I didn’t believe that was it. I didn’t believe it was true, that there were no greater secrets to the universe. That there really weren’t occult ways to read people’s minds and manipulate them to do one’s bidding. The Dark Arts existed; I knew they had to. Witchcraft existed; I was sure of it.
* * *
One night, after a show, Danny and I reclined at his apartment, drinking red wine and musing about the state of the world. We worked together nearly daily, so Danny had cleaned out one of his rooms for me. I didn’t live there, although free rent was tempting. But being with Danny was not tempting at all. His endless stories and constant fiddling with tricks got on my nerves. So, I’d use the room as my office, my safety spot. And yes, I confess, I even stayed overnight in the room now and again, but didn’t make it a regular habit.
That night, I sat back on his long, red velvet couch, my dainty shoes long kicked off, my black poodle skirt spread across the cushions as I held my glass up to the light, enjoying the reflection of the wine. The room was his living room, decorated with two couches, several chairs, a couple of coffee tables, and tons of “things.” It could have been a hoarder house, I suppose, only this was a “collection.” Everything was specifically placed. Every item related back to magic in some manner, from the large vintage posters on the walls, one was even from a Houdini show, to the creepy puppets perched around the room in various puppet chairs, and hundreds of decks of cards. The puppet he bought that day with me had his own little ornate chair in some kind of place of honor. Danny had named his newest addition Mr. Peepers. Every time I was over there, Mr. Peepers was staring at me. I wanted to put a blanket over his head. I bet the other puppets hated him too.
“Danny?” I asked.
“Yes, my darling,” Danny replied.
“When are you going to show me the real magic?”
Danny put down his glass of wine and looked at me.
“Real magic?” he asked.
“Yeah. You know, real mind-reading, real items disappearing and reappearing, real ability to see into people’s pockets and purses.”
Danny laughed.
“You aren’t the first person to be disillusioned by the illusion.”
“But there’s more, right? This isn’t it?”
“So many people want magic to be real. They want spirits to be real. They want us mere humans to predict the future and manipulate events, to make people love us or leave us. But their desires don’t make it so.”
“What about fortune telling? Is that real? Is that an illusion?”
“It’s all tricks. The tarot card reader, the medium, the palm reader. They are all full of shit. They read body language the same as you and me.”
“But the cards, the crystal balls...”
“It’s all illusion.”
“Pendulums? Runes?”
“Mere fictions.”
“Ouija board?”
“That’s the worst of all. People tricking their own minds into thinking they are speaking with the dead. The best game ever. Parker Brothers really did a number on all of us.”
“So there’s no talking to the dead? Sylvia Brown? John Edwards?”
“Fakes and frauds, all of them,” he retorted, his gaze pausing on a particularly nasty-looking puppet dangling by its strings from the edge of the bookcase. Its green painted eyes and shock of red horse hair didn’t enhance the orange chipped paint flaking from puffed cheeks above the world’s creepiest, toothiest smile. That grimacing thing could spring to life any minute, and for a moment, I wished it would. Then we’d see who believed in what.
However, I remained in my demure Annie persona, licking up every word he uttered like the sycophantic lap dog I was playing.
I drank from my glass and contemplated it all.
“But sometimes I know stuff,” I said. “I feel it in my stomach and I just know.”
“You are tricking yourself, my dear. If you write down when you get the gut feelings and what you really think they mean at the time, you will understand how you manipulate your own reality. You make the feelings be whatever you want them to be.”
“And what about ghosts? The spirits?”
“Houdini debunked all the spiritualists.”
“Yeah, over a hundred years ago. Things are different now. We have technology. There are pictures...videos...”
Danny laughed again.
“Oh, dear Annette. How strong your desire is for it all to be real when none of it is. You are the true magic. Your beauty. Your skills at manipulating our public. Your costume design for our shows. You are the only bewitching item our act needs.”
“The public is fickle, they will soon want more.”
“And more we shall give them.”
I stared at him and drank more from my glass. I licked my lips and fixed him with a catlike stare.
“How long before your bag of tricks runs out?” I asked.
Danny shifted in his seat. He finished his glass of wine and stood up. I thought he was going to boot me back out into the streets and my cash cow ride would be over. But he surprised me.
He hovered over his many crystal decanters on the silver tray that sat on one of his antique wooden side tables along with a filled ice bucket and several glasses. Ice cubes tinkled as he dropped them into his glass. He poured himself a fresh glass of bourbon. When he turned back to face me, I caught a glimpse of a moment of hesitation as his masked dropped ever so slightly. However, as he held his bourbon up to the sky, he winked at me.
“To us, my dear Annette. To our newfound success.” He drank deeply of the bourbon and then shuddered as he placed the glass down. He returned to his chair.
“Don’t worry, my dear,” he said. “I’ve been studying magic and mentalism my entire life. I’ve pledged myself to all of the groups and I intend to work until the day I die. And that won’t be for at least another thirty or forty years. Heck, I’ve barely touched fifty.”
I nodded.
“There are hundreds of tricks and many more ways to adapt them. Big ones, little ones. We can change our focus for different shows and work in different venues. Don’t worry, we’ll have work for years. We don’t need a gimmick. We are the gimmick.”
I nodded again and held out my empty wine glass. Danny rose quickly and refilled it.
“Will we do the Water Torture?” I asked playfully.
“Any trick, illusion, gag, whatever that you want to try, we can try. We’re making decent money. We can afford to get a bit more elaborate if you like. Maybe next spring we can think about adding something costly and cumbersome...”
I laughed. Water Torture indeed. Not for me. Not for him.
“I was having a thought,” I said to him. “We have about two weeks’ gap in the schedule. I was wondering if I could take some away time.”
Danny’s face fell as if I’d punched him.
“What? Why? What’s wrong? Aren’t you happy? I thought you were happy.” He stood up, turning in a circle as if to go get something but not sure of what it was he was looking for.
“Relax, Danny,” I said. He sat back down. “I just want to take a vacation. I haven’t seen my friends and family in ages.”
Danny nodded, his finger on his temple, his eyes narrowing as if he was trying to read my mind. That’s how he did it in the show. Only I knew the trick. However, I wouldn’t discount the fluttering I felt in my brain, as if he were flipping through one of those old-fashioned rolodex.
“How long?” he asked.
“Probably two weeks. I didn’t give it much thought since I wasn’t sure if we had something booked I didn’t know about.”
Danny shook his head.
“Nothing booked,” he assured me. I didn’t need to be a mind-reader to know that he was wondering if I was meeting a guy. Sadly, I wasn’t. I never had a chance to meet anyone; we were always working or practicing.
“Okay, then...” I said cheerfully, and took the full glass of wine he handed to me.
* * *
I knew when I asked him for the time off where I was going to go. I was going to find out for myself if magic really existed. I was going to check out a mystic town called Hermana.
* * *
And now I’m back on the bus to Hermana. It’s still pitch black in the outside world; it’s still the middle of the night. The penlight is still glowing strong. The dudes are still passed out. The forces of evil still press against me. I pray for three o’clock. I touch the cloth of the package. The tin foil is warmer than last time I checked. Averting my eyes from the swirling forms that float just beyond the glow of my penlight, I continue to write.
* * *
That trip, like I will this trip, I took another bus from Boston that wound along the coast. A couple of stops were in Hermana.
* * *
When I first arrived in Hermana, there was a noticeable difference in the energy in the air. Even as the buses had driven me deeper into New England, the air, the smells, the general “feel” of the atmosphere shifted. Of course, it does that everywhere.
New Orleans. Manhattan. San Francisco. And dark places such as Alcatraz or Lucan. It’s called being human in different parts of the world where the makeup of geography, technology, population and more contribute to the sensations around us.
Then there’s the “left-over residue” or ghosts or spirits or water sprites. Who knows? The unexplainable.
This energy that enveloped me as I stepped from the bus in downtown Hermana was a pleasant welcome.
I hoped I could find answers here.
* * *
When I first began my studies in mentalism and magic, I dove down the rabbit hole of occult sciences, dark arts, witchcraft, Satanism, and more. During one of my long nights of research, I had learned about Hermana.
Hermana was a small town by the ocean that had been founded by witches. The town had many witches who lived there full time. There were festivals, markets, and Solstices celebrations that tourists could attend.
It was my hope to find something interesting, unique, and magic in one of the stores. Something we could use in the act that would set us apart.
The bus let me off in what I presumed was one of the “center of town” locations. Like many New England towns, this village was comprised of old houses and warehouses. There were a few newer apartment buildings and other signs of modern life intruding, but for the most part, the town still held a quant charm.
I had packed a small suitcase on wheels and a knapsack with another bag packed inside in case I found something I could carry back to Canada with me.
The roads and sidewalks were cobblestone. It took a moment to get used to seeing the sky. In Toronto, there are so many tall buildings that one forgets how huge and blue the sky can be. It was very blue that day. A light wind blew, and it seemed like it was raining. But it wasn’t. We were so close to the ocean that the sea salt hung in the air like a curtain.
I looked up and down the streets. There were little stores and cafes everywhere. It reminded me of Salem in Massachusetts or Bourbon Street in New Orleans. A bit of tourist flair over some deeply serious stuff.
I wandered down the street for a while, not caring where I was, just enjoying breathing the very different air and looking at very different buildings. There were a lot of people walking around. Many had shopping bags and maps. It was a Friday and likely, a lot of tourists had dropped in, just like me. I was glad I had reservations. Thank goodness for those cheapie sites. I could never afford a real room in this town. Well, actually, I could.
I eyed the people as they walked by. Some of them were obvious tourists. Others appeared punk, gothy, vampire, witch, whatever you want to call it. Toronto has a huge contingent of alternative people so they didn’t really hit my radar either.
At last I found a bar and stepped inside. There weren’t many people around so I parked myself at a booth, heaving my knapsack from my back as I did so. I pulled out my phone, hoping for free Wi-Fi. Old rock and roll was blaring over the speakers. Everything was wooden like a big old barn. The waitress came over. She had short black hair and a nice smile.
“Hi, I’m Toni. What can I get you?” she asked.
“I’d like to try a pint of whatever you think is a good dark New England brew,” I said.
“I think I know what to get you,” Toni said and disappeared. She was back pretty quick. After she gave me the Wi-Fi password, she asked what brought me to town. Before long, she armed me with information about the marketplace and who to see for a séance.
“One more thing,” Toni said.
“Yes.”
“Let me see your palm,” she instructed. I looked warily at her.
“I don’t have a lot of money. I can barely afford this beer.”
“It’s okay. I just want to take a look. For free.”
I held out my hands and Toni held them in her own. She peered at them closely, holding my hand open and shut, tracking the lines with her fingers.
At last, she placed my hands back on the table.
“You’ve been through a lot. And there’s more for you to get through. Be careful who you align yourself with for there’s more trickery and deceit.”
“Well, Toni, that’s not terribly helpful,” I said. “Anyone can respond to that sort of reading.”
“I see that you were on the streets, eating from the garbage. You love old movies, My Fair Lady...you’ve reinvented yourself...for a man.”
“Not a man,” I scoffed. “For myself.”
Toni smiled. I wanted to punch her.
“Don’t pry into things you don’t know about. Especially here in Hermana. Evil is real,” Toni warned.
“I know evil is real. I watch the news. Hey, you read my mind, I’ll read yours.”
“I’m game.”
“Write down the name of a movie star but don’t show me. In fact, I’ll close my eyes.”
I listened to her pen scratching on her notepad, weirdly loud considering ACDC was playing. She tore off the paper.
“Now fold it up and give it to me.”
She did as she was told.
I held the paper up to my forehead.
“Is this actor...is he in a movie that came out in 2016?”
Toni shook her head.
“No.”
“Does he have black hair?”
“Yes.”
“Is it...Marlon Brando?”
Toni laughed. “You got it. How’d you do that?”
“I read your mind,” I smiled.
“Cool,” Toni said. “Anyway, drink’s on the house. Don’t forget to check out the market.”
* * *
I was staying in a little bed and breakfast down one of the side streets. The next day, I took Toni’s advice and visited the marketplace.
It was the best psychic fair I’d ever seen.
There was stall after stall and little rooms where all manner of the metaphysical arts were performed.
Even though I thought I’d had an early start by getting there for nine, it seemed I was hours late as the aisles were jammed with people and lineups had begun for the psychics.
That day, I had a reading from Maggie, a tarot reader. She was a pretty woman with lots of wild red curly hair. She had an infectious laugh and seemed to have a pretty good attitude.
“You have The Magician, The High Priestess, Nine of Cups, Death, Devil...hmmm,” Maggie mused as she poured over my cards. She was dead on with much of my past, much to my shame. She saw the hoarding, the urge to flee. Now she was talking about a Magician.
“Things may not be what they seem. Don’t get tempted into situations beyond your control.”
* * *
Another no-nothing reading. Somehow, these women had pegged my past, but no one had actually told me about my future. Not in specifics anyway.
Still, it was freaky seeing that Magician card. And the Devil looked pretty scary. I knew a bit about the cards and knew pulling specific cards was random. An interesting combination indeed.
&
nbsp; I debated getting another reading that day but decided to just walk around instead. There was so much to see. Every type of crystal, pendulum, tarot deck, and other items were for sale. There were hundreds of interesting items to pick through. But none of them spoke to me. None of them were anything I could use in our act.
* * *
Before I had left for the trip, I had gone online and booked a séance for that evening with a world-renowned medium, Natasha. It was to take place at a “haunted house.” I was rather nervous about it. Sure, Danny and I conducted séances. But they were engineered and the audience knew there was some sort of trickery to it. It was all vaudeville and carny style and never a stand-alone serious feature. Not like this, with a real haunted house and a real witch.
* * *
Night finally fell and I made my way along the cobblestone roads in low-heeled pumps, which was not the easiest task. I wore a red pencil dress, a red box hat that had a bit of netting and feathers, my black hair slightly curled at the tips. My lips matched my dress and my eyes were painted like a screen siren’s. I also wore a black swing coat with deep pockets and carried a small black satchel.
The house was large and creepy. Right out of the Addams Family. Of course, every house on the street was something out of the Addams Family. Gotta love new England. The house actually wasn’t very big by Toronto suburb standards. None of them were “big” like modern day monster homes. But back in the day, they were a million times better than cabins.
I climbed the stairs and rang the bell. I stood nervously, not sure what to expect. A middle-aged woman opened the door.
“I’m Meredith. I own the house. You must be Annette. Please come in. You may remove your shoes as you won’t need them for the séance.
I carefully pulled off my shoes and looked around the house. It was old with flowered wallpaper that clashed with the flowered carpet. My eyes swam. I was dizzy and nauseous for a moment. It passed.
“Come this way,” she said once I was ready. She led me into a parlor room where five other people sat around a very large table. “You may sit anywhere you like except at the end.”