Magic Required

by Obert Skye

  1189 Alvin’s View Lane

  Since the first moment that Jon had mentioned that Ozzy had a grandfather, Sheriff Wills thought about little else. Ozzy’s parents were the cause of most of the mystery, and the fact that there was another living relative who might have answers filled him with hope.

  Pulling up to the address made him feel a little less hopeful.

  The old blue house’s yard was overgrown, with five large boulders scattered randomly around it. There were no trees and the view wasn’t anything to name a street after.

  Sheriff Wills walked up a cracked and crumbling sidewalk to a porch where a single rocking chair sat, growing old and splintery from time and weather. The front door was orange, ugly, and unwelcoming.

  Wills knocked.

  There was no answer.

  He knocked again and called out. “Anyone home? I’m Sheriff Wills from Otter Rock!”

  Having received no answer again, he walked across the porch to the front window. The curtains were drawn, but there was a small gap in the middle. Through the small opening he could see piles of old books. The walls were lined with shelves sagging under the weight of what they were holding. In the center of the room, sitting in a ruined chair, was a very old man, his eyes closed. He looked to be dead. More to the point, he looked like an Egyptian corpse that had been mummified for months.

  Sheriff Wills rapped loudly on the window.

  “Hello! Hello! Are you okay?”

  The mummy didn’t move.

  Wills’s heart sank. His most hopeful lead looked like it might be an actual dead end. He walked back to the front door and tried the handle.

  To his surprise it was unlocked.

  Without hesitation, Wills pushed the door open and entered the house. He could hardly get into the room. There were books everywhere, and Ozzy’s grandfather was sitting there, crouched forward with a book in his hands, looking just as dead as he had through the glass. With all the titles and volumes surrounding him, he appeared to be a mummy who had been entombed with his favorite things in hopes of taking them with him to the afterlife.

  Sheriff Wills made his way to the old man and groaned.

  “Of course, he’d be dead,” he complained reverently.

  He took his phone out and called the local police station.

  “Hello, this is Sheriff Wills from Otter Rock. I’m here following a lead and it seems as if I’ve found a dead man in his house. The address is . . .”

  Something caught the sheriff’s eye and caused him to stop talking. It was slight, almost imperceptible, but it looked as if the long nose hairs coming from the old man’s big nose were moving slightly.

  “Hold on,” the sheriff said into the phone.

  He stepped closer and stared at the man’s face. The long white hairs poking out from his nostrils fluttered. The man was so old, the white hair on top of his head looked like a thick layer of dust on a wrinkled and deflated volleyball. He had a big mushy nose and a neck covered with loose folds of skin. He was wearing a purple velvet house coat, blue pants, and slippers. Wills reached down to feel for a pulse on the man’s wrist.

  “Do you mind?” the old man croaked.

  Sheriff Wills jumped back two steps.

  “You’re alive?”

  Ozzy’s grandfather opened his eyelids to reveal two faded brown eyes. He looked at Wills and grimaced.

  “Is this what they pay the police for these days?” he groused. “To break into people’s houses and see if they’re still alive?”

  Sheriff Wills put the phone back up to his ear. “Sorry,” he said to the person on the other end. “False alarm.” He ended the call and stared at the old man in disbelief.

  “Were you pretending to be dead?”

  “Yes,” the old man said, grumbling. “Yes, yes. I was hoping you’d leave me alone.”

  “I’m a police officer,” Wills said. “When I see someone in trouble, I attempt to assist them.”

  “By breaking down their door?”

  “It was unlocked.”

  “Of course it was,” Ozzy’s grandfather said mockingly. “It’s a safe neighborhood. Aside from the police who break in.”

  “I’m very sorry,” Wills said. “But I’m happy you’re alive.”

  “Not me,” the old man said. “I began wishing for death over ten years ago. Fat lot it’s got me. Here I am, still alive, still being harassed by reality and the police.”

  “I’m not here to harass,” Wills insisted. “I’m here for Ozzy.”

  “Who?”

  “Ozzy, your grandson.”

  “The boy with the wizard and the bird and that girl?”

  “That’s the one.”

  Ozzy’s grandfather set down the book he had been holding and reached under a stack of encyclopedias that were piled up to his right. He pulled out a handgun and lifted it up toward the sheriff. Caught off guard, Wills quickly pulled his own gun.

  “Put that down!” the sheriff demanded.

  “Ah,” the man said, “stop being so reactionary. I’m not going to shoot you; I’m giving it to you. That boy you claim is my grandson left it here after they almost killed me.”

  Sheriff Wills reached out and took the gun, holstering his.

  “Ozzy had this?”

  “Indirectly. Some pale person brought it. But Ozzy gave it to me.”

  Sheriff Wills examined the gun, then removed the magazine, racking the slide until he was convinced it was unloaded. He set both pieces of the gun on top of a nearby pile of books.

  “I’ve never seen so many books in one place,” the sheriff said, making a weak attempt to be cordial.

  “From your vocabulary I gather you’ve never read many, either.”

  “You don’t waste energy on kindness, do you?”

  “I don’t waste energy, period.”

  “Well, what I came for won’t take much. I just have some questions.”

  “Do I have to answer them?”

  “No.”

  “I don’t like people, I don’t like interruptions, and I don’t like you.”

  “You don’t have to like me,” Wills assured him. “But your grandson is in trouble and I think you might be able to help.”

  “No, I won’t be able to.”

  The old man was an ugly wrinkled pill of a person.

  Sheriff Wills glanced around.

  “Okay,” he finally said. “You don’t have to answer my questions. I’ll just leave you and let you be. But, looking around, I see some things that the local police and health departments might need to know about.”

  Ozzy’s grandfather bristled.

  “I see a very old man who can’t take care of himself and who needs the aid of dozens of agencies to come in and check up on him. They’ll need to give you tests and clean your house and cart off some of these books.”

  “The devil they will.”

  “Oh, they will, and in the end, they might realize that you would be better off in a home where you can be watched over by nurses and doctors and forced to read whatever book an orderly picks out.”

  “Stop!” the old man shouted. “I abhor horror, and the scene you are describing is more gruesome than a dozen murders. What do you want from me?”

  “A few answers.”

  “Be specific,” Ozzy’s grandfather insisted. “A few? Few is less than many or most, and it could be as little as a couple.”

  “How about this,” Wills suggested. “I’m going to ask you as many questions as I need to.”

  “Police brutality!” the man complained. “What’s an individual to do?”

  Sheriff Wills ignored him. “First question, what’s your name?”

  After a moment of looking disgusted, he answered, “Dr. Omen Doppler.”

  “Really?”

  “Do I st
rike you as the kind of person who would make jokes?”

  “No, no, you do not. What kind of doctor are you?”

  “I have a doctorate in neuroscience and molecular radiation.”

  “So, Ozzy’s mother was your daughter?”

  Sheriff Wills couldn’t tell for sure, but it looked like Omen might have nodded.

  “Is that a yes?” the sheriff asked.

  “What good is a nod if I have to back it up with a verbal confirmation?”

  “That means Mia Toffy was once Mia Doppler?”

  There was another tiny nod.

  “And were you aware that Ozzy grew up alone in the woods not very far from here?”

  “I thought he was dead.”

  “Right, otherwise you would have found him and helped him?”

  “I didn’t say that.”

  “Do you know what your daughter and her husband created?”

  “They created numerous things,” he said with a sniff. “Be more specific.”

  “The serum, the mind control formula.”

  “Yes, I’m aware of what Mia once figured out. Her husband, Emmitt, took some of the credit, but it was her formula. Emmitt made toys like that bird.”

  “Clark?”

  “Ahhh,” the old man waved as if bothered. “I think that’s what they call him.”

  “He’s something like a remote-controlled metal bird,” the sheriff said, still not buying the fact that Clark was more than a robot or drone.

  Omen Doppler looked at Wills with his weak brown eyes. “Oh. I see you’re refusing to believe in anything that doesn’t make sense. Another sign of poor reading skills.”

  “You’re telling me that the bird is actually alive?”

  “I’m telling you to find out for yourself.”

  “I’m pretty sure it was the same bird that busted up a bunch of lights at a restaurant and then fell nicely into the hands of a lunatic.”

  “I didn’t ask for your history.”

  “Right, what do you know about the serum?”

  “I know that if I were you, I’d stop asking questions about it. I’d quit my job, cut all ties with everyone you know and love, buy a house in another part of the world that is cut off from society, and hope that Ray Dench never finds you.”

  “You know Ray?”

  “No, I brought up that particular name just by chance.”

  Sheriff Wills took a breath. “You’re a tough one.”

  “I’m nothing but an old man who has hidden himself away to avoid danger. Now as I sit on death’s lap and feel my bones turning to dust, I realize that I have no reason to fear him any longer. There’s a good chance that before he ever found me, I’d be dead from natural causes.”

  Wills couldn’t argue that.

  “How do I protect Ozzy from Ray?”

  Omen growled. “You can only hope that as Ray closes in, he dies from eating undercooked chicken, or trips in front of a train before getting the boy.”

  “I’m not without resources,” the sheriff said seriously. “We’re protecting Ozzy.”

  “I guess you do have the ability to pretend.” The old man said sarcastically. He then coughed, and dust shook from his white hair. “You can’t stop Ray.”

  “You’re incredible,” Sheriff Wills said with disgust. “I don’t know what happened to you in your life to make you like this. I’m not sure who wronged you or if you were dropped on your head repeatedly as a child, but this is your grandson we’re talking about. Ozzy’s had his parents stolen from him, and his life left for ruin. He’s been a test subject and worked over in a way that even the most creative books wouldn’t write about. Did you know that there is a possibility that your daughter and her husband are still alive?”

  Omen stopped looking smug to look surprised.

  “You say?”

  “I say that some information might have come to light suggesting that Mia is not dead.”

  “I don’t care about fairy tales unless they’re printed in books.”

  “It’s not a fairy tale,” the sheriff insisted. “Your grandson almost died in the middle of the ocean trying to find them.”

  Omen sat up.

  “What was Ozzy doing in the middle of the ocean?”

  Sheriff Wills was surprised by the sudden movement and interest.

  “He and his friends were pursuing a lead.”

  “What kind of lead? And where in the ocean?”

  “They found some coordinates out in international waters.”

  “The Bern,” Omen said reverently.

  “What’s the Bern?”

  “It’s an important lab housed in a submarine. I’ve wondered if it still existed.”

  “You’re kidding.”

  “You’re not much of a detective.”

  “Could Mia and Emmitt be there?”

  “How would I know? Did anyone see the submarine?”

  “No, something surfaced and tore their boat apart. Ozzy and Sigi made it back to shore in a small boat that Jon had brought.”

  “And the wizard and bird?”

  “Rin?”

  Omen nodded in a more noticeable way.

  “He and Clark haven’t been seen since.”

  The old man waved nonchalantly. “What’s the use in any of this?” he said. “If I were ten years younger, I might care.”

  “I don’t understand.” Wills was angry. “If you know something that might help, don’t hold back. This is your daughter and grandson we’re talking about.”

  “You act like any of this matters,” Omen said.

  “It does to me, and Ozzy, and Sigi, and maybe many more.”

  “You miss my point,” Omen said coldly. “There’s nothing any of us can do for Ozzy. I saw the mark on his hand that the serum had given him. It’s a wonder he’s lived so long. It was affecting him when he was here. I figure it’s only a matter of time before that boy’s body is no longer able to contain what it holds. That serum is ultimately poison.”

  “What are you saying?”

  “I’m saying that in a very short time none of this will matter to Ozzy.”

  “He can’t be saved?”

  “What am I, a preacher?”

  “That’s not what I mean,” Wills insisted. “Can he be cured?”

  “Who knows what can and can’t happen?”

  “I’m guessing not you.”

  “You’re catching on.”

  Sheriff Wills asked a dozen more questions before Omen insisted that he’d had enough.

  “Now, if you’d be so kind as to take you and your sterile vocabulary and leave me alone.”

  “I might have more questions later.”

  “I’ll tell you the same thing I told that wizard,” Omen said. “Write it down in a book and maybe I’ll read it. Otherwise, leave me be.”

  Sheriff Wills left him be, but made no promises about not coming back.

  The visit had been dreadful and uncomfortable. Still, as Wills climbed into his car, he was feeling a strange excitement. There were new things to think about—submarines, serums, and books. The visit hadn’t changed any of the trouble that Ozzy and Sigi were in, but it had put a new face on things. Well, an old face on things. A very old face on things. It had also added a new level of worry. If Omen was correct, Ozzy could be in trouble on the inside as well as the outside.

  Sheriff Wills flipped on his lights and sped back to Otter Rock.

  The Cloaked House had once been a place of hidden beauty and charm. It was the home Ozzy had grown up in alone. It had become one with the forest, overgrown with trees that had literally pushed into parts of the home. The round windows and wooden body were like a knoll with eyes. The inside had been a maze of boxes and books, arranged in such a way as to give the interior a feeling of charm and interes
t. Ozzy’s attic room at the top of the starry stairs had been a source of great comfort and security.

  That is what the Cloaked House had once been.

  Now, thanks to Rin, it was nothing but a thick blanket of black damp ash. The remains of Ozzy’s home were just a charred rectangular outline marking the foundation, a black smear on the dirt on the ground. The space was surrounded by partially burnt trees and miles and miles of forest that had been lucky enough to not have been torched.

  There were only a few pieces of the house still standing. Part of the back wall leaned in at a precarious angle. It was the color of coal, thick wads of melted glass hanging where a window had once been. In the middle of the ashes, six steps from the starry staircase survived, but they couldn’t take anyone more than a few feet closer to heaven. Near the end of the burnt rectangle, the brick chimney was standing alone, a tombstone for what once was and what would never be again. Ozzy walked through the ashes, feeling like a dethroned king whose kingdom was nothing but scorched earth. He was alone and wishing that a girl with dark eyes, or a wizard with striped trousers, or a bird with a big beak was with him.

  None of them were.

  Sigi had left early that morning with her mother to go to California. Rin had jumped into the ocean and not been polite enough to leave a forwarding address. And Clark was last seen in a toolbox.

  Ozzy missed all of them, but standing at the ruin of the Cloaked House, he missed Clark the most. The metal bird had been a part of his life for so long that he couldn’t remember a time without him. It was a miracle that he had ever found Clark hidden in one of the starry stairs, a sentient metal bird that didn’t know when to keep quiet, or who to fall in love with. Clark had been by Ozzy’s side all those years, and now he was AWOL, missing in action—the bird had flown the coop.

  “Where are you, Clark?” Ozzy yelled out.

  The wizard-in-training was supposed to be back at Sigi’s house. It was against the rules for him to wander away without telling the police. But Ozzy’s head had felt like a problem that needed air. He was tired of confinement and missed the forest and the ocean. So in the morning after Sigi had left, he helped the officer parked in front of the house feel a little confused. Then, wearing black pants, a black T-shirt, and some black Dr. Martens, he slipped out the back door. He had moved carefully and quickly through miles and miles of trees and bushes, doing everything he could to remain undetected. Once he was far enough away, he stood up straight and ran through the forest to return to the large dark smudge that had once been the Cloaked House.