Henry Halfmoon

by Huck Warwicks

  “Are you ready, Son of Halfmoon?” He gestures with one bony palm face up, extending it towards the portal.

  “Ready for what, exactly?” I cautiously ask, not taking a step.

  The reaper chuckles as he crosses his arm, sickle couched in the crook of his arm. The sounds of his deep airy laugh make the hair on the back of my neck stand on end.

  “You’ll see. It will all make sense shortly.”

  I can see the dark of early morning thinning through the green windows behind the reaper. The moon is setting. I have only a few minutes left, but the reaper’s presence gives me doubts about crossing over. What’s he up to? What unseen menace will he unleash when I cross back over? Is this a sick paranormal joke?

  “You’re running out of time,” the reaper goads me.

  “What do I do with this?” I raise the Harpe slightly off the floor.

  “It will be here when you come back. Now, are you ready? The moon cycle is almost complete.”

  I offer up a quick prayer to… whoever, take a deep calming breath, and step into the portal. Before my foot touches the floor in the glowing circle, I lock my eyes on the reaper’s dark, cowled void.

  The world around me blinks as my foot makes contact with the Seal. The lights burn brightly, and the fog vanishes. Everything is crystal clear and sharply defined, with no haze or blur to the shapes or objects around me.

  And Fritz is standing there in front of me, a wide wild grin splitting his face.

  His arms are crossed.

  “Welcome back, bruh. How was the Son of Halfmoon’s month in the dark?”

  Chapter 21

  “Holy crap! You’re the reaper?!”

  “I told you angels were real, bruh.” Fritz shrugs, a huge smile splitting his young face. The revelation is overwhelming, and my knees give out. I tumble onto my futon as the exhaustion of my month-long entrapment sets in, along with a flooding sense of relief.

  “I’ve been watching over you for months. Mostly from the other side.”

  Good old Fritz.

  “Then how come you didn’t cross over with me a month ago?”

  “Didn’t want to overwhelm you, bruh. Needed you to get used to the Angel of Death thing slowly, then make the reveal a little easier later.”

  So, my mom was right, too. Angels do watch over us. She used to say that every believer has an angel assigned by God, to watch over them. Well, she’s correct. Kind of. I’ve learned enough to understand that believers bear the Seal of Perseus in the other dimension. But not every single person I remember seeing had a personal angelic guardian.

  But I do apparently.

  And it’s an angel of death.

  Groovy.

  The rest of the day is spent battling hordes of demons in fever-like dreams. I quickly doze off after arriving home and wake up the next morning, sprawled out on my futon, covered in sweat. My shoes have been removed, and the blanket from my bed has been draped over me. When I open my eyes, a cup of steaming coffee is waiting for me on the coffee table. The smell of coffee and mango orange vape smoke fills my apartment. Good old Fritz is sitting at my breakfast table, thumbing through one of the books that Shipley gave me. He never left my side after I passed out.

  “Good morning, bruh.”

  “Hey.” I roll off the futon and dive into the steaming-hot coffee mug.

  “We got a big day planned. You want some breakfast?”

  “Man. Yeah. That sounds great. I’m starving… Wait. What do you mean ‘we have a big day planned?’” I’m less than enthusiastic about jumping into the other realm for another month of demon slaying… at present.

  Fritz gets up, clanging pans and rummaging through my small fridge. “We’re going to Shipley’s. You need to figure out where that ritual will take place, right?”

  “Shipley is done with me, Fritz. I failed. He wants nothing to do with me.”

  “I know. But you need to return his books, right? Maybe that’ll be enough to open the conversation…”

  The Angel of Death is right. And though I’m not looking forward to another confrontation with the grouchy old professor, it’s my best shot at learning where and when the ritual might take place.

  I wolf down the bacon and eggs and jump into last month’s set of lightly worn clothes. I wouldn’t say they’re clean necessarily. They just don’t smell like I’ve been at the gym all day. And with the vape shop below me, they have the slight hint of berry and vanilla. But I’m sure the muck of city storm drainage and tailpipe emissions will cover up the sweet scent… and my signature body odor.

  “Let’s roll.” I grab the stack of ancient books and drop them into my satchel.

  We hit the pavement and begin our trek across campus. The philosophy building is buzzing with interclass commuters. The halls and stairways are packed with a hustling mass of brainwashed atheists and wannabe celebrities, all striving to get their little piece of paper and claim their entitled success. Many of them look hungover, not yet having learned that alcohol has zero to do with their academic achievement. Or maybe they do know it, but can’t say no to their peers. In any case, they just make things unnecessarily difficult for themselves.

  I don’t drink. That probably explains the gaping social void in my life at the university. But I don’t need them. I don’t need friends.

  I already have one.

  And he’s a badass angel of death.

  Wicked.

  Fritz and I duck into Shipley’s classroom, but it’s empty. A paper has been taped to the front of the lectern with bold all-caps in huge font: DUE TO SUDDEN ILLNESS, PROF. SHIPLEY’S CLASS HAS BEEN CANCELLED FOR THE SEMESTER. STUDENTS OF THIS CLASS WILL RECEIVE FULL CREDIT FOR ATTENDANCE. OUR THOUGHTS ARE WITH THE PROFESSOR, AND WE HOPE HE RETURNS TO OUR INSTITUTION SOON, AND IN FULL HEALTH. ~ Dept. of Philosophy, Mark C Wallace, PhD, Dean.

  I turn to Fritz with a snide smile. “You didn’t reap Professor Shipley, did you?”

  Fritz just shrugged and shook his head.

  “We better get over to his apartment and check in on him, Fritz. This is a dead end. With no argument or alternatives from my guardian death angel, we quickly leave the philosophy building and head to Shipley’s. We stay on Washington Square N until it turns back into Waverly. I want to duck back into Maltino’s for a quick cup of coffee. True, I’ve been avoiding this place for a long time; ever since I was assaulted by that possessed homeless freak. But with the revelation of Fritz’s identity, I’m filled with a reckless sort of courage, almost hoping it happens again. Regardless, I’d like to sit down and recalibrate my approach to the conversation with Shipley once we get to his apartment. Fritz and I saunter in like we own the place. I strut to the back table, same one as before, and take my seat facing the door. Fritz sits in front of me, and we have a brief chat before I rise to order two cups of coffee.

  People are staring. I’m not sure why. We’re not doing anything out of the ordinary. Perhaps my newfound confidence makes me walk with a bit more gravitas. Perhaps not, but there’s nothing to make us stand out that warrants this kind of attention. Even though the other people in the cafe avert their eyes when I look at them, I know they’re staring when I look away or talk to Fritz.

  The owner of the cafe cautiously approaches my table and sets two cups of coffee before us. He stands there for a minute, a dark disapproving countenance beating down on me.

  “Is everything all right, sir?” I ask, partly irritated but mostly confused.

  “I remember you,” he says with a low tension. “We don’t need any trouble. And I think you know that if this gets out of hand, I’ll call the cops… after I deal with the problem myself, of course.”

  Okay… the threat is unwarranted. I wonder what has him so on edge.

  “Gets out of hand? What are you talking about?”

  “Look, kid. I don’t mind you coming in here and paying for a couple of cups of coffee and chatting away like you’re your own best friend. But don’t try to draw attention to yourself, okay? The minu
te a single customer complains, you’re outta here.”

  He gives me one last scowl then struts back behind the bar and picks up where he left off with the espresso machine.

  I turn to Fritz. “Okay. That was a little weird… what’s his problem?”

  Fritz looks around and acknowledges the room full of nervous patrons. They don’t make eye contact with me, but when Fritz stares at them, they don’t look away.

  “They probably think you’re one of the crazies, bruh.”

  “I am not one of the crazies,” I say loud enough for others to hear. I’m getting irritated now. People are on edge. And I’m the one making them feel that way. “We’re just two guys stopping for a cup of coffee, Fritz. What’s the big deal? Why is everyone getting so hot and bothered about that?”

  “I think I know why.”

  “Well? Tell me!”

  Fritz gets up and walks halfway to the door. He stands in the middle of the cafe amidst the crowd of seated coffee drinkers, diligently ignoring him. He turns to me and shouts back to our table, “They can’t see me, Henry! I’m invisible to them!”

  My anxiety spikes. My eyes dart to the cafe owner who apparently missed the outburst from my companion. Others in the cafe don’t move, look, or respond. They just keep staring at their laptops and smartphones as if there isn’t a blond-headed, hoodie-wearing college student making a big scene. Fritz smiles at me, then pulls off his hoodie. Then he removes his undershirt! He rhythmically smacks his bare chest with his palms, slapping his own ass, chanting at the top of his voice.

  “I’m here to rob you, give me your cash. I’m here to rob you, give me your cash!”

  But no one blinks an eye or pays any attention to him.

  “Dude, sit down!” I yell at Fritz as I succumb to my own anxiety. But when I yell, several people look up, including the cafe owner, and glare at me.

  Fritz laughs at my discretion, then shouts back, “They can see you, bruh. They just can’t see me. Here, I’ll show you. Watch this.” Fritz walks over to a grumpy-faced businessman hammering away on his laptop. He unlatches his belt and drops his pants right in front of the guy! Then Fritz sticks his pale white butt cheeks right in the guy’s face, mooning him.

  The guy doesn’t flinch. He’s completely oblivious to the indecency.

  Holy cow. I’ve been talking to an apparition this whole time. I’m one of the freaking crazies.

  The realization that Fritz, my death angel guardian, is only visible to me strikes me like a thunderbolt. I quickly realize that people think I’m talking to an imaginary companion. There are two cups of coffee on my table, and I’ve been carrying on conversation.

  If they only knew my imaginary friend was real.

  Yep. That’s just whatever homeless loonytoon in this city tells himself throughout every day. I’m one of them now, I guess.

  I drop my head and avert my eyes from the crowd around me. I quickly grab my coffee and make payment at the register. Without saying a word to Fritz, who is buckling his belt and donning his hoodie, I bolt out the door.

  Fritz catches up to me moments later.

  “You could've told me sooner.”

  “I wanted to mess around a little, bruh. You should’ve seen the look on your face when I mooned that guy!”

  Annoyed by the method of Fritz’s lesson, I grumble, “Yeah. I’m sure I’m the only one that didn’t see the look on my face. Those people were highly freaked out, Fritz. I’ve never been so embarrassed in all my….”

  Fritz stops abruptly and puts his hand up. “Yo, I gotta go, Henry.”

  “What do you mean? We’re supposed to head to Shipley’s!”

  “I know, but I have to go… you know… to do my job. I just got word. But it’s close. I won’t be long.”

  “So… what? I’m just supposed to wait for you here?”

  “No, bruh. I’ll only be a few minutes. You head on to the professor’s apartment. I’ll meet you there.” Fritz dashes into an alley. He’s serious about his job. I’m sure he’s an excellent employee.

  So I make the walk to Shipley’s apartment alone. But I’m unmolested by crazies, and since I have no imaginary friend to talk to, nobody suspects me for a crazy.

  Cuz I’m not.

  A crazy.

  God, what’s happening to me. Am I really losing it?

  The front door to Shipley’s building is so plain and tucked back from the sidewalk, I almost walk past it. It’s unlocked, and I bound down the dim stairway to the subterranean brick hallway. There’s no lighting, and Shipley’s door is at the far end, in total darkness. The hairs on the back of my neck stand on end with each step. When I reach the door, I must feel in the dark for the handle. But before I try to enter, I give a courtesy knock.

  No answer.

  I knock again, a rapping that would surely wake a sleeping old man.

  Nothing.

  I knock for another minute or so, hoping that the professor may just be moving slowly due to his illness, if he is sick. But no. There are no sounds of movement in his apartment.

  “Sorry about that, bruh.” The voice leaps out of the dark behind me.

  “Ghaa!” I jump out of my skin. “You scared the crap out of me, Fritz!”

  My friend chuckles more to himself than I. “Yeah. Sorry. So I see Shipley not answering? You try his door to see if it’s locked yet?”

  I jiggle the doorknob. It’s locked.

  “We should just let ourselves in, Henry. You need to return those books, am I right?” I can tell Fritz is smiling, even though I can’t see his face.

  “Shipley has a half dozen different kinds of locks in this door, Fritz. It’s not just the doorknob.”

  “Let me try.” I step to the side so Fritz can try to pick an impossible set of locks, most of which can’t even be accessed from the outside of the door.

  “Help yourself.”

  I hear a rustling of clothing in the blackness as Fritz steps past me. I look back down the hallway to the stairs, where there’s the tiniest bit of dim light. No one is coming. Not even a crazy looking for a dark, warm place to crash.

  Pop. Creak. Scrape. Pop. The sounds of locking mechanisms being manipulated snatches my attention back to the work at hand. A few moments later, the doorknob turns with a click, and the door to Shipley’s apartment slowly swings open…

  …and Fritz standing on the other side of the door.

  “How the hell did you…” I stop short because I realize mid-sentence that I’m asking an angel how he passed through a wall.

  Dumbass.

  “Impressed?”

  “Not really,” I lie. “Took you long enough.” I walk into the professor’s apartment with Fritz at my heels. A chill has firmly settled in the abode, as the fireplace hasn’t been lit recently. Books are carelessly strewn about, some lay on the floor face down, with broken bindings. One of the wingback chairs has been knocked over onto its side, and Shipley’s pipe lays on the wood floor before the hearth.

  “Looks like someone ransacked this place, Henry.”

  I duck into Shipley’s bedroom, but it’s in the same state. A mess, uncharacteristic even for the grouchy old professor.

  “Something’s not right, Fritz. It looks like there was a struggle of some kind. But they didn’t come in through the front door. And they certainly didn’t leave that way. Most of the locks are on the inside. As you know.”

  Fritz looks around. “So maybe a window?”

  “There are no windows, genius. We’re underground.”

  “A back door, maybe? Or a hidden exit?”

  “Probably. It wouldn't surprise me if the crazy old man has a secret door hidden somewhere.” I look through the books on the floor. One catches my eye. Its cover is faded black leather, with gilded letters pressed into the spine only.

  The Babylon Working.

  When I lift the book from the floor, a piece of folded paper falls out. I lift the paper to my nose and smell. “Fresh ink. This note was written by hand… recently.”


  “What does it say, bruh?” Fritz is bending over behind me, with an eager curiosity that’s characteristically annoying.

  I stand to my feet and read aloud:

  Most honorable Professor Shipley,

  Your expertise of the arcane history of the world’s religions is unmatched. Your work stands as a testament to the great arts the world has forgotten. But we have not forgotten. We applaud your years of research and eagerly request your assistance in a matter of greatest import. Your knowledge of the sacred rites long forgotten is required so that our society may continue to explore the hidden history of the world and reintroduce the Old Ways to the modern mind. We know you will be happy to join us in this mission. The Society of Nine would like to invite you to a special ceremony, where you will be the guest of honor. It will take place in two weeks’ time, during the new moon’s eclipse of the sun as it passes over ancient Babylon. I’m sure with your knowledge, you will calculate the exact time we will begin here in New York. Please be a little early, as preparations must be made, and your expertise in the details of the ritual will be required. The location stands under the gaze of Atlas.

  With greatest reverence for your work and guidance, we are quite anxious to meet you and honor you in our sacred rite.

  Yours,

  The Society of the Nine

  “Under the gaze of Atlas?” Fritz asks.

  “Yeah. Rockefeller Center.” The famous bronze statue of Atlas holding the Universe above him, is an international icon. The creepy art deco design connotes a hidden elite, dominating the social order and controlling world events. But the most fascinating factoid about the statue is that it was intentionally positioned directly across the street from the front doors of St Patrick’s Cathedral. Its eyes are dead center with the old church, giving it a challenging and ominous presence. The church was quite vocal about its disapproval when the monument was erected decades ago. A pagan god, squaring off with the Catholic Church.”