New York I Love You, But You're Creeping Me Out - Case Files

[Gotham Witch]

As my original post in classifieds might hint, I help pay the rent by helping people by using unusual methods to solve unusual problems. Before I moved into the city, I had assumed I was just going to take my internship at an art museum and if I were lucky, maybe get a full time job sorting books or something. What can I say? I graduated UMass with a double Art/History degree. That should make me twice as useless as the average undergrad.

Whelp, turns out that this city is not just crazy in that Pakistani taxi driver and drunk on the subway sort of way. Over the past few years the number of side jobs (I call them cases now, to sound professional) I've gotten has increased... well, a lot. For sake of posterity and some self reflection, I shall post some of them here, names removed, of course. Maybe something in here could be useful to someone or another too. I like to think I'm not just typing to myself or the pigeons on my windowsill.

Questions or commentary are fine. Just remember a lot of these are from a far less wise time in my 'career'. Before anyone asks, carrying a gun in New York City is a great way to get hauled in for something, so I make do with what I have.

[Gotham Witch]

Hostile Hotel, Part 1

I will say right now a fact some of you may call hogwash on: I am a sorceress.

I prefer to be called a practitioner though.

When I tried to explain this to my first customer, she said I was lucky she even considered me legitimate, before asking me where my broomstick, cat, and newts were.

Said lady was a Brahmin Elite from Bahston whose husband had the title deed to an old hotel near Washington Heights. They wanted to turn it into a slightly overpriced student hostel for kids visiting Columbia's campus.

The draw? It was haaaaaunted.

You heard me. They wanted to advertise it as haunted. The owner was discreet about it, anyway. He restored the old 1800s hall and room decore, the gaudy chandelier above the main entryway, and even the old creaky 1900s elevator with the sliding grate door that you sometimes got your coat stuck in. He just wanted to ramp it up with random noises throughout the night; maybe some banging, some calls and shuffling of feet, etc. It wasn't actually was not a bad idea.

The problem? It was actually haunted.

When one of the owner's employees was working his banging on the wall jangling chains shift, he found himself (according to the report I was given) thrown down a flight of stairs, suffering a twisted ankle from the chains and a broken arm. A cook making eggs for someone was surprised all the food in the freezer had not only rotted, but melted. A couple co-eds doing things they shouldn't tell their parents about ran screaming out of their room when a translucent couple went through the door and began to do naughty things of their own.

I'm not going to lie. When she told me all of this, I wasn't sure if I wanted to burst out laughing or give her Bill Murray's number. I'm not a medium. I'm not a priest. I'm a sorceress. Assuming she weren't pulling my leg, I couldn't perform an exorcism (with any real degree of success), and something actually dangerous would have required something else.

On the other hand, I was broke, my rent was coming up, and she offered me cash up front. To take a look, she said. Her niece, a friend of mine from UMass had highly recommended me, apparently. Obviously, I took the job.

This all happened in April, which was fairly mild overall. It was about midday when we went in to look at the place, which to her credit, was restored to a very nice impression of a 19th century Manhattan hotel. Normally, I prefer working at night. Things just feel more... in place for when I'm bringing it all together (By 'it' I mean magic. Remember that 'practitioner' thing?). I can do it in the day, but I don't like to. Things don't feel quite as right, the spells don't feel as solidly weaved.

On the other hand, I also don't like that feeling that people could SEE me doing this. It probably hits me in the confidence, and you need it in this business.

Upon walking into the door, I immediately felt cold and clammy. I asked the client why the AC was on so low. She explained it hadn't been on for a week; the air conditioner has broken down and it should have been about 70 with the windows open. I kind of wish she hadn't said that, because it meant something was up.

When people ask me what it's like to feel magic, it is somewhat difficult to explain. It's probably different for everyone who can, so I suppose it's pointless to try. The thing I notice though, since you asked, is the tingle in the air. It's like a smaller version of that invisible, but palpable shiver of tension and excitement in the air just before lighting strikes nearby and scares the crap out of you. As I entered the kitchen, it felt a lot like that, except more... stale, somehow. The energy was there, except with no potential to explode, as if all the charge had let itself off ages ago.

My client asked why I had stopped in my tracks. I told her I was thinking before I closed my hands and concentrated, murmuring what probably sounded like gibberish to her. I think I spooked her a little as I opened my eyes and glanced around, almost like I was staring tensely at everything.

I could have explained that I was looking at the magical lay of her husband's property, how the energy, old and stale like a river that had long dried down to barely above mud, slowly ebbed and flowed through her establishment. But it's not my job to freak out my client... unless they really deserve it. But it was my job to consult, and in my humble opinion, it looked like someone had been casting some bad juju at some point, and what I was seeing and feeling was its decades old sludgy echoes.

I couldn't even fathom how disgusting this place must have felt when someone was actively casting this stuff. I didn't even know what it was and I felt queasy.

I had a rough answer about what was going on, but I don't think it would have been a satisfactory one to Miss Brahmin. Nor do I think she would have liked it or believed me. What I probably should have done was given her the number of a priest friend of mine to perform a proper exorcism. The place sure as hell probably needed it. So I was going to need to look around some more. But I needed some inspiration.

First, norms are surprisingly intuitive about things when they aren't trying. I asked her where in her husband's property she felt the absolute most uncomfortable. She of course, said the basement.

After acquiring a lovely candlestick (strawberry scented, even), I approached the stairs down through the kitchen. Before going down the stairs, I muttered a spell of illumination on the candle (bad pun, I know). I enjoyed the gasp from my client as the candle exploded to life in a brief flare of purple, before settling down. It would give me a bit of light and hopefully keep me clued in on what was going on.

I told her to wait upstairs as I began my descent. Somehow, I doubt she'd have done otherwise.

[Gotham Witch]

Hostile Hotel, Part 2

I am still somewhat amazed that the ground floor and above of that hotel was as nice as it was - the basement was revolting. Everything about it - the odor, the clammyness in the air, the claustrophobic feeling as I ascended down the creaky wooden stairs, everything. Some of it was the not so natural lingering magic in the air from rituals long since cast, of course. So it's very possible I'm the first one in ages to have felt anything this awful.

Or maybe they have an amazing ventilation system. Who knows.

In the past, I have dealt somewhat with rituals before. They're not a specialty of mine for the most part. I don't like to bind things (I'm probably not good enough to bind anything bigger than a pigeon even if I wanted to), and frankly, I don't want to be one of those kinds of mages. You know, the kind that sacrifice things to power the ritual. I'm not saying ALL mages do that...

...but these guys sure as hell probably did. But that feeling was not going to be evidence enough. I needed to find something down here.

I needed to feel a bit more comfortable. I needed light. Flipping on the light switch did absolutely nothing. Upon holding up the candle to the wall, the giant gaping hole in the plaster revealed broken wires that were probably decades old. Someone had forgot to renovate down here. Great.

The candle wasn't being very cooperative either. The spell I cast on it led it doing weird things - mostly bobbing back and forth erratically, its hue changing ever so slightly from white to light purple to a faint bright green and back. Of course, its abilities in detecting spells and things that go bump also made it somewhat useless as a light sometimes. Thankfully, I had one of those nice keychain LED lights to work with.

Predictably, it looked as if the owner had completely neglected to do much with the basement. Various furniture - probably the original set that came with the hotel - were stashed around haphazardly in piles and not so piles. Quite a bit of it was, for some reason, smashed into splinters. There were some footprints past mine, but they looked months old - the inspector was probably the last fellow down here. I wonder what he had to say about the furniture, if anything.

I shined my light around the room, only half paying attention to my candle as it began to... well, twist slowly back forth as I approached the center of the room. The wooden floor, surprisingly sturdy beneath my feet, looked like it had once been painted or stained within the past few decades, though whoever had been trying to fix this place up had apparently given up half way, as the staining stopped about a third of the way into the room.

A few feet past where the dark stainline stopped, there was some splattered staining on the dull looking floorboards. Near that splattering, it looked like one of the boards had been half pulled away. I took a few steps closer, before my candle flickered a bit, the flame pulling towards that gap. If that wasn't a signal to look, I didn't know what else could be.

It was when I stepped closer to take a look that things go crazy.

The first thing I realized was that splotched staining near the open floor was not wood-stain. The second thing I realized was that familiar tingle of magical energy - not quite fresh, but active magic - pulse in the air as I took that step closer.

There was a third thing, but I lost track of it as I was struck from behind by a hard, splintering object.

Something had thrown a damn chair at me.

I recall hitting the ground face first, wheezing painfully as the breath had been knocked out of me. My candle had hit the ground and shattered, the light flickering and almost seemed to spasm in terror. My LED light had landed, pointing towards far wall and illuminating an old chair picking itself up before hurtling at me.

I should note now, that I'm not much of a fighter. I know enough to keep myself alive were someone to attack me in a parking lot. Being attacked in a basement by flying furniture from mysterious assailants in the dark was not something I ever trained for. Instinctively, I put my arms up to guard my head as the chair shattered, knocking me over with a gasp and leaving my arm stinging.

As I laid there, feeling blood dripping from my borehead, I briefly noted how... alive this place felt the moment I stepped closer to the hole. The magic that I felt in this place wasn't merely an echo after all. Something, magically speaking, was still very much alive, and causing a lot of trouble. That meant I was on the right track.

The problem was this had to have been way out of my league. I never expected to nearly get a concussion and broken bones on my first freelance job investigating. Now I was dealing with magic that had laid stagnant but not quite dead in a basement for decades, building up to dangerous levels and probably causing all kinds of BS.

All in all? I was scared shitless.

In hindsight, I should have charged a lot more.

[Gotham Witch]

Hostile Hotel, Part 3

As I was laying there, bleeding from a gash along my temple, with a growing welt on my back and a bruised forearm, I realized that the amount she paid me was probably just all going to go to medical bills, if her cash covered the lot at all. Health insurance would have been so nice.

I managed to gather enough wits to roll to the side as another chair hit the ground where I had been laying, shattering into splinters and kicking up a lot of dust. I coughed a bit before raising my blood covered hands, calling up some spell power to keep my head in better condition than the chairs.
As I did that, a faint flicker of pale magical energy surrounded me in a semi-sphere. I jumped a bit another chair came flying, deflecting off of the shield and striking the wall behind me with a racket.

It took me a few moments after that to recover my senses, trying to stop myself from shaking like a terrified little girl. The fear and shock kept me from feeling how much pain my back and noggin were in, thankfully. It wasn't going to help me get out of this. Maybe the adrenaline could, if I could keep myself from curling up into a ball.

At the very least, I needed to figure out what was wrong, even if I certainly wasn't powerful enough to fix it. Clearly I had stepped near something potent before getting attacked. Staying low to the ground on my knees, I ignored the chairs and wooden fragments that were whizzing by or otherwise deflecting off of my energy shield as I grabbed at that dislodged floorboard.

Yanking at it with pent up nervous energy, the board cracked in half as I flung it aside. The tingle in the air this close to the source of the spell made me want to wrench from both nervousness and disgust. Holding down lunch, I grabbed my key-light, thankfully in reach, and looked down into the rabbit hole to find what had nearly killed me.

The original floor had apparently been concrete or something, covered in a thick layer of dust that barely obscured the heavy red line of what was clearly a circle. Someone had done an arcane circle in either really dark paint or blood. I could guess which it probably was, based upon the dark splatters along the inside of the circle. Most of the energy had been used up or bled out ages ago, but the circle kept the spell still alive, still doing... something angry and hostile. Probably the same angry and hostile that dissuaded the last guy who peeked around here.

As I shined my key-light around, there was a glint of something as I heard the scraping of metal on concrete. I yanked my arm away, flinging myself to the side just in time for something shiny to fling itself out of the hole and into the ceiling, whizzing past my cheek by a couple inches before impacting the ceiling with a loud thud. Looking up, I heard a scream from upstairs as an ornate knife handle had itself embedded into the ceiling.

Odds are the circle had just flung an athame at me, probably intending me as a makeshift sacrifice. Or maybe it was just using the closest thing it had on hand to kill me. It was a pretty hostile old spell. Either way, I wasn't going to take that sitting. I grabbed the pointy end of my flashlight (good against muggers, normally), and began scratching a break in the circle with all of my frantic, scared effort.

The circle, spell included, really didn't like me at that point, and I heard it picking up all of the objects it could in the room with one last attempt to off me. Fortunately, it does not take a lot to disrupt a circle. Much like the rituals that use them, it only takes a little bit of scratching and prodding to wreck most of them, and undo that delicate, but sometimes stubborn weave of magic.

As I felt a weak ripple in the air, almost like something's last ever breath, I heard the loud clatter of objects falling to the ground, tumbling about chaotically before the room was silent.

Well, mostly silent. Heartbeats feel ridiculously loud just after you are nearly bludgeoned to death by century old chairs.

It took me awhile to explain to Miss Brahmin what had happened, and even more time to calm her down about the gash in my forehead and other nicks adn cuts. I'm not sure how much of it she believed, but the ritual dagger sticking through her kitchen floorboard seemed to be evidence enough that maybe her husband should renovate the hell out of his basement.

The magic would hopefully die down over a period of weeks, but I advised her to maybe have a priest or someone look at it instead. I offered to put up a few wards to maybe help the place settle down a bit, but she declined and demanded to know what precisely had been done down there. Really, I think she just wanted me out of there. I just informed her she was better off just clearing everything out and never speaking of it again. You never know the sorts who might want to go snooping around in places people have died.

Whether she believed me because of what I actually recall happening down there, or if she just got freaked out by what little magic she saw me do is another matter entirely.

Walking by that place still gives me shivers every time I look at it. At least I got paid extra for the trouble.

[Doctor Boggs]

Nice piece of work Miss Witch, honestly it doesn't sound like you were out of your league at all. I'm a tad curious now to hear about some of your later cases, nice write up. And if you ever need an exorcist again drop me a line, you aren't the only one who can always use the work.

[Gotham Witch]

If you do east coast I can certainly keep you in mind!

[Grace]

I hate New York and this creepy story is just one more reason to continue doing so.

In any case, you weave quite the tale. Hope to see more of your 'missions' in the future.

I'm not any good with that mystical, intangible magic stuff. Frankly, it gives me the willies. But what I'm learning here is that it takes all sorts. So yeah, if I ever need a witch, I'll drop ya a line.

And if you ever need a hitter and can pay, drop me a line.

Oh wait, I'm not supposed to charge anymore.

Dammit.

[Doctor Boggs]

As it happens I used to do some pretty regular work up that way, might be fun to tour the old watering holes if the opportunity arises.

[Gotham Witch]

Ronko-wha? Part 1

I'm posting this as a lesson and reminder to myself about why exposure is bad.

An old mentor of mine when I was at Suffolk County Community College asked mime to look into something for a friend of hers living near Ronkonkoma Lake, out on Long Island. There'd been conflicting reports of a lot of sightings lately, probably ghosts or something. She was leaning towards brevity on details, unfortunately.

I hate requests like this. On one hand, I'd get out of the city. On the other hand, Ronkonkoma is creeeeepy. But I can't turn down suckers for friends and family. It's my greatest weakness besides nutella. I shouldn't complain that much I suppose. I was getting paid.

For those of you in the know, Ronkonkoma Lake (not to be confused with Lake Ronkonoma, the hamlet adjecent to the lake that is part of the town of Islip) has a large number of legends behind it. The area was originally a sacred site to Algonquin tribes hundreds of years ago, so it perhaps isn't too surprising. The most notable one is the Lady of the Lake, most versions of which involve a Native American princess drowning herself, possibly as a way of appeasing the god Manitou. Supposedly, every now and then a young, attractive male is 'taken' by the ghost of the Lady and is found drowned. It isn't out of malice, but supposedly her grief and loneliness means she doesn't realize she is condemning kids to death.

Supposedly as well, pirate treasure is said to be sunk or buried around the lake, possibly with a skeleton or two. People haven't really found much from that, though. Finally, you hear the occasional claim that the lake is either bottomless, connected to Long Island sound by a deep underground tunnel, or some strange vortex in the center of the lake drags people down to their deaths. People cite death statistics all the time, but as Ronkonkoma Lake is large and public, that is going to happen.

Being I'm the stereotypical New Yorker without a car, I hop the LIRR to Ronkonkoma, about an hour past my hometown. I of course don't tell my mother that I'm heading 'out' to the island because then she'd expect me to visit. That's what mothers do, I suppose. Of course, if she heard what I was investigating, she'd probably try and lock me in my room and ground me until I'm 50.

Being I didn't quite know what I was dealing with, I varied the contents of the 'bag of magic doom' - a burlap messenger bag that contains the things necessary for an aspiring young woman to cast the spells that makes the people fall down. I usually keep some silver powder, a few empty vials, some gloves, my wand, and chalk (white and sidewalk) in there. I packed a few other things as well. Oh right, an old silver cross that belonged to a grandparent. I'm agnostic, but grandma sure as hell wasn't, and items of faith can be quite powerful.

The property I was directed to was a reasonably nice beige two story house by most standards, though pretty average by Long Island standards. The woman who met me at the door was an old friend of my mentor's from way back, teaching contemporary folk myths or some such. As she was about to offer me some cookies, we were interrupted by some curses and the sound of racket being made in her back yard.

It seems there was a camera crew along for the ride, and I don't think the cameraman was quite past puberty yet. Damnit.

I have dealt with... enthusiasts before. It was some local public access show about proving ghosts or the supernatural. They had heard about some of the sightings near Ronkonkoma Lake and insisted on trying to capture a film or recording, or... whatever it is they do. They're skeptics, but they're enthusiastic skeptics. The worst kind.

Hearing that I was a 'witch' would probably complicate matters. So of course I didn't introduce myself as such and kept my trap shut - until my 'client' cheerfully introduced me as a paranormal expert and a practicing sorceress.

Shit.

Immediately I was jumped on with questions by the five of them. They were all late teens or early college, and of course they all wanted to pretend to be cool. Of course, it only took tween cameraman about five seconds to ask where my hat, broom, and familiar was. Another one asked me to better clarify my 'religious' beliefs, assuming I was a Wiccan. The standoffish guy, more than likely a trust fund baby holding the sound equipment asked my client why an amateur like myself was coming along on their professional trip.

Four pet peeves in ten seconds. This was going to be an excellent trip.

[Gotham Witch]

((Sorry for the delay. Had some business up in Boston that took awhile. Back now though.

After my client invited everyone in for beverage and food, I got to sit down for some mostly civil chat with the camera crew. It turns out these 'kids' (using the term pejoratively) were doing this for a class at Hofstra. They jumped on the local news reports of ghosts or funny lights to come and get themselves an A. I wasn't sure if they actually expected to get something on camera or not. I kind of hope they did, so they weren't just wasting my time.

I admit I sound a bit unsympathetic here, and kind of like a bitch. But understand that I was legitimately expecting something that could seriously hurt or kill someone. This lake has too much history to simply be just crazy people seeing things, and to these guys, it was just a pet project. People laugh when I say I'm a sorceress that investigates paranormal things, but I take my shit seriously. I have no idea about these guys, which to me is a problem.

To my surprise, only two of the five were trust-fund kids. The cameraman apparently was a walking encyclopedia on Victor Lazlo, a man I admit to only knowing so much about. I fielded skeptical questions from standoffish soundguy about how magic works. I answered him as point blank as possible. I explained it's a matter of belief. It's a matter of feeling the magic flowing around you, to grasp it and form it into something tangible. I'm sure he believed me as far as he could spit, but at least figured out I wasn't a Wiccan, I hope. The cameraman was at least intrigued.

The 'host' so to speak had wanted to interview me on camera, but one of the other techs had informed him that there was only enough data on the card to capture footage from the lake, and it shouldn't be wasted on an interview. I have a feeling he just thought I was a hoax. The feeling was kind of mutual, truth be told, but I did my best to be tactful. I speak for all good witches of the north, after all, though sometimes I wish I did a bit more newt-making.

The crew wanted to be down by the lake early evening, just after dusk. I spent awhile trying to figure out the best approach to dissuade them. Saying it was dangerous has this tendency to only make them more interested. Saying there would be nothing would be both lying and would probably lead them to believe I was either a fraud or a glory hound. Dealing with norms is difficult in the best of times, I admit. I probably couldn't physically stop them from coming, but I at least wanted them to be aware of the danger they might put themselves into.

The matter of conveying the gravity of the situation became both easier and more frightening when it came time to move down to the lake and we were missing one before we had even left the house.

Damn it.

[Eilonwy Solstice]

Well, at least you were honest, Gotham—I hope. Unfortunately, honesty rarely helps in our situation. Your story reminds me a little too closely of a few of my own—and the ones I still need to finish.

[Gotham Witch]

Apologies. Things got a little busy for awhile (again). I'm not dead!

Back to our evening's story...

We all had that period of denial. You know, calling out to the fellow to come back and stop being a joker. That would be the most logical explanation about why someone is gone, besides they were in the can, or said to hell with it and got drunk.

Of course, there was a lot wrong with that. Cameraboy was not known to be unreliable, apparently, and was probably the biggest proponent of this whole Ronkonkoma lake thing. When we realized his phone was off, and that he had apparently left his camera sitting in the back yard, we realized something was very off. Afterall, as Trust Fund kid put it, you don't drop a 1,200 bone camcorder without a good reason.

That's when I finally noticed that I had felt something was off. I'd been on edge all night, as if someone had been walking on my grave. It was summer, and everything was very still for a summer evening. That isn't quite how Long Island works. There was a certain buzz in the air. It was part humidity, but part... how do I explain it. Tension? Honestly, I think everyone else felt it too.

Either that or they were just as panicky as I was. I'm supposed to be the professional. Sheesh.

At this point, I was really flying by the seat of my pants, but lack of options made Occam's Razor rather sharp tonight. The only likely lead was Ronkonkoma Lake. Had this missing person case not happened, I think I'd have just been wary and on edge. As we were actively missing a person, I was both scared and determined. Perhaps it wasn't my fault he was missing, but I felt like I could maybe do something about it.

The hero complex. Does everyone else get that?

In any case, they all agreed to follow along. I couldn't deny them that - maybe I should have, in hindsight. Going in alone for me would have been suicidal, and they seemed just learned enough about what was going on to avoid doing anything too stupid. I hoped. Besides, I couldn't really tell them not to go. It was their friend, afterall.

Just to be safe, I did a little magic for them. A simple trick, involving a small symbol, painted in blood upon the body. I didn't know quite what we were going to run into, but it works in a pinch for most things. They all thought I was nuts when I asked them if I could paint a little ward on their arm or hand (one of them wanted it on his forehead; he seemed to like the idea of magic), but they all agreed.

I admit though, the look of horror on Trust Fund Kid's face when I casually pricked my finger with a pocket knife was somewhat priceless.

The lake was deathly quiet that night. The sun was beginning to set and casting a very odd glare upon the lake. Odd in that the surface of the water should have been bright orange. Instead, it was more of a navy-blueish color. Oh, right, the really odd part was that the way the moon was reflecting off of the lake. It was unusually bright, even though the sky wasn't that dark yet, and the moon wasn't that high. All in all, it was like looking into another world. Granted, water is considered liminal; it is often seen as the doorway between worlds.

That's when I noticed what appeared to be figures standing along the shore in the reflection. I looked around; the only ones there were the kids and myself. I peered again; most of those were Native American males, young ones. They were standing there, staring blankly at the reflection on 'their' side of the lake. Quite a few of them, however, were more recent inhabitants of the area: a couple African Americans, a Latino kid, several caucasians in various period dress. Some of them looked to be straight from the 1920s, one was dressed like a bonafide flower child from the 60s.

The one thing they all had in common was they were standing there in the reflection by the edge of the lake, and they were just swaying, slowly, as if there was a silent beat that only they could hear.

As I gazed at the circle of swaying folks, that's when I saw our missing person, staring off mindlessly into the lake. I suddenly felt very, very scared, clenching my fists as I stared in horror. I had no idea how the hell he had gotten in there. Worst off, I had no idea how I would get him out.

Trust Fund kid finally noticed what I was staring at, and leaned in for a better look.

The next few moments are... somewhat fuzzy. It was almost as if time began to slow down as a pair of smooth, tan hands reached out of the lake. I remember that look of surprise on Trust Fund Kid's soul-patched face, quickly fading off into a blank stare as those hands gently grasped him upon both cheeks.

Crap.

[Gotham Witch]

Everyone was slow to turn towards their friend, as those hands barely made a splash as slipped out of the water. My natural reaction was to let my gaze follow those hands.

I really, for sake of my dinner, should not have done that.

Those smooth, perfect forearms, right where the reflection began and ended, segued into slimy, gnarled, and swollen biceps and shoulders attached to the bloated, diseased, saggy form of someone far beyond her years.

Could I really call whatever that was a 'her'? The shape was barely feminine, in that corpsified hag sort of way. What should have been smooth black hair was instead gray, gnarled, and dirty (how you pull off dirty while sitting in a lake is beyond me). Her torn, dirty clothes barely slung to her form, though for the love of God I really wish she had covered up better.

I fought back the urge to hurl right there. This was good, as Trust Fund was about to find himself dragged into the water. Probably better for the retelling of the story if the narrator wasn't vomiting all over herself as one of her fellow investigators was getting pulled into the beyond.

I wasn't sure quite what I was thinking, but for some reason, it seemed like a good idea. I knew only one appropriate spell for this occasion; a spell I had learned after the hotel episode, that allowed me to directly attack a spiritual being. Don't ask me the math behind it; I only got a C in Algebra anyway, much less metaphysical theory. In any case, I aimed my wand and spoke the words as quickly as my scared senseless self could shout them.

The water visibly rippled as the spell struck, an ear piercing scream emanating from the water as the hands released Trust Fund's head. That really should not have happened, since the spell purely affects beings on a spiritual level, not a physical. I didn't really ponder that point, however, as I managed to grab him and yank him backwards, watching the water carefully.

The angry corpse hag spoke with a dry (in a lake? Again ironic) tone, speaking languages I doubt anyone understands anymore. She tried again to reach for us, but was having trouble breaking the surface of the water as the ripples continued. It seemed that the calm of the lake was necessary for the water to be liminal.

I would take this moment to note I am very open to alternate theories.

One of the other guys got the right idea, and began to throw stones into the water. As they splashed, the... thing hissed more, its form being disrupted with each impact (thank GOD). I'm not sure how long we were throwing rocks, and I'd like to pretend we were doing something more useful than simply tossing rocks at the lake to keep the hag from coming out, but frankly, that's really all we kind of did for awhile. I'm not going to lie; I think we were all afraid what would happen if we stopped.

By the time we finally did stop, mostly due to running out of nearby rocks, the hag was gone. The reflection - now properly reflecting the dusk sky, I'm not sure when that transition occurred - rippled lightly with the movement of bugs and frogs that somehow weren't scared off by our rock throwing session. Unfortunately, as it quickly dawned on us, we didn't see the reflections of those men and boys anymore - including their friend.

The long story short, the next two hours were spent trying to find some head or tails or Camera Boy, but we didn't find anything. Unfortunately, the Suffolk County Police found his body floating along the shore the next day. The cause of death? Drowning, possibly 'suicide'. As far as they could tell, he simply walked off the pier.

His friends were in complete disbelief. It's the usual responses, denial, screams of bullshit, weeping. No surprise really. How the hell else do you cope with the fact something that science doesn't believe killed one of your best friends? You can't. I think everyone on this forum knows that. That doesn't make it any easier to cope with.

My mentor's friend paid my fee - in full. Probably a consolatory gesture, really, but it meant a lot. I told her to give the money to the family of the deceased. They were reportedly puzzled, but she made up a story about how he was a good student, etc etc. It's sort of disappointing they didn't try to figure out why that story wouldn't have checked out, but maybe in times of crisis, you take what charity you can get.

When I ran into them next, a couple weeks after the funeral (I didn't know them well enough to go, even though I was invited by Trust Fund kid), they all thanked me. It was a little... surprising. We swapped information, and they told me that if I ever needed anything, give them a call. I told them, likewise, that I would help them with whatever they needed, free of charge - it's the least I could do.

There is a certain cold comfort in trying to accept that casualties happen. It's taken me a long time to accept that and deal with it. When you read something in the news, on a forum, or hear it second hand, we're just talking names and numbers, not faces. The ability of the human mind to empathize is equaled by his ability to completely disconnect himself from any sort of connection to the plight of another.

Sometimes, we don't get that luxury. Sometimes we simply can't do that. I refer to these... men by nicknames because it gives me a little distance. It keeps me from beating myself up, breaking down crying as I type this to put that emotional barrier up. i tell myself everyone does it. I'm probably right, they really have to.

In theory, I was a heroine. I kept the body count from being two. I can't say I did this in any planned, perfect fashion, and that there wasn't a lot of luck involved, but in theory, I did my job. I should be able to look in the mirror and be proud of my work.

But all I see when I look into Ronkonkoma Lake these days is Dave's face, and my own frustration.

PS: And for my sake, please stay away from that lake during the Solstice.

[Doctor Boggs]

Well said, that is a very bitter pill to swallow. Glad to hear you kept the rest of them alive though, quite a tale.

[Gotham Witch]

They kept themselves alive too, I'd say. I didn't give them enough credit. Maybe that's the problem with 'my' kind of people; we think so highly of ourselves and our special abilities that we never consider there are many resourceful people without them.

C'est la vie.

[Slayer]

Well G.W. I have to say you weave a very impressive story. And you don't give yourself nearly the credit you deserve.

You are right though sometimes normals can surprise you when their backs are to the wall. I look forward to possibly working with you in the future.

[Gotham Witch]

Alright, it feels like forever, but I'm home again. The past few weeks have been a whirlwind, but I'll get something posted soon. Massachusetts is strange enough even without witch burnings, it seems.

[Doctor Boggs]

Wait a bit, weren't you in Maine?

[Gotham Witch]

Wait, what? No I wasn't in Maine... was I?

[Gotham Witch]

I found a wifi at a cafe, horray. And now, a little ghost story from April.


"Melissa, what was Ben like?"

The question, when poised by my friend's daughter, Sarah, was a bit unexpected. Upon Jen introducing me to her 5 year old daughter, the spunky little rascal saw something she liked in me. One weekend meeting turned into two, which turned into trips to the Bronx Zoo about every other weekend and the occasional ice cream fest - though my friend never heard about most of those.

One of those trips, I had to make a stop by the cemetery to pay my annual respects. Ben was my brother, who passed away in a car crash about a decade ago. I was 12 then, having enough growing pains without having real tragedy in the mix. My father took it especially hard as well though. As odd as it is to say, we bonded over Ben's loss.

It had been a few months since I had shown Sarah Ben's final resting place, so I found the question a bit unexpected. Jen and Ben had been close friends growing up, so I had considered that perhaps Jen had said good things about him to her daughter. Or so I assumed.

I pursed my lips, considering my words carefully before answering.

"Ben was a bit of a jokester. He liked to laugh and he liked seeing other people laugh." I paused, letting my answer hang there for a moment as those adorable blue eyes looked up at me, before asking, "Why do you ask, Sarah?"

"Because I think I saw him." was her innocent response.

I was a loss for words, to put it mildly, "Erm, what?"

"Uh huh." Sarah nodded, excited, "I saw him in the mirror when I was brushing my teeth last night."

"How do you know it was him, sweetie?" Considering Ben died over a decade ago, and Sarah was half that age, I found myself a bit skeptical about her claim.

"Because he kind of looked like you, and he told me to tell you that he said "Hi!" she exclaimed, before going back to eating her ice cream.

I just stared down at her for a moment, letting the ice cream in my hand melt down the side of the cone. I wasn't sure where to start being worried. In my mind, that could have been anybody or anything that Sarah saw. The fact Sarah saw it was of concern as well. I wasn't sure how I was going to explain to Jen that her daughter was seeing ghosts - or worse.

I asked her mother about it. Jen confirmed what Sarah said, noting that she thought she heard Ben's voice in the kitchen while Sarah was brushing her teeth.

Sarah hasn't reported anything about Ben since then, though sometimes she claims shes 'lonely people who vanish'.

I should probably check on Jen when I get back to NY.

[Gotham Witch]

Finding Alice

This is one of those bits that kept me occupied mid-Spring.

When I first arrived in New York City, I was swiftly introduced to a thrift store just north of NoLita - or, SoHo for those of you who don't detest the term. The owner, Ron Harrison, used to drum for a punk band that did some openings for the New York Dolls. He sure looks like a musician who never quite put down the sticks. He keeps his hair up in a mohawk of various colors - whoever his artist is is a bloody miracle worker with how fried that hair should look - and is most often tending shop in a leather vest and worn jeans.

His band never made it big in that regard, but he himself made enough cash to start up this little curio store of his. Curio is perhaps a bit too vanilla - Ron has one of the most interesting collections of relics, antiques, and 'spooky' paraphernalia in the area. How he became interested in the occult and how he gets his stuff, I'll never know and he'll never tell. He has everything from nunchaku to Ming Dynasty swords, to athalmes, vajra, grimoires, the works - all apparently legal from what I can tell.

My first purchase there was a really obscure Aleister Crowley work - not because I think Crowley was some magical theoretical genius - he wasn't - but it makes for interesting reading. Since then, we've swapped tapes, had a few beers, and more than once I've relied upon him to get me supplies as well as information. It's somewhat bad business, but sometimes Ron helps me out on the cheap. I suppose it builds repeat customer fanbase.

In any case, he called me in around noon to discuss a problem I could fix for him. Apparently someone ran off with a book of his. He offered me payment to find it and if I could be discreet about it (I'm posting all of this now with his permission, by the by). I'm not used to dealing with Ron like that. He's usually pretty earnest (except where he gets his artifacts). But for old friends, I cut him a deal; whiskey at the Mars Bar would more than suffice.

You know what they say. Sometimes you're mercenary with the ones you love... or something.

I had an odd feeling about this one, though I felt it was sort of silly. This wouldn't be so weird, if it weren't for the nature of the thefted object. It wasn't a grimoire. It wasn't the Necronomican, or the Tome of Unlimited Pages. It wasn't even some Thelemic works of Crowleys, or Witchcraft for Dummies.

It was an original printing of Carroll's Alice in Wonderland. Someone up there has a sense of humor

He didn't even advertise he had it, and just left it locked in his vault. It was one of his prized possessions for reasons he never elaborated on. The odd thing is despite the thief cracking open the vault, the book was the only thing she took. This was after she took the trouble to set off every trap in his basement, leaving melted plaster and torched tile everywhere. Likely, he enlisted me rather than the NYPD because I ask less questions about that sort of thing.

The plus side of her taking the least tactful route possible in burglurizing his place was that the melting... things in the basement left footprints. The perp apparently wore chucks about half size smaller than mine (don't you judge me).

A fellow in a kiosk across the way claimed that at about 7 AM this morning, a figure in a black trenchcoat broke into the store. The door must have been unlocked, he said, because she simply snapped her fingers, and the door seemed to just slowly open. The strange thing was, he didn't report her leaving. The door simply slammed shut with nobody else entering until the owner did a couple hours later. Apparently she had really blue hair though.

Bluehair, trenchcoat, and chucks. It was going to be a long day.

[Grace]

Blue hair?

[Gotham Witch]

Dye is funny like that.

[Gotham Witch]

There are a large amount of people with blue hair in New York. Considering such colorful places (bad pun) as the Village, Park Slope, or the Meatpacking District, this should come as no surprise. However, there is a relative dearth of blue haired spellcasters in Manhattan. Even fewer would be crazy enough to bump off a well respected antiquarian in that area of the city. So thankfully, I had a few ideas on where to go next with this.

It was possible the perp was using a disguise of some sort, of course. Granted, had she wanted to do that, she could have just gone in invisibly instead of just on the way out. On the other hand, weaving spells isn't something 'our' kind can do all day, so perhaps she just tried to blend in the most obvious way possible: by being a typical New Yorker of a customer.

When I was a bit younger, I used to frequent an industrial/techno club near Fulton Street named The Border. That's the place where all the up and coming spooks went to have a good time and get in touch with people in the community. I'd outgrown the place over time, but I still kept in touch with a few people who have gone on to work or manage there. In either case, I felt my perp by the description would have fit the obvious crowd for that place.

And before anyone asks, no, my hair was never dyed, and I do not wear black nail polish.

My friend Sparks a few years back managed to score the Friday night shift there, and was my obvious contact. After asking her to lunch at my favorite Turkish restaurant on 14th and 8th Ave, I described the jist of my situation, as well as my perp. This was all to the cost of a moderately sized lunch and of course, baklava.

As it turns out, Miss Blue was a fairly well known up and coming mage known as Astral - also possibly known as Angelica Montgomery, though Sparks suspected her ID was a fake. She was either just out of high school, or a dropout, and despite the breadth of talent in the Art that she had, she was rather spoiled, had no patience for... well, anything, and lacked emotional stability. As such, every one who offered to apprentice her had quit within weeks, if not days, no matter how much she offered to pay them.

Astral had a small little cadre of young, easily impressionable budding hedge-wizards who felt like those in the know owed it to them to give them the secrets to stop living life in their parent's basement. A couple weeks ago, Astral overheard them discussing an offer she had from someone named 'Cobbler.' Well, discussing was not the word for it. 'Verbal knife fight' might fit better. Astral was apparently in sharp disagreement with her possibly more rational friends regarding a course of action that needed taken. It became abusive enough to the point that Sparks had threatened to toss them out to cool down for the night.

Giving my friend Sydney a call, I asked him if his book store (Odd Pages in the East Village, if anyone's interested) had any requests for a copy of Alice's Adventures in Wonderland. He informed me he had been looking for such a copy, at the behest of a Mister Cobbler, a man who, in his words, looked like Severus Snape meets Patrick Swayze.

The plot thickened.

Later that afternoon, I phoned what I had found out to Ron, who seemed both unsurprised and rather irate. He noted that a Mister Cobbler had came in some time ago, demanding an original print of Alice. He wasn't sure how Cobbler knew that Ron even had one, since he never advertised his copy.

I was a bit confused though as to why Ron had been rather hush when he first contacted me about this. He didn't tell me about Cobbler or that he may have known something about how this may have linked to the break-in. Considering Ron rarely kept secrets from me (especially ones related to his merchandise), something seemed very off. Of course, knowing Ron, he tended to know more often than most people when not to tell, so I wasn't likely to get an answer from him.

Fortunately Sparks gave me a very promising tipoff that the rest of Astral's crew had shown up at the Border that night. Despite being in my PJs and three beers in, it seemed I had business to take care of.

[Gotham Witch]

Formerly a rather small warehouse, the space that would become the Border had sat fallow for years before the current owner, one Adrienne Laveau, a prominent voodoo practitioner from the south, renovated the hell out of the space and made it the most prominent hangout for young people of 'different interests' in south Manhattan. In the four years she has owned the Border, there has never been any trouble with the police. Adri suggests that's because of her voodoo spirits protecting her space.

As an aside, why she never went for a cajun themed place I will never know. I might have hung out there more.

I tilted an imaginary hat to Roy the bouncer as I entered the Border that night. It was about eleven on Friday, so the place was downright hopping by the time I got there. The heavy, repetitive bass of the sound system shook through me as I stepped inside, the DJ of the night apparently a large fan of Daft Punk. The place was pretty close to capacity, with the majority of folks jumping away in a throng on the dance floor. Thankfully, Adri had put in numerous booths along the edge of the club and near the bar for those of us who aren't magnetically drawn to dance floors.

Ignoring the bright pretty lights spinning about the darkly lit dance club, I made my way to the bar, neatly illuminated with various glow in the dark paint along the trim. Sparks was working that night, her hair a vibrant pink under the black light. After serving a couple of kids that I'm not entirely sure were actually of age, she offered to pour me a shot of... something. I unfortunately had to decline, and inquired about the Astral Gang. I distinctly noticed a cringe as she pointed me toward the northwest corner.

I approached the booth where a group of would be goth or emo (I always mix those up) kids were apparently spending someone's hard earned cash on liquor. A case and a half of empty beer bottles were strewn about all over the table, a collection that was slowly piling up as they exuberantly drank in apparent celebration. Were it anywhere else, the old, large book on the table in the midst of all of those bottles would have seemed more out of place.

Now, I'm not exactly an imposing figure - as Boggs and FriarJohn would attest, I'm barely 5'9, and if I were any thinner, I'd be crossing into model/eating disorder territory. Nor do I dress terribly threatening - my leather jacket is hip length, not a trench, I prefer sneakers over steel-toed boots, and my magical tools of the trade generally fit into a nice convenient messenger bag (of destruction!), not a wizard's staff or knife.

That all being said, as they noticed me walking over the table, I apparently stood out like a sore thumb. Several of them glared at me almost threateningly as I approached, as if I were a male wolf in the wrong territory. The redhead lass in the group, if such a thing were possible, almost went even more pale upon seeing me. The other two boys just watched me warily, as if I were about to kick their puppy.

I couldn't decide if I should be proud or worried that I draw such strong responses.

Glancing around at the group for a moment, rapping my fingertips upon the cold metal table, I said loudly over the music, "I'm looking for Astral."

"No you're not." shouted one of the darker featured fellows, appearing to be pushing some bangs out of his face as his other hand tensely gripped the edge of the table.

Now, I know a magical gesture when I see it. I also could feel that slight build up of mystical energy as he attempted to discreetly bind something together. The weave was slow and weak, and the spell likely would not have worked, but I didn't take any chances; I suddenly slammed my fist down on his table-grabbing hand, eliciting a tense grunt as the others leaned away from me in their seats.

A pity the club was too loud to notice my awesome display of intimidation.

"Yes, you do." I said low and threateningly. I highlighted my point by keeping my other hand raised in the air, fist closed save my first two fingers, the universal sign of being magically armed and ready to get blasting.

I was rather hoping it wouldn't come to that as I continued a few moments later, "I'll get to the point. Your blue haired friend has just lifted a book from the most well connected dealer of arcane curiosities in southern Manhattan. If I don't get a lead regarding where she or that book is, we are going to have problems."

"Hah, you aren't going to do anything." one of them postured, grabbing a beer bottle threateningly, but not breaking it on the table edge yet. He glanced about to see if his friends were inspired by his act of defiance, before continuing, "You won't risk getting tossed out of here or arrested! We've got powerful friends!"

"Well, I could curse you all with horrible waking nightmares until one of you fesses up" I responded tersely, "Or maybe inflict horrible pain with voodoo dolls until you go insane?"

They all went pale at that.

"You... you wouldn't!" the redhead freaked out, nearly screaming at me, "Everyone would know it was you! We'd tell everyone and someone would put a stop to you!"

"Oh, I wouldn't." I noted, expressing mock shock at such a suggestion, "But there are plenty of people I know who would."

They all just looked at each other, murmuring worriedly. It seemed I was winning this.

"Tell me where Astral took that book, and you'll never see me again." I said as pleasantly as possible, as I calmly slid a piece of paper and a pen in front of them.

It took all of four seconds before the redhead broke, grabbing the pen with a shaky hand before scribbling down an address. I took the sheet back and looked it over carefully.

"Morningside Heights? Are you sure?" I asked, glancing at them.

"Aye, that's where Astral said she was going with the book." One of them answered rather pensively. Despite being well over six foot tall, he was trying to make himself look very small in his booth seat.

"I see." I glanced around them, before a thought occurred, "And why isn't she here now?"

They all looked at each other, almost as if the thought had not came to them before. Their confusion turned to perhaps concern, though an answer remained elusive.

"We... we thought she was still delivering the book." the redhead finally broke the silence, clear concern in her voice, "She called me saying that she would drop the book off around 3, and would meet us here. But... well, she isn't here."

I rubbed the lower part of my face with my hand to mask a frown. This was quickly going past mere theft and I was only then starting to ponder how much farther this would lead me. I could tell these club-goers were clearly out of their element and their nervousness showed they knew that.

"You have to understand. We only did this because of Astral." Another young man with a pony tail spoke, "She insisted that if we got that book for Cobbler, he'd show us how to be real magicians. We... we didn't mean to cause trouble."

"Did you take anything else trying to impress this guy?" I asked. My voice was a bit more steely than I had intended that time.

"Well..." the one with the pony tail took a deep breath, before searching through the pocket of his baggy black jeans. He withdrew a small crumpled up shopping list and handed it to me, adding, "We didn't steal these things. We just bought them."

I looked the list over, arching a brow as I read to myself aloud, "Sidewalk chalk, a teapot, a deck of playing cards, some large mushrooms, and shisha?"

"Uh huh. We assumed it was for some weird ritual." The redhead noted, "Astral told us Cobbler explained all of this stuff could help us get real power. She didn't explain how though."

"I do." I said, groaning aloud as I crumpled the note in my hand. Despite the looks of inquiry from all present, I didn't answer as I looked at them, using my schoolteacher voice, "Let me be very clear. Magic is not a game. It can easily get you or someone else hurt, killed or much, much worse. If you want to learn this stuff, you learn it through practice and being nice to those who can help you, not through promises of easy power. Got it?"

Whether they got it or not, they all just nodded their heads at me timidly. I just shook my head as I stormed out, folding the address into my coat pocket. I checked my phone for the time. 11:20 PM. I had to hurry before Cobbler got to doing what I think he was going to do.

[Gotham Witch]

A little primer for those of you not in the know. Chalk is most often used when one needs to lay down lines or circles - usually for a ritual. Whether that group knew that or not, I'm not sure.

What I most certainly didn't tell them was that Astral was very likely in danger. I didn't need them following me or freaking out any worse than they already had. Perhaps they had a right to know, but I didn't have time to deal with them. Likely, Cobbler would wait until midnight to conduct a ritual, to take advantage of the magical energy that tends to reach apex around that point. What the ritual was for, I still didn't know.

The uptown bus proved to be the most slow, nail biting experience of my life. To calm myself a bit, I looked through my messenger bag and my coat to ensure I had everything I needed. This was very likely going to be messier than I was used to, but I didn't really have time to call anyone. In hindsight, I really should have just waited until proper backup.

That said, a lot of things suggested I wasn't exactly dealing with a master here. If he needed teenagers to get his reagents, then he may very likely have not been a seasoned spellcaster. However, there was probably something more to this, and dark mages never tend to operate in vacuums. As such, I left Sydney a text message noting that if I didn't call or shoot him another text in the next hour, that were were problems. He could yell at me later for being stupid.

The property in question was a building near Morningside Park, looking one inspection away from a demolition notice. The windows were mostly broken, and the heavy metal door was heavily tagged and padlocked, not having been used for years. However, footsteps in the dried out flowerbed suggested heavy traffic around the house.

Glancing around a moment, I followed those tracks through the alley. It led to a barred door whose padlock had not been relocked. Quietly, I pulled the grate open before testing the handle on the green inner door. Unlocked, the door slid open rather quietly. Someone had taken great lengths to oil their hinges to avoid drawing attention. Veeery interesting.

My skin crawled a bit as I opened the door, peering into the darkness. I hadn't had such a nervous feeling since that time at the inn, by that point being about four years ago. Likely, I was going to feel like I was going to wretch my guts out if I were in here too long if the bad juju I thought was going on were going on.

I was of course more seasoned by that point, and was not going to take any chances. I murmured a couple spell incantations, taking a deep breath to steady my thoughts beforehand. Since an earlier incident last year that had led to a cracked rib, I had went to great lengths to get my coat padded. The exact details I'll leave blank, but suffice to say I was confident it would be enough that I wouldn't need to burn my reserves to ward off blows.

That said, I nonetheless pricked my finger with the Gerber I kept in my bag. The cut was a bit more ragged than what I could usually do, but regardless, I managed to inscribe a little protective symbol atop my hand. Focusing a bit of my will and murmuring softly as I made one last stroke to close the circle, I bound the small spell of protection to myself. It's a relatively minor protective charm, but it serves as a bit of comfort against energies that leave me feeling sullied.

I also opted for concealment, murmuring a spell that allowed me to meld into the darkness. Considering I was going into a seemingly abandoned house, I had a feeling shadows weren't going to be an issue. I followed this up with another incantation, waving a hand near my eyes as the dark hallway became brighter to me, the spell adjusting my eyes so I wouldn't need a light. Lastly, a good old fashioned invisibility-piercing spell.

Ready for war, I stepped inside and gently nudged the door open behind me.

[Gotham Witch]

Contrary to concerns, the place did not reek of as much profane energy as I was predicting. I didn't have the urge to expel my dinner, but I definitely felt on edge. Despite being in the low 70s outside, I felt almost chilly inside of that house. The lack of furniture or appliances in the entire house however - there wasn't even a fridge or stove in the dilapidated kitchen - led me to believe there wasn't power for an air conditioner to be too high. In short, I doubt anyone really lived here.

Tracks in the dust led to a small trap door in what I presumed to have been the living room. The latch was unlocked, leaving me with the simple task of very slowly lifting the wooden door to reveal a set of steep wooden stairs leading to bare concrete basement To top off the ominous scene, I heard some sort of deep voiced chatter down below... somewhere.

Glancing about carefully for any security systems or traps, I carefully placed my feet on the stairs and made my way down. Into the fire I went, I thought.

As an aside, a gun would have been a rather intelligent thing to have. However, NYC gun laws are such where I would be put away for a long time if I were caught with a firearm in city limits. That and I had no time to stop back at home to get what I did have. That's why I sometimes prefer working outside of the city, where I might be able to arm a bit more properly. On the plus side, I've become very good at blowing things up the old fashioned magicky way when I've had to.

Behind a conspicuous bedsheet lay a chiseled out tunnel, a tunnel that, when the sheet was parted, blew in the dank smell of subway. It seemed that someone had carved themselves out a route into some abandoned stretches of tunnel. Interestingly, the original entrance seemed to have been paved over and built upon by one of the houses nearby, leaving this as the only way in.

In I went, of course.

There are miles upon miles of maintenance passage and abandoned subway tunnels in New York City's 100+ year old subway system. In most cases, it probably would have been very easy to get lost. However, my LED light was revealing some blatantly obvious footprints leading through some of the tunnels, keeping me from getting lost. Of course, following the trail was only necessary when the voices weren't quite specific enough to hone in on - and these voices weren't hard to follow.

It seemed like hours before I found myself at one last short staircase, leading down visibly to a walkway alongside some decades old rail line. Walking down those stairs, I accidentally touched what felt like drying paint upon one of the walls. Upon closer inspection, I realized that half dried blood was haphazardly splattered along the wall leading down to the tunnel.

Fantastic. A bit unnerved, I took a deep breath before continuing.

I followed the abandoned subway tunnel for awhile, staying on the raised walkway as I walked along quietly. The voices were becoming more clear as I approached the source, with a very clear exchange between a deeper male voice and a younger feminine one echoing back and forth in the tunnel. I ended up stopping briefly a couple times, trying to sort out what the dialogue was about, but there was just enough resonance to make such exchanges impossible.

Though, the fact it was possibly in a language I didn't understand may have contributed, I suppose.

I saw a light near the end of the subway tunnel, illuminating the faded tiles and mosaics of what was once a subway station. The tint of the light and the flickering suggested candle rather than incandescent light - no surprise, really. What was surprising was the smell of dank subway and sometimes sewer giving way to apple-cinnamon scented tobacco.

Shisha, the stuff you smoke in a hookah. Someone was taking the Alice thing way too far.

I made my way closer, moving relatively quietly to try and avoid detection. As I came into nearer proximity, I realized it was not a dialogue, but a ritual exchange of chants between two people. The language, I recognized, was an old Germanic one - possibly Old English since a lot of it sounded very Beowulf.

Stranger and stranger this was becoming. A pity I couldn't make out the scene yet since it was all around the corner. So I made my way closer, keeping my hand near my messenger bag in case I needed a trick or two. I figured I had the jump on them, and rituals are rather easy to interrupt given the right preparations.

That's assuming that everyone there is involved in the proceedings, of course.

A figure lept out as I neared the corner, a baseball bat swinging in the process. I yelped in surprise as I managed to get an arm up, catching the blow along my sleeve (rather than my head).

Were I not wearing that jacket, the impact would have likely broken my arm. Instead, it knocked me off balance and onto the railroad tracks, tumbling between one of the carrier rails and the absent third rail (thank God). Better than getting my brains bashed in, I guess.

Looking up, my attacker was someone dressed - I kid you not - as a jester. Pointed toe shoes, hat with bells on it, mismatched red and white clothing - the works. The baseball bat was the only thing that didn't make sense, really. C'est la vie.

Upon the railway platform, I saw a woman fitting the description of Astral - with the blue hair, at least. The tacky blue dress was a bit more unexpected, however. She was staring blankly at a large nosed British looking fellow with a giant top hat, in an even tackier replica of a smoking jacket and striped pants. At their feet, was a circle drawn out with a fairly typical pentagram inside of it, a pile of shisha burning in a bowl in the center next to a terra cotta teapot, a bit of steam piping out from the spout.

And on an old table with the candle holder, next to some old notes and a plastic bag of field mushrooms, was the book I was looking for. Bingo. Of course, I had some people to get past first.

The two near the circle were busy in their chant, either unaware or too occupied to do much about me. That made things somewhat simpler, except for whatever it was the ritual was for. I could already feel a tingle in the air as a sizable amount of magical energy was building in the station. I needed to deal with that.

The jester, on the other hand, was intent on being in my way. He gave a cackle as he jumped from the subway platform, attempting to beat my brains in with an overhead swing. Being unarmed, I was going to have to cheat a little. I murmured a couple words, and pointed at the airbourne clown, closing my eyes briefly as I stepped to the side.

There was a sudden flash in the chamber as the spell went off not four inches from the jester's face. He screamed surprise as he staggered, missing me by a mile as he tripped on the nearest subway iron, falling over between the rails with an ooph. I didn't wait to take advantage, as I stepped forward, kicking the jester in the side of the head as hard as I could. His head snapped back, a stunned look in his crazy eyes before he collapsed limp.

One down, at least. By this point, i think I had maybe interfered with the ritual, as the chanting was down to Astral at this point.

The bad news is the sound was replaced by that of a pump action.

Needless to say, I dove for cover as the roar of a shotgun went off, huddling behind an old pillar as buckshot struck the pillar next to me, stinging me with white porcelin. There was another quick pump before he fired again, buckshot spraying past me into black concrete. Apparently Cobbler was a bit blind from that flash of light - or just a terrible shot. Who knows.

Peeking around the corner, I eeped and ducked back behind my cover as Cobbler quickly pumped his weapon, firing again with a third roar, striking the pillar I was sitting behind with the same spray of tile and concrete.

"You are a naughty girl for interrupting my business!" the man shouted in an accent that was, disappointingly, not British. He accompanied this by leaping to the side, letting loose with another scattergun blast at a slightly better angle to try and catch me. Thankfully he was practically wearing tap shoes. I heard him make the step and leaped behind another pillar in a panic just in time to avoid a me-shaped silhouette.

"Well maybe you shouldn't have stolen the damn book, you crackpot!" I shouted back, rather indignantly. Go me. I had to be a bit more clever though. Thankfully, I heard him inserting more shells into his gun. A four shot tube, I guessed.

I raised a hand, murmuring a few words as I gathered some magical energy - not to mention my composure. A shotgun still gave him better odds of winning this than me, but only when he had it loaded. A swirl of fire glistened around my index finger as I popped out of my hiding space, pointing at the Mad Shotgunner just as he cocked his weapon and fired at me.

A heavy impact struck my shoulder, sending me damn near spinning to the ground. Now, the warding on my coat dispersed impact force and prevented penetration. That said, he had apparently switched to slugs, which would knock me down regardless.

Bastard.

I hit the ground with a yelp as I landed awkwardly between the pillars and the tracks, my knee whacking the rail as I hit the ground. A sharp sting going through my shoulder as I sat up; the slug had left a print on the leather and it felt like someone had punched me there. That said, it could have been a lot worse.

Of course, I couldn't ignore the fwoosh and screaming of someone being hit on fire for very long. As I watched, Cobbler as partially on fire, his face and hand singed as he attempted to put his jacket out.

Not wanting to waste the chance, I took a few careful steps and jumped onto the platform, not five feet from him as I wove together another spell. His hat remained on fire even as he struggled to put himself out, rather distracted in his attempt to work the action on his Mossberg.

As Cobbler finally finished the pump, blocking the burning pain out long enough to take aim, I reached past him towards the pale blue wooden broomstick in the corner, an invisible force flicking the object into the air and towards us. Cobbler glanced behind him, realizing what I was doing as he managed to jump out of the way in time with a surprised urk.

Catching the broom in my hands, I swung the makeshift staff at him just as he lifted his shotgun in my direction once more. I caught the barrel, knocking it away and directly to the right as the weapon discharged, the slug shattering a tile on the platform opposite the tracks.

Having been fired at enough times already, I was desensitized somewhat to the loud report. Cobbler was quick though, and recovered swiftly enough to shoulder rush me, cursing all the way. As he had a couple inches and probably 40-50 pounds on me - and this wasn't factoring in that my knee was starting to really ache - he knocked me onto my backside with depressing ease.

I'll remind you all once again that fighting in hand to hand combat is not a forte of mine, so just be impressed I think as quickly as I do.

As he attempted to work the pump on his shotgun again and end this fight once and for all, I made a pushing motion with my arm at him in response. He braced back a bit as telekinetic force locked the pump backwards, forcing the chamber open and leaving him briefly unable to finish working the action - not to mention subsequently shooting me in the face.

I couldn't help but smirk a bit, I remember. This melee combat thing wasn't so hard after all.

In follow up, he bellowed out the words of a spell, attempting to gather the energy to put me down the old fashioned way as electricity began to arc between the fingers of an open hand. I admit I kind of forgot up until that point that he was a mage. Silly me.

Not having any of that, I grabbed the broomstick that was still next to me, stumbling forward just enough to put him in range before swinging the shaft with both hands at his legs. I caught him right in the knee with a crack, sending him sprawling to the ground with a howl, and the shotgun tumbling out of his hand. The magic safely fizzled out with a loud crackle - and a bit of static to raise a few hairs.

Better than the alternative, I thought. Not wasting any time, I brought the staff/broom back around and in one solid overhead strike, cracking the broomstick - and probably a rib or two - with a loud snap.

Take that, bastard.

Cobbler just sort of curled up into a fetal position, holding his ribs as I stood up on wobbly legs. Tossing the cracked broomstick to the side, I looked up upon hearing the chanting end, seeing Astral standing in the circle, a slice of mushroom in hand as she spoke before dropping it into her mouth.

"One side will make you taller."

Cobbler hadn't been leading the ritual. He had seemingly bent Astral's will to do it for him.

Shit.

[Gotham Witch]

Cobbler cursed as he labored to stand, shouting as he staggered over to the still glass-eyed woman arms flailing, "You Bitch! Do you have any idea what you just did!?

The supposedly entranced woman just cracked a grin before grabbing him by both shoulders. The tophat-wearing psychopath gasped, struggling to escape as the smaller woman began to... well, expand.

"Keep your temper." She quoted, her voice having an odd... double tone to it. If only that were the strangest part.

Her frame began to poof and bubble, like an expanding marshmallow over a fire. I could hear her skeleton begin to audibly rearrange itself, the popping and cracking of bone and flesh audible even over Cobbler's terrified screams. chitinous claws tore bloodily through her chest, grabbing Cobbler's terrified form even tighter.

There was a certain violation to that moment was I witnessed it that I simply cannot convey in text. Even a video game allegory would not do it justice. Something was erupting from Astral's body, and using it as its entry way into this world.

Even as a massive, bulbous insectile head split what was left of Astral's face in half, crunching down sickeningly upon Cobbler's bust and muffling his screams, I swept my hand towards the bloody feast, using my spell to telekinetically roll the four or so shotgun shells in my direction even as I picked up Cobbler's shotgun. Staring in horror was not going to save my life, I apparently realized, and focusing on keeping myself alive would keep me from throwing up.

Of course, easier said than done. Trying not to drop the bloody shells - slugs, thankfully - in my shaky hands, I inserted each round, keeping my eyes off of the scene. Despite this, in my peripheral I could still see a swelling of pink and green colors as what was left of the young arcanist's flesh fell away like shed clothing.

I narrowed my gaze and steadied myself as I finished loading the weapon, working the pump once to chamber a shell as I looked up at my deep growling quarry. The blood covered caterpillar was 12 feet long, 3-4 times my weight, and with five times as many arms. Although the arms and head were chitin, the rest of it was that soft, green supple flesh that you see on those giant moth caterpillers you occasionally catch in your garden. Personally I have found those things even more disgusting.

By this point, it had eaten Cobbler whole save a few shreds of clothing and what were left of his shoes - dismembered feet intact. Good thing too, since tap shoes are incredibly difficult to digest. Those green compound eyes stared up at me as those crimson mandibles spit out what was left of his tibia, emitting a high pitched scream that would have sounded comical had it been in a movie. As it stood, this wasn't a movie, it was 20 feet away from me and I was terrified.

So I did the only rational thing - and opened fire. What else do you do with a 12 gauge?

The caterpillar gave an inhuman shriek as a slug caught it beneath the neck, thick brownish ichor splattering along the century old tile. It began to move towards me with surprising quickness, covering about 10 feet before I even finished loading the second slug. Stepping back, I fired again. Sadly, the rapport was more steeling for me than the actual result, as the shell had simply glanced off of its head to no effect.

I had a shell half loaded before the Astralpiller closed, its massive jaws attempting to bite my head off before I could shift out of the way. In a panic, I braced the scattergun sideways at its head, catching its mandibles with the receiver even as its sharp little arms raked at my jacket, trying to grab me so it could do to me what it did to Cobbler.

There was a whiny creak as the shotgun was bent in half at the receiver, crushed in the thing's maw. Levering up against the twisted scattergun, I stumbled to the side before it could bug-hug me. My knee by this point was starting to really ache as I limped along, and it was a lot faster than it looked. I was not feeling comfortable by how this was going.

Before it could turn to make another swipe at me, the panicked scream of the jester could be heard, now conscious and apparently terrified at the giant man-eating larva. The caterpillar shrieked once again before leaping off of the subway platform, grasping the leg of the terrified henchmen and pulling him into his grasp with a warbling noise.

I didn't wait to watch it eat the terrified slugger, though I had to hear the tearing of flesh and crunch of bone over terrified screams regardless. I did wonder, however, if it had deliberately chosen to go after him rather than me. I would have been the easier prey. Perhaps some part of Astral was still in there?

I couldn't think about that for very long. I limped back towards the center of the platform, trying to find something that might keep me alive.

The circle in the center of the room had apparently been designed to control whatever it was that was summoned. The problem was that Astral's death throes - not to mention Cobbler's struggling - had wrecked it. Inhuman limbs and blood had broken the circle and dispersed any way to reactivate it without minutes of work. Even had that not been the case, I couldn't operate it without a bit more understanding of how it operated - that and I wasn't sure how much arcane oomph I had left.

Magical control was thus was ruled out quickly.

Painfully, I limped over to the table, picking up the old, mostly intact copy of Alice's Adventures in Wonderland. Amongst the weak screaming of quickly dying jester, I flipped through the pages, hands trembling all the way as I tried not to drop it onto the candles.

This printing was most certainly odd. Those pictures you normally see in most editions were there, but... scarier. The crane that Alice holds when playing croquet was a lot beastier, with a wicked looking beak and scary eyes. The Duchess looked more like some sort of diseased, obese ogre. Her 'child' was even uglier. The Queen of Hearts, in contrast to her flat card counterpart in the popular version, was a bit more... Dominatrix of Hearts in style. The words 'Lesbian Bondage Fiasco' came to mind looking at her.

Quietly, I wondered if all Victorian children's books were this gritty.

Then there was the caterpillar. It was a spitting image illustration of the one that had just finished eating the jester, though with Alice standing in a circle, holding a mushroom to keep it at bay...

That's when I looked at the text. Someone had highlighted something. The passage was 'One side makes you grow taller. The other makes you grow smaller.'

I checked the circle. There was another half of field mushroom sitting there.

Just maybe?

There was a shriek as the caterpillar had its way back onto the passenger platform and off of the tracks, warbling menacingly at me and quickly closing distance. Either way, better stupid plans than dying.

Quickly, I reached up with both hands, chanting briskly while trying not to wet myself as I stood in the gun barrel. Just as its massive form pulsed, springing up and lunging at me, its maw and scythe-like claws bounced off of an invisible wall of semi-spherical force. Despite the protective spell stopping the thing for the moment, I still shrieked and fell backwards onto the table.

You can't really blame me, can you?

Quickly, I reached over, telekinetically grabbing for the little piece of hopefully magic mushroom and flinging it towards me. Even as I was doing this, the monster pounded upon the invisible force keeping me from becoming worm food. While strong enough to deflect bullets, a spell like that can only take so much punishment, and the beating of claws and steel-crushing mandibles was quickly bringing my protection down.

If this plan didn't work, I was going to go the way of the Joker and the Mad Hatter.

I caught the mushroom just as the protective force faltered, a scythe-like arm knocking me to the table. Wide eyed, I flung the mushroom into the thing's descending jaws.

Mindlessly, the thing swallowed it, before freezing solid, its jaws only about two feet from my face. Tumbling backwards, I fell back behind the table, reaching up to grab that copy of Alice - the thing I came here for.

The thing lifted up and began to seize, crying out in an unholy shriek of pain. That shrieking became less and less audible as the massive caterpillar began to briskly decrease in size, its shrinking arms and mandibles flailing in protest before it vanished from view behind the table.

Stepping around the table, I glanced down at the now normal sized, albeit disgusting looking larva, slowly trying to wiggle away. Now, normally I don't have anything against insects. I made an exception this time as I picked up one of Cobbler's other books, and smashed it as hard as I could - about five times. What was left smeared on the leather cover didn't do much after that.

I sat on the table, gripping the frayed edge tightly as I tried to calm down. I looked around; the ichor was slowly vaporizing, though the smell and mess of freshly killed human remained. My adrenaline was trying to peter out, and I wasn't sure if I wanted to lay there and ache or throw up. It goes without saying the smell of blood sure didn't help.

Carefully, I took Cobbler's notes as well as Alice, tucking them into my bag before making my way out of the subway system.

[Gotham Witch]

It goes without saying Ron (not Caliburn) and I had a lot of words after I limped into his place the next morning, specifically about the things he didn't tell me about the book. Not realizing that the event would result in a bruised shoulder, injured knee, and a loss of appetite, he felt rightly guilty - both about Astral as well as what I went through to get his stuff back, but was most thankful regarding the return of his merchandise.

Apparently, a friend of his had asked for the book to be kept safe. This unofficial printing had, in effect, been a camouflaged text of summoning and transmutation spells. Cobbler somehow caught wind about this thing, as well as about Ron's copy, and tricked Astral into taking it. There's a certain schadenfreude in him being the caterpillar's first victim, but it doesn't change the fact it all happened.

Breaking the news to Astral's friends was not... easy, to put it mildly. Last I heard, a couple of them quit their interests in the arcane entirely. As for the one or two that didn't, I directed them towards a few arcane interest/support groups I knew, so that they could maybe get some proper training.

And those adorable caterpillars I see in Central Park all the time still kind of creep me out after all that. In bitter comfort though, Sparks hasn't charged me for a drink at the in two months at the Border.

[Grace]

By this point, it had eaten Cobbler whole save a few shreds of clothing and what were left of his shoes - dismembered feet intact. Good thing too, since tap shoes are incredibly difficult to digest.

I wonder if there are other caterpillers running about, leaving uneaten shoes and feet?