Demonic Magician

How to start this journal? Magic was something I once thought was anything but. Tricks of the hand or carefully orchestrated illusions that had a set pattern and answer, just overlaid with the art of performance. It was a show, and the audience was just as much a part of it as the magician - for without their disbelief, there was no magic. Just riddles or puzzles that left you guessing. Without the show, nothing could go on.

I tilted my head at the offending page. There would be very few reasons for a message to find its way underneath my door. An assistant that didn’t want to disturb me? Something from Reggie - or dare I consider some hastily delivered fan mail? As much as my life was steeped in the illusion of mystery, it wouldn’t do for me to stand around and postulate.

Not wanting to drop the rabbit cards anywhere else by accident, I stowed them in the breast pocket of my shirt. I probably should have changed by now, but I hadn’t the necessary willpower for buttons. Once again I kneeled, this time to retrieve the paper that had managed to derail my whole train of thought.

The texture of it was… odd. Familiar. Very old. I allowed myself a little patience to return to the comfortable chair before daring to unfold the creases and reveal the disappointment. It reminded me of the faux old letters I had made as a child using tea bags to stain the paper brown. But it felt more authentic than that.

I shuffled down into the seat and sighed deeply. Why I allowed myself to put such weight on the reveal, I didn’t know. Gingerly, I unfolded it.

And gasped.

Memories came flooding back. One of the first books I had read that had made me interested in magic - an ancient tome my grandparents kept. Yellowed, dusty, somewhat illegible - and with pages missing. Whilst I hadn’t learned any magic from it as such, it had painted my imagination for the things that could be possible. A whole new world that was beyond the technical application of my craft.

This looked to be a missing page - or at least most of one. Part of it was worn, but there - yes! The style of illustration was exactly the same. A stone archway with a doorway of luminous pink, wavy as if made of fluttering cloth. The words around the page I didn’t quite understand, but the sensory stimulation was nigh overwhelming.

I still had that book too - it would be over at… wait. So caught up in the prospect of reuniting this lost page to its rightful place, I had not considered who or why it had come into my possession.

Grasping the paper tightly, I turned my gaze back to the door - as if expecting narrative reveal of the perpetrator. Silence, as reality didn’t seem to have the same amount of flare I had expected. The more I thought about it - the stranger it seemed. If this was a specific missing page from the exact book my grandparents used to have, who would have had access to it?

My hotel room was a ten-minute cab ride away. Their house was almost two hours, by my rough estimation. Not that they lived in it currently, of course - they had passed on a good handful of years ago. How time flew. My father had inherited it, but he was working overseas for a few months. Quite the shame, seeing as my tour took me so close by. It would have been nice to see his blurred face out in the crowd. Ships in the night, we had only seen each other a handful of times since my grandmother's funeral.

I idly tapped at the armrest, unsure of how to proceed. Grueling day tomorrow - some rest and relaxation would be nice. Yet… something intended to lead me on the trail of mystery - a little after-show special. A wry grin cracked the side of my mouth - the show must go on, of course.

The chair complained as I left the indentation perfectly made for me. We traveled with it - much to the ire of some of the poor chaps who had to get it through doorways and into every new venue. There was something about always having it just where I needed it that kept me grounded. I pulled on my purple suit once more - better to be properly dressed if there was some game afoot here.

My phone illuminated my face with a pale glow. No new messages - actually, no - there was one from Reggie. He was feeling under the weather tonight, so would grumble at me in the morning. His actual words, not mine. I tried to filter through the events of the evening to try to remember if there were any big enough issues that he might chew me out for. Nothing exceptional - it was a pretty tight performance given we ran it five nights in a row.

In my early years, I had been hailed for my non-stop shows, the enticed masses wondering how I had the energy for it and didn’t get burned out. Well, the show must go on, for starters, I repeated the mantra at risk of it becoming trite - and secondly; I had held my feet to the fire for so long the heat comforted me. I’m sure that would look great engraved on my urn. There was time enough for future Max to worry about other problems, and I had yet to meet the man.

I hit the buttons on the technology to arrange for a cab to come and collect me. The true magic was modern innovation, for sure. There was nobody to witness it, but I span the phone into darkness with a flourish - pocketed away for safekeeping. I would get chewed out by a handful of people if I were seen to leave the premises with my suit still on, but…

Even with my resignation to endure a brief rest, I had left my top hat on. So used to it that it no longer itched at my scalp or brought discomfort by overheating my brain. It was a part of me almost, a visual representation of my inability to separate myself from the job. No, it was a way of life. I lived and breathed the show.

Thankfully, most of the others working the performance had the invisible strings of other commitments dragging them away from my route out of the building. An almost abnormal absence of interlopers, in fact. For them, it was just a job. Clock out and go see friends, spend time with family, celebrate… holidays? Had I really fallen so far as to forget what normal people got up to? Even Reggie didn’t breathe the business the same way I did - but that was okay.

I hailed my driver and got into the back seat. A bright smile widened across my face as the twinkle of recognition played in his eyes. The others may be just cogs in the machine that allowed me to perform, but they were important and I understood their necessity and drive. While the passion was mine, they helped make it into a spectacle. I knew of other magicians who treated those supposedly 'beneath them' with contempt, and it was no surprise to hear of their technical or theatrical blunders along the circuit.

“Where to Max? If I can call you that?” The driver brimmed with excitement, as if I held the cure for what ailed him.

I raised an eyebrow and gave him a brief nod. It was my given name, after all. There was a pause as I decided on my destination. The driver would want to chat with me, and I would be too polite to decline the conversation. Ten minutes to the hotel would be a lot less stress on my tired psyche, rather than two hours… but I could endure one fan to satisfy my curiosity over the piece of paper now safely placed in my card deck, secure in my jacket pocket.

Thus, I gave him the address of my grandparents' old house. And the questions began. Some of them repetitions of previous interviews and I could easily reel off a concise answer with ease, my face enigmatic and animated. Others required a little thought, but every response was delivered with as much joy and sparkle of mystique as I could manage. The darkened trip through the night went by quicker than expected, which I might have been thankful for were my mouth not dry and eyes aching.

As the cab door shut behind me, I turned to give him a generous tip. To a cynic, it probably seemed like a gimmick to increase public relations - but he was genuine and a nice enough fellow despite the inability to see through my front and know when to shush. And I couldn’t fault him for that. I was a master of illusion, after all.

He drove away, contented. A job well done, and a story to tell his friends and family. Even other passengers in the near future. Adoration and fame could act like a firework - one small spark and the crackling lights that illuminated your career burst out with wide reach to dazzle all. I just had to ignore the smell of gunpowder and appreciate the spectacle while it lasted.

I turned to face the building. A pleasant and modest home that my brain had painted eggshell blue and slightly off white - comforting colors under the glow of springtime. Currently, it was just dark and foreboding. Now the corpse of a happier place since the original owners passed, as if the shell had shared the same fate. My father had kept it in good order - even in the shade of night and several months of absence, the shapes of it were at least prim and proper.

From my purple slacks, I withdrew my keys, and tried to cycle through them under the dim glow of the nearest streetlamp. The one with the green tag. Located, I stepped across the gray slabs that led to the front door. Still the same wind chime that had a carved wooden dove atop it, and the welcome mat looked even more worn that I had remembered it - despite it being practically antique already when I was a child.

The key found the lock, and the door pushed open smoothly, although it pushed a small mountain of mail across the floor as it went. My finger found the light switch, just where it always had been - and a glow flooded the room after a brief hum. Dark wood and pale marbled surfaces. The flood of familiarity was overwhelming for a moment. Not much had changed - certainly some things had been replaced, but my father had opted to keep the authenticity of the original design, even if it was dated. It was all about the presentation, after all.

Door closed, I then passed through the open-plan kitchen and into the sitting room beside it, nostalgia both warming and saddening me. Picture frames hung on the wall, showing my grandparents from their early marriage, all the way up to old age. Full lives lived and now gone. With a sigh, I pushed past any reflective thoughts and a bead curtain into what my father liked to call the ‘weird room.’

They had always been into odd things. Magic, the occult, those supposed photos of fairies and ghosts that were popular before the advent of modern technology. The room was little more than a converted study. A door to the left led to the pitch black garden, two bookshelves and a couple of cupboards arranged along the walls to loom over a small round table and two chairs.

My favorite place to be as a child.

Despite nobody else around to see it, a wide smile crossed my face, and I felt as though a weight had been lifted from my shoulders. I tipped my hat to Roger, the stuffed white rabbit that still sat in one of the shelves, and still felt a twinkle of excitement within me for all the charms, crystals, and other knick-knacks decorating the place.

I kneeled beside the various tomes that filled the bookcase - half expecting to spend the next hour constantly distracted by long-lost memories and renewed passion - but there it was, straight away.

With a brief, pensive pause, I took the dark leather book in my hand and slowly slid it from its resting place. A lump formed in my throat as I felt as though I had just disturbed a grave.

One of the small chairs let out a surprised squeak as I sat. From my jacket I withdrew the gifted page and placed it on the black table that was engraved with various runes and spiraled designs.

I brushed the dust from the front of the cover.

Demonic Rites and Foul Magicks, it read.