The Magic Collector

by Clayton Wood

  “Who?”

  “Those men!” he answered. He pushed past her into the living room, hurrying to one of the windows and peering out. Bella slid her backpack off, walking to his side and following his gaze. He was looking at the two police officers she’d seen earlier. They were still talking to the children.

  “The cops?” she asked. He scoffed.

  “Cops,” he muttered. “If they’re cops then I’m one too, and so are you.”

  Bella frowned, putting a hand on Grandpa’s shoulder.

  “Grandpa, what’s going on?”

  He watched the police officers for a moment longer, then turned away from the window, running a hand through his curly white hair. It sprung haphazardly from his head, and Bella suddenly wondered when he’d washed it last. He looked frailer than ever, his skin hanging loosely over his bones. Grandpa noticed Bella watching him, and blinked.

  “Hmm?”

  “What’s going on?” she repeated. “You’re acting weird.”

  “I’m acting weirdly,” he corrected automatically. Then he frowned. “Wait, no I’m not. Those aren’t police officers Bella. They’re bad people.”

  She arched an eyebrow.

  “They’re…it’s complicated,” he continued, walking to his desk and slumping into his chair. He sighed, shaking his head and staring off into space. “They’re getting closer…we don’t have much time.”

  “Much time for what?”

  “For…” he began, then gestured at the apartment around them. “This.”

  “Grandpa, you’re not making any sense.”

  “I know, I know,” he replied with a grimace. “Thank the gods it’s the weekend. That might just give us a few days. But I don’t think you should go to school anymore, not until they move on. If they move on.”

  She stared at him uncomprehendingly, suddenly concerned for his well-being. He looked even more disheveled than usual, and his desk was awfully cluttered. Grandpa had always been a bit paranoid, what with the ridiculous number of locks on the door and refusing to leave the apartment, but it was clearly getting worse. Most of the time he was mostly normal, but sometimes there were times like this.

  Not for the first time, she wondered whether or not he might be a bit…off.

  He glanced at her, and it was clear that her expression mirrored her thoughts.

  “I know this sounds crazy,” he confessed, his shoulders slumping. “But I’m asking you to trust me. I know those men. From…a long time ago. They’re dangerous, and you have to avoid them.”

  “Okay Grandpa, I will,” she agreed. And she meant it. Not that she believed him, but she had no qualms about avoiding the police. He relaxed a bit.

  “If they question you, give them a false name,” he instructed. “And a false address. If they take you here…”

  “Do the wrong knock,” Bella finished, having heard this countless times before.

  “Right.”

  “You’re really going to pull me out of school?” Bella asked hopefully. Grandpa broke out into a smile.

  “You’d like that, wouldn’t you?” he replied. She nodded vigorously, and he chuckled. “Yes, I will. At least for a few days, until I know they’re gone.”

  “Then I’ll do anything you want,” she decided with a smile.

  He sighed, looking suddenly rather ashamed.

  “Bella I…” he began, his voice cracking. “I’m not crazy.”

  Bella said nothing. There was nothing honest she could say without making him feel badly.

  “I’m not,” he insisted. “I know it seems like I am sometimes.”

  “Sometimes?” she inquired with an arch of her eyebrow. He gave a rueful smile back.

  “I wasn’t always like this,” he insisted. “You should have seen me before all…this,” he added wistfully, looking about the room. “Maybe one day you’ll get to see me like I was.”

  “Okay Grandpa.”

  He got up from his chair, walking up to her and lowering himself awkwardly kneel before her. He took her by the hand, holding it in two of his own and looking up at her with such awful desperation that it was heartbreaking.

  “I love you more than anything in this world,” he declared, his eyes brimming with moisture. “You are my world, Bella. And I’m so proud of the woman you’re becoming.”

  She nodded, feeling tremendously uncomfortable.

  “Trust me for the next few days,” he insisted. “That’s all I ask.”

  “Okay Grandpa.”

  “Promise?” he pressed. She nodded.

  “Promise.”

  He smiled, clearly relieved. For he knew it was exceedingly rare for Bella to make a promise, knowing how difficult they were to keep…and how easy it was to break them. When Bella made a promise, she kept it.

  “Thank you sweetheart.”

  “Did you eat?” she asked, desperate to change the subject. She’d had enough drama for one day.

  “A little,” he answered. “I could use a bite, now that you mention it.”

  “I’ll cook you something good,” she promised, pulling away from him and walking toward the kitchen.

  “Are you taking requests?” he inquired.

  “If they’re reasonable,” she replied.

  “How about your world-famous chili?”

  She smiled, reaching the kitchen and grabbing a large pan. She set it on the stovetop with a clang, turning on the flame and opening the fridge to gather her ingredients.

  “For you Grandpa,” she declared, “…I’ll do anything.”

  * * *

  After their meal, Grandpa returned to his desk, slaving over whatever it was he happened to be writing. He insisted that Bella paint, seeing as how their downstairs neighbor had dropped off fresh armfuls of canvases earlier that day. The third shipment that month, in fact. Bella was getting quite proficient at finishing each painting, going through at least a canvas a day. The mere act of finishing – of seeing her work to its conclusion – had freed her from the fear of starting another project. For most of that fear was in doubting that she could finish anything.

  Now she knew she could.

  It was, she knew as she painted a fresh canvas utterly black, just as Grandpa had planned. Sure, he was a complete mess in most aspects of his life, but when it came to teaching he was second-to-none.

  She stared at the now-black canvas, tapping her lower lip with her free hand. Her eyes went to the stack of paintings in the corner of her studio; her favorite paintings. Stepping up to them, she looked at each, trying to find some inspiration.

  The first was of dull gray stone steps leading up to a pair of ornate double-doors. The rightmost doorknob was slick with crimson blood, and a chocolate-brown hand with long black fingernails faced the doors palm-first. A much larger hand made of dense fog smashed into the doors, forcing them slightly ajar…and exposing a pale golden light that peeked out from beyond.

  The second painting was of a long, dark hallway facing the inside of those double-doors. A narrow, blood-red carpet led past long lines of white stone statues on either side, dense fog spilling across the corridor. The statues were of men in heavy armor, carrying swords whose sharp tips touched high above. And standing before the double-doors at the far end of the hallway, twin figures in thick black cloaks rose from the floor, their faces hidden in shadows throw by their hoods. Each wore silver metal gauntlets that emerged from their loose sleeves, clutching identical scythes. Scythes made of entirely of bones, wet blood staining their blades.

  And between the two figures was a third. A tall man whose features were hidden entirely in shadow, wielding a long, glowing silver sword in his right hand.

  Suddenly, she had an idea, and she went back to her inky-black canvas.

  Bella mixed the various acrylic paints on her palette, making a light gold. Then, with a brush barely bigger than a pencil, she began to painstakingly recreate each link in a long chain, not even needing to glance at the necklace she wore that had inspired it. She’d long since memo
rized its every detail. It’d been Mom’s, after all. The very last thing her mother had given her before she’d died.

  When she finished the golden amulet with the ruby heart in the center, she paused, then got some white and silver paint, making a thin, straight line to the right of the amulet.

  A silver sword that glowed in the darkness.

  She outlined a shadowy fist to hold the sword in a soft white glow, extending the glow upward to silhouette one side of an arm, then a shadowy face. Then she made bright rays of light shoot outward from that glowing silhouette, making them converge on the ruby.

  A muffled voice came from beyond the closed door of her makeshift studio, and she stopped, straining her ears.

  No, not a voice. Voices.

  Bella set her brush down carefully, tiptoeing to the door and putting her ear against it. There were definitely two voices. Male voices, too muffled for her to make out what they were saying. But one of them was Grandpa’s. She frowned, taken aback. Grandpa never had company over, not even the neighbors. When they brought him groceries, he made them wait outside the front door of the apartment.

  She twisted the knob slowly, then cracked the door open.

  The living room was empty, Grandpa’s chair vacant.

  Bella stepped out into the living room. It sounded like the voices were coming from the kitchen.

  “Tomorrow?” she heard Grandpa hiss, his voice barely audible. There was a pause. “…not ready,” she heard him say.

  More muffled talking.

  She hesitated, then creeped across the living room, making her way stealthily toward the kitchen.

  A floorboard creaked under her foot.

  The voices stopped immediately, and Bella cursed under her breath, sprinting toward the dining room, which led into the kitchen. She heard a loud bang, then muffled swearing. A moment later, she burst into the dining room, turning to look into the kitchen.

  Grandpa was standing there by the stove, alone.

  He startled, whirling around to stare at her with the guiltiest look she’d ever seen.

  “What’s going on?” she demanded. “Who was that?”

  “Who was what?” Grandpa asked, far too innocently for her liking. He’d always been a terrible liar.

  “I heard him,” she insisted. “You two were talking.”

  Grandpa blanched, and he swallowed visibly.

  “I was just, ah, talking to myself,” he answered, giving her a weak smile. “Practicing different voices.”

  She stared at him for a long moment, then crossed her arms over her chest, shooting him a glare.

  “You’re lying to me,” she accused.

  “Bella…”

  She stormed into the kitchen, having a look around. There was no one there but them…and the kitchen was a dead-end. No way out but the way she’d come in. She frowned, then began opening cupboard doors one-by-one, peering inside.

  Nothing.

  “See?” Grandpa said. “I told you.”

  “Uh huh,” she grumbled. But of course he had to be telling the truth; there was no one else here. “What was that banging sound then?”

  “I hit my head on the freezer door,” he answered, rubbing the top of his head. “You surprised me.”

  “All right,” she muttered. “Fine. So you were just talking to yourself.”

  “Yes.”

  “In different voices,” she continued. He grimaced.

  “Right.”

  “With the freezer door open while you were getting something from the fridge.”

  “I was hungry,” he stated. She arched an eyebrow.

  “We just ate.”

  “I wanted more of your delicious chili,” he explained, smiling innocently at her. She rolled her eyes, but gave up, skulking out of the kitchen into the dining room. He followed behind her, grimacing and rubbing his chest. “You and your mother would’ve made fine interrogators,” he grumbled. “You almost had me believing there was someone else here!”

  “What’s wrong?” she asked, glancing back at him. “Why are you holding your chest?”

  “Just a little heartburn,” he reassured. Still, he was clearly in pain, and his color looked a little off. She stopped, going to his side and putting a hand on his frail shoulder.

  “Are you sure you’re okay?”

  “I’m fine,” he insisted. “I love your chili, but just because you love something doesn’t mean it has to love you back.”

  “Okay…well, I’ll be painting,” she replied, crossing into the living room.

  “Wait,” he stated. She felt a hand on her shoulder, and she stopped, turning to face him. “We…need to talk.”

  “What’s wrong?” she asked.

  “I know I said I was going to pull you out of school next week,” he began. “But now I don’t think it’s such a good idea.”

  Bella crossed her arms over her chest.

  “Why not?” she demanded.

  “Those men don’t know who you are yet,” he explained. “If they did, they’d have gotten you. But if you don’t show up next week, it might raise suspicion.”

  “Grandpa…”

  “I know, I know,” he interrupted. “Believe me, I understand how crazy this seems.”

  “Really crazy,” she grumbled. “Like, certifiable.”

  “It’s very important that you listen carefully to what I have to say,” he insisted. He hesitated, his jawline rippling. “It could mean the difference between life and death.”

  Bella rolled her eyes.

  “Oh come on,” she groaned. “Seriously Grandpa?”

  “Dead serious,” he replied. And judging by his expression, he was. She had the sudden urge to sit down, and walked to the kitchen table to do just that. She rested her elbows on the table, rubbing her forehead with both hands.

  “You’re giving me a headache,” she muttered. Then she sighed, looking up at him, still standing there in the living room. “Grandpa, do you think you might be a little…sick?”

  “Sick? No,” he replied. “I’m fine.”

  “Maybe you should go see a doctor,” she suggested. It wasn’t the first time she’d had the thought. As far as she knew, he hadn’t seen a doctor since they’d moved here. He had to be in his late seventies, if not his eighties. To think that he might be developing dementia…it was heartbreaking.

  “Bella, I’m not crazy.”

  “Then tell me what’s really going on,” she pleaded. Grandpa stared at her silently, then sighed, lowering his gaze to the floor. He turned to his desk, taking a small golden key from his pants-pocket and unlocking the bottom left drawer. He pulled it open, taking out a stack of papers, paperclips, and handfuls of pens. Then something else; a flat rectangular piece of wood. A false bottom.

  “Grandpa, what are you…?” she began, but Grandpa ignored her, reaching into the drawer again and pulling out another key. This one was silver; he brought it to the bottom right drawer, unlocking it and lifting a small black safe from it. He brought this to Bella, setting it on the table before her.

  “If anything happens to me, I want you to open this,” he instructed. “Take what’s inside and bring it to a safe place. Follow the instructions inside.”

  “But I don’t know the combination,” she protested, eyeing the safe’s dial.

  “Yes you do,” he countered with a sly smile. “It’s the same as the front door.

  She frowned, mulling it over. Then her eyes widened. She put a hand to her mouth.

  “Oh!”

  “Thirteen knocks, thirty-three seconds, seven knocks,” he recited.

  “13-33-7,” she replied. “Got it.”

  “I made sure you’d never be able to forget it,” he revealed with a wink. And it was true; she’d been doing that little ritual since she was six.

  “What’s in this?” she asked. But Grandpa took the safe away, putting it back in the drawer and returning everything to its proper place. He handed her the golden key.

  “Keep this on you always,”
he instructed. “And if something happens to me…”

  “Open the safe, take what’s inside and bring it to a safe place, follow the instructions,” she recited.

  “Good girl!” he exclaimed, grabbing her by the temples and leaning down to kiss her forehead. Bella tolerated this, crossing her arms over her chest and shaking her head at him.

  “You’re weird Grandpa,” she proclaimed. “You know that?”

  “Well of course I am,” he replied with a smile. “I’m a writer.”

  “What’s that got to do with it?”

  “Have you ever met any other writers?” he inquired. She shook her head. “We’re all a little weird. It’s because we’re possessed,” he added, wiggling his fingers before her and making a scary face. Bella’s eyebrows rose.

  “Possessed?”

  “We’ve all got stories and characters inside of us, clamoring to get out!” he exclaimed, spreading his arms out wide. Bella just looked at him, and he chuckled, putting a hand on her shoulder. “Now go paint, my little one.”

  She opened her mouth to protest.

  “I promise you’ll know everything soon enough, Bella,” he interjected. “Every beginning has an end.” He smiled. “So enjoy each adventure while you can.”

  Chapter 4

  It was the peculiar habit of Time to plod along at a glacial pace during moments of pain and drudgery, and to speed up during the few fleeting moments of joy life offered. A most disagreeable thing, Time, bent on torturing everything that had the misfortune of being able to sense it.

  So it was that the weekend neared its end far too quickly, and Bella found herself sitting at the dining room table that Sunday evening finishing up the homework she’d put off ‘til then. When she was done, she set her backpack by the door wearily, announcing her decision to go to bed. Grandpa finished writing at his desk, then joined Bella in her room to spin one of his wild tales. When he was finished, he rolled onto his side, staring at her for a long moment.

  “What?” she asked self-consciously.

  “Bella, I’m…sorry,” he apologized. She frowned.

  “Why?”

  “For all of this,” he answered. “Keeping you in the house every day, not letting you go over your friends’ houses. For…spending all my time writing.”