Haven: A Stranger Magic

by D.C. Akers

bed and walked over to the window. He pulled the thin curtains back and looked down at the street below. As usual, there was nothing remotely interesting happening there. There was the small, pitiful patch of grass his mother called a front lawn. It had become brown and crunchy from the lack of rain. There was the crooked street lamp two doors down. The city dump truck had hit it while patching a hole in the road. Since then the light flickered intermittently and kept Sam up most nights, but it looked like it finally had gone out now. At the foot of the lamp post lay Teddy Parkinson’s mangled red bike. Teddy was notorious for leaving his bike on the curb in front of people’s houses. His mother had already run over it twice, and it looked like a third time was in Teddy’s near future. Sam’s eyes wandered up to the night sky. It was clear. The moon was bright and the stars sparkled from above a million miles away. It was all so peaceful. So peaceful, in fact, that there was no reason on earth he should not be able to sleep.

  Sam glanced down directly across the street to Mrs. Cambridge’s manicured front lawn. It was so green that he could practically see it in the moonlight. The benefits of a sprinkler system, he thought. Or maybe she really is a witch like everyone says. Mrs. Cambridge was known as the witch lady of Giddyup Lane. Mostly because she was a widow, wore black year-round, and had five fat black cats named Tyco, Bubbles, Reno, Janko, and Nelson. She was an irritable old lady with a hump on her back and a limp when she walked. Her yard was her sanctuary, and if you knew what was good for you, you stayed out of it. Bored, Sam started to turn away when he saw something flash next to the large maple tree in the center of her lawn. It was more of a glimmer really, as if the moonlight struck something reflective.

  That’s odd.

  Mrs. Cambridge never left her house at night and neither did her cats. Sam didn’t know of anyone dumb enough to step foot on her lawn. So what was that?

  He rubbed his eyes then focused hard again, staring into the depths of the shadows. His eyes strained to make out any sign of movement.

  It could have been Dirty Ernie looking for discarded items in people’s trash again, but tomorrow wasn’t trash day. Dirty Ernie was just that—dirty. The man had not seen the inside of a bathtub in years. At night Dirty Ernie would make his rounds throughout the neighborhood digging for cans or anything else he felt he might get money for. The phrase, “One man’s trash is another man’s treasure” pretty much summed up Dirty Ernie.

  The more Sam thought about it, the more he was convinced that he was just seeing things. It would make perfect sense, he thought. After all, he had not had a decent night’s sleep in what felt like forever. He reached to close the curtains, thinking he would give sleep one more try when he saw it again. Something moved out of the shadows. Sam froze, his hand still gripping the curtain. Narrowing his eyes, he stared down into the yard.

  There was definitely something out there; he wasn’t imagining things this time. This is a good sign, he thought. This meant he wasn’t going crazy just yet, and he could put off meeting the guys in the white coats just a little bit longer.

  Sam slowly dropped his hand and leaned back against the wall next to the window. He tried to peer inconspicuously through the curtains and down into Mrs. Cambridge’s yard. The dark figure moved back into the shadows behind the large maple tree, as if he noticed Sam looking down at him. But that’s impossible, Sam thought. The stranger was too far away to see him through his window. But if he could see the stranger, then perhaps the stranger could see Sam as well.

  Sam could barely see between the curtain and the wall. It was almost impossible to scan Mrs. Cambridge’s entire yard like this. He still couldn’t see anything, but he knew the stranger was still there.

  He quickly reached for his shirt and shorts that hung on his desk chair and put them on. Moving as fast and as quietly as he could, he scrambled down the stairs. Each step he took on the rickety staircase was like a house alarm going off. It was a good thing his mother was a heavy sleeper. He just hoped Sarah would not wake up again. But knowing Sarah, she was not getting out of bed unless someone was screaming her name. Even if there were a burglar or something she would probably stay in bed. In fact, she probably thought if she was really quiet they would just take Sam, and she could be an only child again.

  It seemed like an eternity had passed by the time Sam reached the bottom floor and made his way over to the small living room window.

  The room was dark except for the dim light above the stove that shone in from the kitchen. Sam’s mother always left it on at night. It made a great night-light when Sam needed to raid the refrigerator. The living room was small, just like every other room in Sam’s house. The brown worn-out couch sat in the center of the room, and was used as a divider between the living room and the kitchen. Pictures of Sam and Sarah, and a few candle sconces sat neatly arranged on the mantle. Everything was quiet until the grandfather clock to Sam’s right chimed three o’clock. Sam jerked forward, almost falling over.

  “Jeeze,” he muttered, disappointed at his spying skills.

  He moved back into position and looked between the curtain and wall hoping the stranger was still there.

  Sure enough, the stranger was still standing next to the large maple tree in Mrs. Cambridge’s yard, looking up at Sam’s window.

  He was a tall man, well over six feet if Sam had to guess, and lean. He wore a long, black coat that hung close to his ankles. Sam could not see his face; it was too dark for that, but he could see the large stick the man gripped in his right hand. It looked like a large root of a tree, naturally twisted and tan in color. There was a stained glass sphere that sat perched on top of it.

  The man stood there for some time, periodically moving his hand to his mouth as if to scratch his chin, or maybe to eat something. But it was so dark that Sam wasn’t sure what the man was doing. For all he knew he could he be talking on his cell phone, but why?

  Who in their right mind would be out at three o’clock in the morning on their cell phone wearing a coat in ninety-degree weather holding a stick? Circus people maybe, but no one like that lived on Giddyup Lane.

  Sam watched closely, trying to make out some of the finer details of the stranger, but it was impossible. It was just too dark. Muscles twitched in the back of Sam’s neck. His eyes were straining so hard to see that his head began to ache. He needed to get closer. He needed to go outside.

  With that thought, Sam pressed himself back against the wall and darted across the living room and the kitchen to the back door. Slowly, using his stealthiest moves, he unlocked the deadbolt and turned the door knob.

  The door let out a loud prolonged squeak, one that Sam had never noticed in the daytime. It was no wonder his mother never got a house alarm. Who needed one when the house was falling apart?

  Sam inched the door back halfway and stepped outside. The moonlight was bright on the back of the house and the night air was humid. He shut the door and gradually inched his way past the flower beds to the side of the house. It was much darker and somewhat cooler there, but that did not stop the small beads of sweat from forming on Sam’s forehead.

  Looking down, he noticed the outside faucet was still leaking and the cracks in foundation were getting worse. The entire house was falling apart all around them. He was probably safer sleeping outside of the house than he was inside.

  Cautiously Sam pressed on, hoping all the hours he had logged playing Ninja Warrior 5 would pay off. He was scared, but excited. His blatant curiosity drove his every step toward the front of the house.

  The gravel beneath his feet hurt as the jagged rocks dug into his bare skin. Sweat streamed down the sides of his face as he reached the two garbage cans near the front of the house and crouched down behind them.

  Finally he could see the outline of the stranger perfectly. Sam was right—he was holding a long staff with a round glass pommel. He wore black pants and tall black boots that came up to his knees. His face was still in shadow but Sam could see the bottom of his rigid jaw line. He leaned forward stari
ng at the stranger, thinking to himself how eerie the night had become. There was no breeze, no chirping crickets; there was nothing but the sound of Sam’s breathing.

  Something hairy brushed up against Sam’s leg. He jumped up and staggered forward into the garbage cans, knocking them over. The tin lids slid to the ground with a loud crash. Barron, the neighborhood’s stray cat, hissed and darted across the lawn.

  Sam panicked and tried to grab the lids as they banged and clattered around his feet. So much for the ninja moves, he thought. He looked over at the stranger, who was startled as well. The man was crouched down next to Mrs. Cambridge’s maple tree with his staff across his chest in a defensive position. Then in one fluent movement he stood, lifted his staff and tapped it once on the ground. A flash of emerald light burst from the glass ball and engulfed the man, leaving only a green haze in his wake.

  Sam stood there, mesmerized as the last of the two lids came to a stop at his feet. He could not believe his eyes. Did that just happen, or was he really going nuts? There was no way anyone with half a brain was going to believe this. He wasn’t even sure he did.

  Sam was more than just scared; he was also fascinated, and a little dumb-founded at what had just happened. But who