The Summoner

by Richard Windle

The Summoner parked his rusted car next to the curb outside the witness's old townhouse, and spent a moment watching the people of this small town walk past. They had shadowy faces, and glared at him with suspicious eyes.

The summer sun slipped above the trees at the end of the street, and burned into his eyes. As he sat there in the heat, gathering his thoughts, sweat poured down his brow. His hands burned inside brown leather gloves and his body boiled beneath a long brown leather coat. The plain white shirt he wore clung to his chest.

He reached into his pocket and pulled out the newspaper clippings, three in total. Serial Killer In Small Town, screamed the top one. Over the past couple of weeks, three children had been kidnapped right out of their houses and murdered. Their bodies appeared the next day, lying in the street or on a park bench. No signs of forced entry at the houses, no fingerprints, no tire tracks, and, until the last incident, no witnesses.

He put that clipping aside and looked at the other two. Years older, their edges had started to curl and yellow. A hot, humid breeze blew through the open window, and tugged at the corners. He wanted to let go, give them to the wind, but instead read the headlines once more.

Tragic Fire Kills 479

Animals Go Mad, Kill 121

He swallowed and tried to cry, but it was like reaching for something on a shelf in the dark and grasping only air. Never again, he vowed. Never again. He thought these words every day, every hour.

The Summoner folded up the two older clippings, put them back into his pocket, where he always kept them, and got out of his car. He walked up to the front door of the townhouse and knocked.

Silence for several seconds, then footsteps. The middle-aged woman that answered it looked haggard, wisps of dark hair trailing down the sides of her face. She wore a black dress and stared at him with puffy eyes. Her voice croaked as she spoke. "Can I help you?"

"I need to ask your son a few questions about the incident, Mrs. James."

She frowned at him. "And who are you?"

"Jason Caldwell. I'm a private detective, hired by an interested party." He showed her his forged license. "Please let me see your son. It’s very important."

"Charlie isn’t well. He’s still… coping with what he saw. I don’t think he can tell you anything. The police checked the woods where he said he saw it happen. Nothing."

Of course they didn’t find anything, thought Jason. It wouldn’t have shown itself to them. "A few minutes, please," he said. "If you truly want justice for your daughter, you will let me talk to him."

The mother stiffened. Her hand tightened on the doorknob. For a moment, he wondered if she would let him in at all. Finally, she stepped back and cocked her head toward the kitchen door. The Summoner nodded and stepped over the threshold. She followed him through the living room and into the kitchen.

The boy, fresh from his sister's funeral, wore a black suit and stood before a sliding glass door in the cozy little kitchen. He looked to be about ten, maybe eleven. Shades of yellow screamed at Jason from everywhere, the counter tops, the light wood table and chairs, the refrigerator, the tile floors, the wallpaper, the ceiling fan, the streams of sunlight. He stared out at the weed-ridden backyard with dark, heavy eyes.

"I know who he is, mom." Charlie spoke without turning. "The police mentioned he might stop by. Let me talk to him alone."

Smooth liar, thought Jason. The police know nothing about me. What might this mean?

Mrs. James hesitated a moment, but then nodded. "I’ll be right outside." She glanced at Jason, then walked out.

"You're him," said the boy. "I knew you would come. He told me."

"It spoke to you?" asked the Summoner. "And you're still alive? Let me see your hand."

The boy lifted it up. The palm had been scrubbed raw, but appeared normal otherwise. "I didn’t say yes."

The Summoner nodded. "Good." He sat down at the table. "Tell me what you saw."

The boy launched into his story without stumbling, as though he had practiced it many times. "It was the middle of the night. I heard a noise downstairs. I figured it was Julie. She sometimes sneaks out and I wanted to know where she went all the time, so I followed her. She was moving fast, but kind of clumsy too, like a sleepwalker. I got worried, so I shouted at her, but she ignored me. I sped up, trying to catch her, but no matter how fast I went, she kept a step ahead. We ran down our street for miles, past all the townhouses and stuff, past the park, the grocery store, then left town, out to the farms. Ran by those too. Then she turned off the road and went into this cornfield across from an old barn. At the end of the row, there were these dark trees, a forest.

"She went inside. I didn't want to follow her. Something about them felt wrong, but I kept going anyway. I wasn't going to let her go on alone. Everything got cold, freezing even. Those woods." He cringed. "Those woods."

"You kept following her, you say?" asked Jason. He leaned forward and stared hard at the boy’s profile. His gloved hand closed into a tight fist and strained at the leather.

"Yeah," said Charlie, focusing. "We went deep into the woods. I started falling behind, then lost sight of her completely. I ran faster, tried to listen for her footsteps. Nothing. Then I ran around these tall, black rocks and there she was, standing in front of someone, but it was too dark to tell who. Even the little bit of moonlight coming through the branches seemed to go right through this guy, like he wasn't even there. He didn’t move like we do. He flowed. And then I realized the worst thing. Couldn't believe what I was seeing, but somehow, it made sense. The guy was standing on top of a still pond. On top of the water. I didn't think of running though, couldn't even take my eyes off him. It was almost like he was drawing me to him. I remember what he felt like." The boy closed his eyes and squeezed his left hand into a fist.

"He walked across the still surface towards her. She stood on the shore in her nightdress, not running, not screaming, nothing. I shouted at her again, but they both ignored me.

"She held out her hand to him. He took it, drew her onto the water, and they started dancing."

"What kind of dance was it?" asked Jason.

"An old dance, like a fairy tale. He took her by the waist. She put her hand on his shoulder. Together, they spun around the surface of the water. As I watched, I thought I heard music, some dark, tinkling sound. They danced faster and faster. The moon disappeared behind some clouds, but I could still see them somehow. They started sinking, but the dance never stopped, never even slowed. The water crept over their feet, up to their  knees, their waists, their necks. Couple minutes later, they were gone.

"I ran, heading back towards the tree line. I heard the man explode out of the pond and chase after me. The air dampened, turned thick with water. That’s what he was, I think. A man made of water. But when he reached my side, and I turned to face him, he appeared as a dark cloud, a mist. He touched me, whispered dark things in my ear, told me that you would come. He showed me things, what he could do through me. He wanted to… I shut my eyes and ran as hard as I could, till I wanted to die. I burst out of the forest. It didn't follow, and I ran home."

Jason swallowed hard and folded his hands, interlocking the fingers and squeezing hard till he felt pain. "What did it feel like when the man made of water whispered to you? What did it feel like?"

For the first time, the boy turned from the window and looked straight at Jason, dark eyes piercing. "He felt like you. You reek of them. You let them in."

Jason paled at the words and froze like ice. It must have told him to say that, he thought. I can’t still feel like one of them. Not after all this time.

He and the boy stared each other down. Jason tried to read him, sense a lie, but found none. The boy did not back down beneath his practiced, intimidating stare.

The Summoner stood and loomed over him. The air darkened, muting the yellow light of the kitchen. "Be careful what you say," he whispered. "There are pitfalls for people like us, and many dangerous paths. Before you judge me, realize you might be judging your own future."

"Don’t worry," said the boy. "I won’t give in to the demon. Not like you. It showed me what you've done." He glanced at Jason's left hand, then looked down at his own raw palm, and sneered. He darted over to the kitchen sink, turned on the water and scrubbed it hard with soap. Jason watched and remembered what that was like, when you could still feel unclean.

Charlie dried his hands, then turned back to Jason once more. "I won’t become like you."

Jason tried to hold up against the judgmental stare a moment longer, but finally looked away. He blinked, and left without saying another word.

* * *

From Charlie's story, it was easy enough to find the forest. He stood before the impenetrable wall of thick, twisted trees, and waited for the demon to let him inside. He never doubted that it would. No demon could resist the temptation he offered. And so, the branches bent back like spider’s legs, revealing a path to the cool dark inside.

A tractor hummed in the distance. Cars whispered by on a far off country road.  The straight rows of corn behind him screamed a modern order, a logic, but the winding tree branches of the forest followed no law. He smelled ancient mold from the forest, fresh manure from the field, and something else, something dark and lusting.

Beneath those mad trees, cool breezes stirred. They blew into the hot outer world, pushed back the stagnant air, and invited him to enter. Without a pause, he stepped inside.

A powerful chill took hold as the shadows darkened and rose up to mute the sunlight. His left hand burned inside his glove, as though he'd plunged it into the sun. Each step closer to the demon intensified that heat.

Thorny undergrowth writhed like tentacles on either side of the path. The trees bent away as he passed, as though repulsed by his very presence. Dying life surrounded him. The only barren part, the path, stretched out into the distance and vanished around a bend. He followed it deeper into the forest.

The air felt so cool after the blazing heat of the summer sun outside, so comforting. Dampness clung to him like a living thing and filled him with satisfaction. Birdsong, deep and dark, floated to his ears. The tall black stones Charlie described appeared around a bend. The path snaked past them. Close now, he thought.

The trees parted to reveal the pond, a small dark puddle of water black as an oil slick and surrounded by smoothed stones. The surface laid so still he could see his dark reflection in it as he neared the edge.

He closed his eyes and breathed in deep. The smooth, sweet smell filled his lungs and his being. His chest tingled. Pin pricks spidered down his arms as he knelt down. His dark reflection below did the same. The two of them studied each other, thinking, weighing. The surface rippled as something stirred in the depths.

A boy, made of water, rose out of the pond, head floating upwards first, followed by his small body. He wore pajamas, also made of water.

Jason stood and backed away, careful not to touch it.

The boy’s eyes came alive with shadow and light. His water body wavered and looked ready to fall apart at any instant. One of its arms rose and reached out to Jason, beckoning him. Trails of water rolled down the forearm and dripped from the elbow to the pond. His face ran like melting candle wax.

Jason reached inside his coat and wrapped his gloved hand around the ash wood in his pocket. His unflinching eyes watched everything.

The boy took a step towards him and stopped at the edge of the pond. Two more heads broke the surface, another boy and a girl. Like the first, they rose out of the water and walked towards him, their arms outstretched, their open mouths silent.

Jason’s hand flew out and opened, releasing the bit of wood. As it drifted through the air, the charm turned to a streak of light, shot through the first boy, and struck the pond with a hiss. The watery form collapsed back into the pond. Two more pieces of ash wood flew, fast as a flash of lightning, and struck the other two children. Like the first, they collapsed and disappeared. The demon was toying with Jason, taunting him, making water sculptures of its victims to try and rattle his nerve.

Its voice, light, calm and alluring, wafted through the air. "So beautiful, so wonderful, you being here. I feel you vibrating against this place, vibrating against me, Summoner. Do you feel the darkness in the air? The humans in their small town are breathing it in, becoming like us, but I wouldn't mind killing them either. Let us do so and feel the comfort of it. Let me into you."

Jason said nothing, only glared at the air. His gloved hands clenched into fists. A wind kicked up, causing his long coat to fly and his hair to go wild. Never again, he thought. Never again. But despite this resolve, his breath quickened as the soft voice spoke to him.

A dark mist rose out of the pond, formed into a cloud, drew close and caressed him with outstretched tendrils that slipped over his cheek and arm, raising goose bumps. His breath escaped in tiny bursts as he stumbled back from the touch and collapsed against a tree. Waves of pleasure raked through him, killing the thoughts in his mind.

As he leaned against the tree, gasping, his irises turned black and swelled, blotting out the whites of his eyes. All around him, he saw the veil, the barrier that kept demons trapped in their prisons. It was like a floating, transparent gray cloth that existed everywhere at once. His spirit took hold of it, drew it into the world and threw it up between himself and the demon, slicing through the tendrils caressing him.

The demon cried out and flew back to the pond where it hovered above the black waters. It shifted into a human shape. Misty legs reached down to the pond and touched the surface. The black waters slid upwards, and formed a pair of thin legs, a narrow waist, wiry arms, tight shoulders and a head. The demon had two angled eyes made of swirling black and white water, but no mouth or nose or ears. Its voice floated through the air, the same as before. "Why do you hurt me, young master? You feel so delicate, wonderful to the touch. Let me into you. Let me give you my strength. The things we could do together."

Jason listened to its cool and soothing voice. He swallowed, remembering its touch, imagining how wonderful it would feel to be filled with the demon. Never again, he thought. Never again. His black eyes brimmed with tears as he shook his head. "No."

The demon’s eyes narrowed. It took a step back, threw its arms wide, then brought them forward. Two crushing waves surged up from the small pond, flew forward, rolled onto land, and rushed at him. They turned white with froth and roared like beasts wanting to tear him apart.

Jason ripped off his left glove in one smooth motion and threw out his naked hand toward the waves. The star and circle cut into the flesh of his palm glowed red. At Jason’s feet, a mirror image of the pentagram blazed to life and shot upwards, encasing him in a translucent column of red light.

The demon’s waves struck the column with a hissing crash. Jason, though untouched by the water in the center of the circle, flew back from the force of the attack and smashed into the barrier wall. His breath exploded out of his lungs and left him gasping. He slid to the ground, clutching at his stomach and tasting blood in his mouth. Sweat poured down his face. He pushed off the solid wall of light behind him and stood back up with a groan. The column was a combination of his own spirit and the veil.

"I’m sorry," he told the demon. Jason held out his naked palm to it, took hold of the veil with his spirit, and pulled it apart. The pentagram in his hand flared, and a fiery red tear appeared in the air above the demon. A powerful wind kicked up, wrapped around it, and pulled it straight up towards the prison it had escaped.

Three tentacles of water shot out of the water demon’s body and locked onto the ground. It stopped moving. "Please, Summoner," begged the demon. Its swirling, darting eyes looked to him. "Do not send me back. Have mercy. Let me find a home in you." The smooth voice cracked at the end.

Jason said nothing. He knew better than to trade words with it. Demons knew how to argue, and always won. Silent and unwavering, he stood as still as standing water, his face bathed in red light from the column around him and pitted with shadows, his palm open and glowing.

"You are in conflict," said the demon. "I know how you must feel every time you send one of us back. Every time you do this, you get a taste of what you had been, of the happiness you once had. Think of that. You cannot do this to me. I love you." One of the water tentacles snapped and the demon shot a foot closer to the tear. It cried out. The winds ripped at the grass and leaves as they fought with the demon. "Call me to you," it begged. "Let me in. Let me taste your warmth. We both want to be whole again, we broken things."

Jason’s hand blazed with a blistering pain that crept up his arm and neared his heart, but it was familiar to him. Every time he used his gifts this way, to send one of them back instead of calling it forth, the pain came, but he barely felt it anymore. Everything, pain and pleasure, felt muted, less than what he had known when filled with a demon. Another water tentacle snapped. The sound echoed through the forest like a shot. The demon now hovered only inches from the tear. It held onto this world with only one tenuous strand of water.

Another tentacle shot out of its body, but rather than latch onto the earth, it reached out to Jason and caressed his shield, running along the surface.

The touch filled Jason with warm, tingling pleasure, and made his breath catch. He fell to his knees, gasping, and would have pitched into the dirt had his unmarked right hand not caught him. An ecstatic smile crossed his face. So cold inside. It made him feel alive. He fought against it, kept his left hand up and open. The pentagram flared and the hole in the veil pulled still harder at the demon.

He saw in his mind what the demon wanted him to. If he wished, it would possess and transform him. Together, as one, they would float into the air, his eyes filling with black, swirling water. Below him, on the forest floor, the pond would swell, growing in size till he hovered above a raging, black lake. They would descend upon the small town as a consuming flood, crushing and drowning. Together, demon and Summoner would luxuriate in the death, filled with a pleasure beyond the human world. He remembered it well, feeling life drain away like a light fading in the darkness. Most did not understand it as he did. They could not see its beauty, its elegance.

Close your hand, begged a thought. Let it in.

"Will it always be this way for you?" asked the demon. Its voice sounded broken, like four different pitches speaking in perfect unison. Had it been human, Jason would believe it was crying. "To always be in want, Jason? The desire won’t leave you. You feel it inside. Every time you use the magic, it grows harder for you to resist us. How long can you last against this torture? One day, you will let one of us in again, as you have before. You will kill again and feel the glory of it." The demon gazed at him with wounded eyes, considering. Wisps of steam floated off its boiling body and got caught in the winds.

"But that’s why you do this, isn't it?" whispered the demon. Above it, the tear in the veil loomed like a hungry mouth. Thousands of dark eyes glared out of it, staring at Jason with desire. "You know that if you continue this, you’ll give in to one of us. You keep tempting yourself knowing, hoping that you will fall and be happy once again. That's why you won't give this up."

Jason’s breath vanished as his throat closed up. He looked up with wide eyes and stared at the demon. It's not true, he told himself. Don’t listen to its lies. That’s not why I do this.

Let it fill you, whispered the thought again. You will give in. It is inevitable. So let yourself be happy now.

Jason closed his eyes and listened to the alluring voice in his mind. Only one last time. Shouldn’t these small people be willing to die so that at least one person could feel truly alive? His fingers curled, starting to close on the glowing pentagram. He could even see the headline. Tragic Flash Flood Claims Hundreds. It would only be one more to carry.

No. Jason’s black eyes flew open and flared. No. Never again. His fingers straightened. The pentagram flared bright. The winds raged around the demon, reached a crescendo, and the last tendril of water snapped. The demon vanished into the tear.

Jason, still kneeling, looked into the ocean of pleading eyes. He wanted to feel them, wanted them inside. For a moment, he listened to their dark whispers and let himself be tempted, but then closed his hand, shutting the tear in the veil. The pentagram beneath his kneeling body and the column around him died. The sun roared back into the hollow, bringing its harsh, hot light. His black irises shrank back down to normal size, turned brown, and the veil vanished from his sight.

He stared out at the air with a dead, empty look and seemed to deflate, like a hollow shell collapsing inward. Birds twittered, a high pitched, piercing sound. The bugs returned and buzzed cheerily around his head. All was right with the world once more.

Almost without thinking, he reached down to the ground beside him, snatched up his glove and pulled it on. His mark, cold now that the demon had been sent back, disappeared beneath the leather. He clutched his hand to his chest and looked around at the empty clearing with a reddening face. No one could see it. Not ever.

The Summoner breathed in deep and got to his feet. No time to rest. There would be another article, another town, another demon.

Let this next one possess you, he begged himself. Let this be the one.

Jason, standing in the now hot and clinging forest, hesitated, imagining how wonderful it would feel. He closed his eyes and swallowed, remembering what it was like to be complete. But then he reached into his coat pocket and felt the two clippings he always kept there.

No, he thought. Never again. Never again.

****************

Richard Windle is a Maryland writer.  This is his first story with Aoife's Kiss.