Magic Man Plus 15 Tales of Terror

by A. P. Fuchs

Jimmy first thought it was another kid trying to help him. When he looked around, he saw he was alone in the playground, the bell to go back inside having rung some time before. Jamie never came back after that day, not until Jimmy was fourteen and was trying pot for the first time. Jimmy didn't know if it was the light-headedness from the weed or the feeling of detachment from the world that triggered it, but Jamie returned, this time older, fourteen, like Jimmy.

  Then Jamie left and didn't return until Jimmy was twenty-one, while on a trip to Europe, backpacking it on his own. It was seven years between visits. Perhaps because Jimmy had been seven years old when Jamie first came to him inside his head.

  Here, in the car, Jamie was back. Jimmy was twenty-eight.

  I see you, Jamie said.

  "Go away, Jamie," Jimmy said. "You're not real. You're not here."

  But I am. I've been here awhile, Jimmy. How was your smoke?

  Jimmy furrowed his brow. "Smoke?"

  A flashback to standing at the side of the road and the taste of cigarette smoke that suddenly filled his mouth. Jamie. Jamie had been smoking. Jimmy didn't remember doing it. Feeling his pockets, he pulled out a pack of Players Lights.

  "Where did you get these?" Jimmy asked. He didn't smoke. But Jamie did.

  Lunch hour, when you ran to Second Cup for a coffee. Don't you recall stopping at the drugstore along the way? Jamie chuckled.

  Swallowing, Jimmy glanced again to the back seat. Jamie was back there. He just couldn't see him.

  He paused. Then, "Why are you behind me?"

  What do you mean?

  "You're always behind me. On the playground, while I was lying down, your voice seemed to come from behind me, behind my head. Smoking dope in Joey's garage. I was sitting on a lawn chair. You spoke to me from behind, near Joey's dad's truck. You're in the back seat of my car."

  Well, maybe you're always just one step ahead of me. Get it?

  The windshield of the car was covered in white, the snow coming down in sheets. Jimmy's breath faintly fogged when he exhaled. The inside of the car was cooling down. Putting Jamie out of his mind, Jimmy got out of the car and slammed the door behind him.

  The snowflakes licked the tips of his ears; refreshing, like before. Much needed.

  Not long after, it really began to come down. No cars, just snow, falling heavily. He stuffed his hands in his pockets and felt the cigarette package. He didn't recall replacing the pack in his pocket.

  "Creepy," he muttered and tossed the pack on the road.

  He got back in the car.

  Cold out?

  "A little. Where are you?"

  Look up.

  He glanced in the rearview mirror and, there, sitting in the back seat, was Jamie. Jimmy spun in his seat. Jamie wasn't there, but he was in the mirror when Jimmy looked again.

  "You should be gone by now," Jimmy said.

  Maybe. Maybe not. I've never really gone anywhere, Jimbo. I was there with you today at Second Cup, there with you when you popped into the drugstore for some cigarettes. When I popped in for some cigarettes.

  In the rearview mirror, Jamie smiled at him. His teeth were white against a tanned face, like he spent most of his days under a Florida sun. Jimmy didn't have a tanned face. Jamie's hair was dark like Jimmy's, but instead of combed from left to right, Jamie's was parted in the middle. He wore the same clothes as Jimmy: blue jeans, a red sweatshirt and a navy blue parka.

  Getting cold, Jimmy rubbed his hands together then blew on them.

  "What do you want?"

  Remember Joey's girlfriend back when you were fourteen?

  Jimmy didn't.

  Her name was Sarah Daley. Beautiful girl, blonde hair, blue eyes; your regular Barbie-doll. Even at her age she had curves that would slight even some of the Playboy bunnies. Anyway, that dope you smoked---she was smoking it, too---it loosened you guys up. Or were you so high you don't remember?

  Jimmy didn't remember. He wished he could. Wished he knew what Jamie was talking about.

  Regardless, you two got friendly behind Joey's dad's truck when Joey went into the house to use the bathroom. He got sick off the dope and was in there for a while. He even said so and said he was going to throw up. He was new to it. But Sarah . . . Sarah, Sarah, Sarah . . . now that was a fine girl. I loved her. When you guys hung out at school, you, Joey and Sarah, I watched her as she moved, as she smiled, reveled in the way she sounded when she talked and how she sometimes squinted her left eye when making a point about something she was saying. Kissing her behind the truck was like kissing your girl at the time, Pam. But Sarah's lips were softer, more delicate, like kissing a flower, yet damp as though with dew. I poured myself into her.

  "I . . . no . . . that didn't happen," Jimmy said. He put his head against the steering wheel again. Suddenly, he slammed his palms against the wheel with a thwack! and sat up straight in his seat, glaring into the rearview mirror.

  Jamie only looked back at him, calm. She and I never got together again after that. Joey came back into the garage, healthier, but still sick. Every time I tried talking to Sarah, she always shrugged me off. She would say, "Jimmy, you're different." She was talking about me when she said that, of course, but how was she to know that you and I shared the same body?

  "You only come every seven years," Jimmy said. "Seven years. Seven years old, fourteen, twenty-one, and now. Same date, too, March Twenty-third. I can't believe I forgot about today. Wasn't thinking. Too much on my mind."

  My mind, you mean. Ours? Doesn't matter. Back to Sarah. Do you remember me taking her out back behind the school, leading her by the hand, promising her that Joey was there and that he had a big surprise for her?

  Jimmy put his face in his hands. He didn't want to hear what Jamie was going to say next, but couldn't help but listen.

  Behind the dumpster, I took her and made her stand against the wall. I tried to explain to her all that I felt and how it drove me crazy to see her with Joey. She didn't understand. I said my name was Jamie. She said no, my name was Jimmy. I told her again my name was Jamie and she got scared and wanted to get out from behind the dumpster. I wouldn't let her, couldn't. I pushed her up against the wall, tried to kiss her. She scratched my face. Your face.

  Jimmy touched his right cheek. That's where those faint scars had come from---Sarah.

  I hit her. Then I hit her again. And again. And again. She slumped against the wall, crying, begging me to stop. I didn't. I couldn't. I don't know why, but it felt so good to hit her, felt so good to come out of you and release all the emotions that you suppress when you keep me down. She tried to crawl away. I picked her up by the shoulders and slammed her into the wall, her head bouncing off the bricks with a dull thud. There was a small spot of red on the brick. Blood. Hers. I pushed her into the wall again, her head bouncing the same way. That dull thud was soothing.

  "Then the snow came down," Jimmy finished.

  Yes. You remember.

  "I wasn't there when they found her body. I was home by then. Joey was devastated. He's never been the same since. Even to this day he still talks about her, but never mentions her by name, but we all know who he means when he does. You killed her. You killed Sarah." Jimmy turned to an empty back seat then glanced back up at the rearview mirror. Jamie grinned at him.

  Jimmy bolted out of the car and ran as far ahead of it as he could until he was winded and had to stop to put his head between his legs. He could barely make out the car's black blur between the heavily falling snow. The wind bit at his skin. He spat on the ground, strangely captivated by the pale yellow glob of phlegm against a dull quilt of white. He took a deep breath, icy and sharp.

  A car door slammed. Jimmy glanced up, hands still on his knees. Behind the sheet of snow was the silhouette of a man coming toward him.

  Jamie.

  Jimmy's heart sped up. So did Jamie's pace as he moved toward him. He stood, ready to fight. Appearing out of the rain of thick snowflakes, Jamie charged him and tackled him to the ground. Helpless on
his back, Jimmy took it as Jamie delivered blow after blow to his chin---to their chin.

  "You're . . . you're only . . . hurting . . . yourself," Jimmy told him.

  No, Jamie said, you're hurting yourself.

  It didn't make sense. None of it did. Jimmy swung out, but when his fist struck Jamie, it was no different than striking air. It was as if Jamie wasn't there.

  "But you're not there, are you?" he said quietly.

  Of course I'm here, Jimbo. Always have been. I've been here all along.

  "Y-you killed Sarah . . . it was you," Jimmy said.

  Jamie struck him hard in the throat, causing him to sputter. Snow got in his eyes.

  No! Jamie said. You killed Sarah, Jimmy. It was all you. All of it. I'm just an echo of what you truly want, truly are. Think about it.

  Jamie stopped hitting him. Think about it, Jimbo. Think about the black dot.

  Jimmy coughed. "Th-the black . . . black dot . . . ?"

  Yes, the black dot. Think harder.

  The black dot. Jimmy knew what it was. It was that dark place that he stuffed all his anger, all his fear, all his shameful thoughts into. He always envisioned it as a black dot, a dark circle, a deep void that held all the negative things he controlled himself not to think or do. It was the black dot that created Jamie, a shadow version of himself. The most shameful part of him.

  He thought back to Sarah and that day behind the dumpster. Though he wasn't in control of his actions, he remembered seeing everything as though looking through the bottom of a beer bottle, a dark lens. The black dot. He should have had control. He should have stopped Jamie. He could have . . . but didn't.

  Tears ran down his cheeks.

  Oh, stop your crying.

  Jamie's weight on top of his chest was crushing. The snow surrounding his ears and cheeks turned bitingly cold. He had to get up or he'd get frostbite.

  "G-get off," he told Jamie.

  No.

  "Please?"

  No.

  "Please, get off me."

  No.

  "Jamie!"

  There had to be a way to get Jamie off him. He certainly couldn't push him off. Every time he hit him it was like hitting air. Touching Jamie was impossible. But knowing that wasn't enough. There had to be a way. Jamie must have a weakness.

  Jamie struck Jimmy on the chin again.

  "Stop it!" Jimmy shouted and tried to push Jamie off him instinctively. His hands passed through Jamie just as easily as they passed through the snow that was coming down.

  I wonder if Jamie shares my thoughts? Jimmy wondered. Can he hear me? Can you? He waited for a response, waited for Jamie to mock him and say how he can hear everything that he was thinking. But no response came. Either Jamie was playing with him, letting him find hope in keeping his thoughts separate, or Jamie really couldn't hear his thoughts. Either way, it was a chance he had to take to get out of this.

  Freezing, the snow around his ears and cheeks having numbed the skin, Jimmy thought of the black dot.

  Then it all became clear. Jamie was the black dot. Jimmy closed his eyes and pictured it in his mind, setting the black dot on a mat of deep green, his favorite color. He could see the circle's edges, see its shaded-in center, a complete and utter void of darkness.

  Jamie struck him again, this time so hard his head bounced against the snow. Jimmy blocked out the pain, but could still taste the blood on his tongue. He focused on the black dot. The image clear in his mind, he forced the green upon it, washing over it like waves over sand, washing it, rinsing it, covering it. The black dot began fading into the green as if sinking in a pool of quicksand. It tried to surface again, tried to rise out of the liquid green . . . but Jimmy submerged it. Soon the black dot was gone and only the green remained.

  Jimmy opened his eyes. Jamie was gone.

  He was panting, his heart racing. For a moment the black dot tried to surface again. He pushed it away once more and covered it with green. Legs rubbery, he stood and brushed the snow off his chest and legs, his fingers quickly freezing. Ambling over to the car, he covered his ears with his hands, warming them. It might have been his imagination, but the falling snow seemed to be thinning.

  Is it because Jamie's gone? he wondered. He didn't want to dwell on it too much just in case Jamie returned at the thought of his name.

  Jimmy got back into the car. He rubbed his hands together, blew on them, then rubbed them together again.

  The keys dangled in the ignition. "I wonder . . ."

  He turned the key and the engine started. Jimmy couldn't help but laugh with joy when he heard the engine purr.

  "Don't want to risk it," he said. Better get to the next gas station before I run out for real. I wonder if Jamie made me think the car wouldn't start? Then another voice, his own voice, rose in protest. Stop it, you idiot. Don't think about him or he might come back. Then, Sorry. I'll stop thinking about him.

  "Good," he agreed with himself.

  He took another deep breath, thankful that the whole ordeal was over. He rolled down the window, clearing it of snow, and checked the road behind him. The road was empty. He swished the windshield wipers, pushing off the snow.

  The black dot danced before his vision. The snow came down thick.

  As he glanced in the rearview mirror, he saw Jamie grinning at him.

  You killed her, Jimbo. It was all you.

  * * * *

  A Perfect Date

  It was going to be perfect. It had to be. Brian had been planning it for weeks.

  It was a quarter after six when he jumped into the shower, shampooed his hair and let the conditioner sit for an extra minute just to make sure it worked. On a small rack in the shower was an assortment of body washes that he and his girlfriend Carolyn---Carrie---used. Having used her body wash instead of his own, he now smelled like freshly-picked strawberries.

  When Brian first began dating her, he took special care when preparing to see her, in turn causing him to be consistently late for their dates. Now, that wasn't the case. They had been living together for the past two years. And tonight, he would be able to take his time getting ready. Carrie wouldn't be coming home before seeing him this evening.

  She once asked him what his secret method was for smelling so good. He would never tell her, never say he used her body wash instead of his own. Sometimes, she would even hang around outside the bathroom after he showered, peeking in through a crack in the bathroom door, just to get a glimpse of anything that might hint at what made him smell so, as she put it, delicious. Every time she tried it, she was caught. He would come out of the bathroom wearing only a towel and scoop her up in his arms and carry her to the bed, where they would spend most of their evening.

  The recipe for his smelling so good was simple. Three dabs of Ocean Perfect across the neck, one dab of Evergreen just under the chin, and a dab of Berry-blue on each wrist. When Carrie first asked him what kind of cologne he was wearing he would always reply by saying it was Fresh Water Fruit, a name he had given his private mixture. It wasn't until later she learned that such a cologne didn't exist. He eventually had to let her in on his secret. It was either that or spend the night alone on the couch in the living room. But she never knew it was also the scent of her body wash mixed in with the cologne that made the smell extra unique.

  Now, alone in the master bedroom's en suite bathroom, Brian applied his cologne mix carefully, brushed on his underarm deodorant, and looked at himself in the mirror. Stunning. Red hair, blue eyes, the right amount of color in his cheeks. Perfect.

  He went out into the bedroom and over to the closet. A picture of Carrie sat on the mahogany dresser beside it. He turned to it.

  "What do you think, hon'?" he asked. "Light blue with a black shirt, or something gray with black? Your choice, of course."

  Her picture gave him a considering look. Her blonde hair hung loosely over her shoulders, her blue eyes telling him she loved him.

  Feeling she would choose the gray with black, he picked t
he suit out of the closet and laid it on the bed. A black leather belt with a brass buckle was selected, as well as an off-white tie. He knew the tie would be a tad flashy but, after all, being original was what he was all about.

  He dressed with his back to the picture, not wanting her to see him until he was completely ready. As he pulled up his pants he made a wry smile, and discovered he must have put on an extra pound or two since the last time he wore them. The button on the waistline took a few moments to fasten into place before his body settled into them. These were the pants he reserved for special occasions, not his work pants. The pair he now wore used to belong to his father before he died.

  Stepping over to the mirror that hung above the dresser, he opened the top drawer and pulled out a black comb.

  He parted his wet hair and frowned---like he always did---when the teeth of the comb ran over the bald spot that was forming at the top of his head. He set the comb down and pressed his hair along the sides with his palms. It was perfect, not a strand out of place.

  The tie was next. When he got his job at Maxwell and Davis, an accounting firm at the other end of town, Carrie would have to get up in the morning with him to help him tie it. Finally, one morning, she made him sit on the edge of the bed, her sitting behind him, and instructed him step-by-step on how to do it properly. And now tying a tie was as easy as tying a shoe.

  Bending down to the bottom drawer, he pulled out a pair of black socks. Unfortunately, like all his socks, this pair had a hole near the big toe. He figured Carrie would let it slide. She would know that his heart was in the right place.

  After the socks came a pair of black slip-on dress shoes. He batted the toes of them with the end of his tie to remove the little bit of dust that had formed there since the last time he wore them.

  Brian donned the suit jacket.

  "Almost there," he said, tugging on the lapels.

  Returning to the mirror, he straightened his clothes and picked up the picture of Carrie to get her opinion.

  "What do you think, Carrie?" he asked.

  Her image didn't respond, but judging by the way she was smiling in it, Brian thought she decided he looked spiffy enough for the evening.