. A city bus screamed past, the driver slumped at the wheel. It careened off several parked cars before plowing into a storefront and toppling over. He was just a visitor to this world, and there was nothing he could do to help the driver or the passengers inside.
Peter scanned the street. A large skyscraper with an imposing spire on its roof caught his eye. He’d seen the silver ball drop from that spire on New Year’s countless times.
“Oh, no,” he whispered. “It’s here in New York.”
Milly gasped. “Are you sure?”
“Yes. Wait. Everything’s coming into focus now. It’s nighttime in Times Square. The theaters have let out, and the streets are jammed with people. Something awful is happening to them, and they’re grabbing their heads and screaming and dropping to the ground. Cars and buses are crashing into each other as well, their drivers dead. It’s total chaos.”
The rest of the table exchanged worried looks. To Peter’s left sat Milly’s niece Holly, an aspiring witch attending Columbia University; to her left, Reggie Brown, who used his psychic powers to pick winning horses at the racetracks and beat the casinos, and who was the largest donor to good works in the city. To Reggie’s left sat Lester Rowe, a Scottish-born psychic who lived on the Lower East Side and only traveled uptown to attend Milly’s gatherings. To his left, Max Romeo, a world-famous magician, now retired. Beside Max sat Madame Marie, an elderly Gypsy who read Tarot cards out of a dusty storefront in Greenwich Village. Rounding out the circle was Milly, the grande dame of psychics in New York, who could trace her bloodline directly back to the witches of Salem, Massachusetts.
“Ask him, Max,” Madame Marie whispered.
Max nodded. He knew Peter the best, having taken the boy under his wing after his parents had died, and turned him into one of the world’s foremost magicians.
“When, Peter? When will this happen?” Max asked.
“I can’t tell,” Peter replied.
“Look around, see if you can spot something that will tell you the day.”
“The shadows are back. It’s all out of focus.”
Max slapped his hand forcefully onto the table. He did not tolerate anything but perfection from his student. “Look harder, Peter. There has to be something there.”
“I’m trying.”
“Try harder,” Max implored.
Peter spun around, seeing nothing that would tell him the day of the week. His ability to look into the future was as much a curse as it was a gift, and he nearly shouted in frustration.
“It’s not working.”
“Try the news tickers on the office buildings,” Holly suggested. “They usually have stories running across them. That should tell you.”
