by J. A. Areces
Chapter 1
The Graveyard Shift
This shift was called the “graveyard shift.” Maybe it was because it took place in the dead of the night when the ambiance is quiet and still, or maybe it was because from the bridge-house the night watchman enjoyed a clear and direct view of the old town’s graveyard. On a clear night, with the full moon illuminating the evening sky, he could easily make out most of the writing on the ancient tombstones and statues. Throughout the years, many tall tales spawned about ghosts and spirits seen roaming the graveyard. These tales became more elaborate every time a night watchman abruptly quit his post claiming to have seen or been haunted by spirits.
Old Dougie Mann refused to fall prey to such gibberish. He was proudly employed by the City as the Bridge Night-Watchman for forty-three years. He worked the graveyard shift three times a week. The days varied depending on the rotation.
Dougie made the regulated inspections and entered the bridge-house a little after midnight. As he settled in the squeaky chair behind the control panel, he complained about his sore back and pulled out a cheap bottle of cherry wine from the bottom drawer of the rusty cabinet. He leaned back after filling his coffee mug with the last of the wine and glanced out the window that overlooked the two-way drawbridge. Slowly sipping his wine, he turned on the tiny radio that rested on the windowsill and glimpsed out the open, side window that allowed him a view of the river, the distant boat yard, and the cemetery that ran up the hill disappearing into the night. For a split second he thought he saw something. There it was again - a flash of light. The surrounding statues were instantly illuminated in blue. Then the flash was gone and darkness returned.
Dougie didn’t spend any time wondering what it was. He didn’t care. Retirement was in sight and not much else held his interest. He took another sip of wine, grimaced at the bitter taste, pulled down his baseball cap and pulled up his jacket collar. The night air was chilly. October nights in a small New England town, close to the ocean, are always cold. Tonight was no exception. An old Gershwin tune that Dougie enjoyed was playing on the tiny radio that sat on the windowsill overlooking the bridge. First, he reached over to raise the volume on the radio, and then he turned to close the window to keep the night air out. There it was; another flash of light. This one was much brighter, causing him to go momentarily blind. Dougie rubbed his eyes and blinked several times. He looked out the window and saw what appeared to be two men engaged in battle.
The taller of the two men leapt up into the air swinging a long staff. It came down hard on the shorter man and smacked the wand out of his right hand. The shorter man turned in pain screaming into the night as he grabbed his wounded hand. His cloak whirled and the hood fell back to reveal an ugly face. Dougie winced. He never saw features so deformed. The man looked like he participated in knock down, kick and scratching fights all his life, and lost them all.
The ugly man lunged after the fallen wand. The other pointed his staff and shouted words that Dougie did not understand. Latin, he thought. A quick mental childhood flash of sitting in long pews attending early morning Sunday mass interrupted the fight. A burst of light blasted from the tip of the staff missing the ugly man as he reached for the wand, pointed, and shouted. Another blast and the staff flew out of the tall man’s hands. He flew through the air crashing against the small bridge-house. His tall, pointy hat floated behind him as his long, black cloak covered his body. The ugly man laughed. His gurgling could be heard from where Dougie sat. He aimed his wand at his stricken opponent, who pulled out his hand from under his cloak uttering a command. His staff obeyed and attacked. It flew from where it lay and whacked the ugly man square in the back. Dougie threw himself back in his chair and hit the other wall as the ugly man tumbled forward, crashing through the window. Broken glass flew everywhere. The ugly man struggled to break free, his hands bleeding as he grappled to regain himself, but the taller man pinned him against the broken glass and control panel. Dougie reached out and grabbed his mug, clutching it tightly against his chest.
“Tell me, Nicholas!” shouted the taller man, as he pushed the ugly man’s face closer to the jagged glass. “Tell me where Raven is or I’ll kill you right here, right now!”
One of the jagged glass shards punctured Nicholas’ cheek, as he hissed, “Alivan’s! Alivan’s Wizards and Witches Corner Store!”
Dougie’s thin, frail, hunched-over frame began to shake nervously. He closed his eyes and drank a large gulp from his mug.
“Since when?” asked the taller man. “Tell me, how long has he been there?”
“Six months,” Nicholas strived to get free only to cut himself some more.
The tall man loosened his grip. He looked shocked. “Six months? I’m running out of time.”
Unexpectedly, Nicholas yelled, and with all his strength pushed against the control panel and desk. His bloody hands inadvertently pressing buttons and switches which activated the drawbridge. The bells sounded and the locked arms set free as they slowly began to descend. The taller man was thrown back as Nicholas whirled himself free. He ran and found his wand. Turning, he aimed at his victim. Dougie leaned forward in his chair keenly watching the fight. The taller man jumped to his feet and found himself facing his enemy. A tiny, red laser dot trembled over his heart. The bells continued to sound as the bridge’s mechanism continued releasing locks causing the bridge to move. Nicholas leaned forward on his weapon.
“You will die tonight, Beifar Mahgo,” he said with a smile.
WHACK!
Nicholas looked up in disbelief. Blood poured down the center of his face, dripping at the end of his nose. The bridge arm bounced off his head. He stumbled back, eyes staring nowhere; then fell to his knees dropping the wand. The bridge began to open, and the floor underneath Nicholas gave away. Slowly, he began to slide. Beifar raced to him snatching Nicholas’ long cloak and urged Nicholas to hold on. Under his breath, Dougie also pleaded for Nicholas to hold on. There was no response from Nicholas. His body slipped through the cloak into the cold river waters.
Dougie sat breathless; nervous sweat dripping down his face. He blinked repeatedly, wiping his brow. The bells finally stopped ringing. Dougie stopped the process, but not in time. Beifar stood with his staff in hand. He looked down into the water - waiting, hoping. He finally let go of his grip, and the dark cloak that belonged to Nicholas glided onto the rushing waters below. Beifar tapped his staff on the floor. Another flash of light, and he was gone.
Dougie put his mug down. He grabbed the empty wine bottle along with the mug and threw them both out the window into the river. He walked out of the bridge-house, locked the door behind him, and resigned the next day.