Plasma Frequency Magazine: Issue 12 (4 page)

Agatha rented a four-wheel-drive pickup and headed out of the city. While underway, she kept her traffic-cone-shaped hat on the front passenger side, secured by a seatbelt. In due course, she parked beside a secondary road, put on her hat, and walked into the desert. The only extra equipment she carried with her was a powerful handheld magnifying glass. After a great deal of looking, she found a clump of plants in full bloom, verified the variety with her glass, and collected the specimens she needed.

She straightened up and stretched to get the kinks out of her aching back, then turned around and looked at her footprints in the sandy soil. She'd come quite a long way from the road. In the far distance, she spotted something that hadn't been there before. At first, she thought it was simply a mirage produced by the shimmering heat of the mid-afternoon sun. The object appeared to be moving laterally, though. Maybe it wasn't a mirage after all. As a precaution, Agatha decided to detour around it by taking a circuitous route. She'd gone only a few steps, however, when the moving object also changed direction, seemingly following a tangential course that would cross Agatha's projected path well in advance of her reaching her parked vehicle. She started walking faster, counting her paces and comparing her speed to that of the object. She was the slower of the two. She changed direction again. The moving object compensated for the altered trajectory. Agatha thought about removing her high-button shoes to see if she could walk faster in her stocking feet, but she was prevented from doing so by her fear of stepping on a sharp rock, a cactus, or a scorpion.

She considered her other options. Agatha hated flying, but for one of the few times in her life, she fervently wished she had a broom with her. It wasn't really flying in the aeronautical sense of the word anyway. With direct contact, she had the ability to levitate certain kinds of cured wood. The straws of the broom acted as a combination stabilizer and rudder. She'd even have taken her chances of getting splinters and spinning out of control in an attempt to get airborne, if only there'd been some driftwood handy. There wasn't.

While her attention was turned inward, Agatha had continued to walk, but without consciously looking where she was going. Now she refocused her eyes and saw that the object had moved significantly closer. So close, in fact, she could make out details she'd missed earlier. She was being stalked by a mummy.

Agatha nearly cackled out loud with relief. What did she have to fear from some mindless relic whose brain had been drawn out through its nostrils and stuck in a jar somewhere? She was embarrassed to think that its aimless wandering had fooled her into believing it was actually pursuing her. So, why not waggle her fingers and turn the mummy into a harmless bunny rabbit, or better still a tortoise? The reason was simple. Her transformation spells only worked on living organic matter, so it made perfect sense for her to avoid the musty marauder altogether. With renewed resolve, Agatha started to walk away at a forty-five degree angle from the mummy's path. The mummy instantly changed direction. As it did, sunlight glinted off of burnished steel. The creature was armed with a dagger.

Agatha quickly reassessed the situation. That last course correction could not have been a coincidence. The mummy was being guided by some outside intelligence. The answer came to her almost at once. Marigold's diabolical stalker!

Although disheartened, Agatha would not give up. She'd once seen her mother confine a demon within a pentagram. At the time, the exact shape of the drawing and the accompanying incantation had been seared into the youngster's brain. Could she remember it now, as an adult, in sufficient detail to save not only her own life but that of her assistant? She could try.

Since she was not speedy enough to encircle the moving mummy, Agatha would have to stand within the completed diagram and trust it to repel a demonic assault from the outside. If successful, she could then safely position herself on the opposite side from where the mummy was halted, erase one-half of one of the triangular points of the pentagram in order to break the spell just long enough for her to step out and the mummy to step in, and then she could redraw the line, thus trapping the mummy on the inside.

Although Agatha thought through her strategy in less time than it takes to describe it, the mummy continued to advance all the while, so that even so slight a delay as this might prove fatal. She began to scratch the pattern in the sand, using the handle of the inverted magnifying glass as a stylus. Agatha concentrated on her work so intently that she temporarily lost track of her adversary. Moving clockwise, she had completed four points—only one more to go—when she heard the susurrus of the mummy's feet sliding over the sand. The sound was too close for comfort. She took a quick step to the right and looked up in alarm. To her dismay, she saw her nemesis was directly in front of her with its dagger held aloft, ready to strike. While uttering the incantation her mother had used, Agatha bent forward from her waist and was pleased to see she was in a perfect position to finish the drawing. An untimely muscle spasm in her lower back momentarily prevented her from bending any lower. Then there was no time left. Her gaze was directed downwards, but the vision she perceived in her mind's eye slowly turned from a diluted pale pink to a vivid blood red as—frozen in place—she awaited her fate. Agatha shuddered imperceptibly in anticipation of the dagger piercing the nape of her neck and severing her spinal column. Every nerve in her body was on high alert—countless synapses were firing in her brain—but the only physical sensation she felt was a trickle of something wet moving sluggishly down her back from the vicinity of her hairline.

For several heartbeats nothing else happened. Agatha opted not to make any sudden moves, assuming she still had a conscious choice in the matter. There was always an off chance the mummy had been conditioned to attack only a moving target. As soon as her initial panic subsided, she let her eyes roam around freely. The sun was at her back. Mirabile dictu! The shadow cast by her pointed hat had completed the pentagram. She would be safe as long as she only moved her head in tiny increments that matched the movement of the sun. Agatha fully realized the reprieve was only temporary. Her arms were not long enough to complete the drawing from her present position, and she was afraid to get down on her hands and knees for fear of a misstep causing her head to wobble. She might have to try that maneuver later on as a last resort—just before sundown—when she would otherwise face almost certain doom.

The mummy's lower torso was clearly visible just beyond the outer edge of the pentagram. Agatha considered, and quickly rejected, another doomsday scenario. She could try to conjure up a demon within the pentagram. She would be its first victim and the mummy would be its second. That sacrifice would do nothing, however, to protect Mari. Besides, Agatha vividly remembered the demon her mother had trapped, and she refused to be responsible for introducing such an abomination into the world.

Fighting fire with fire was not the answer, then. Or was it? Agatha had both seen and heard a demon while it was restrained within a pentagram. At the same time, she had smelled nothing out of the ordinary, even though her mother told her the beast usually gave off a terrible, sulfurous stench. Agatha pondered the significance of those facts. Smell depends on the dispersion of tiny particles that have real substance. An aroma could no more penetrate the force field than the mummy's dagger could. In contrast, light and sound both traveled in waves. What if Agatha could concentrate the rays of the sun?

Holding her head steady as a rock, she lifted up the magnifying glass and held it against the spell-induced force field where she estimated it would be in alignment with the mummy's chest. With four or five hours of daylight left, she had the luxury of moving the glass very slowly and methodically—tilting it one way then another, with long pauses in between—while hoping, sight unseen, to produce a laser-thin pinpoint of fiery light at a favorable spot. Time passed. A lot of time, as she rotated slowly in lockstep with the sun. An occasional tremor in her elevated arm reminded Agatha of her mortality. She began to lose hope. Presently she might also lose the last rays of sunlight and, immediately afterwards, her battle against the stalker's death-dealing proxy.

Was that the rush of blood through her ears she heard, or was it the faint roar of a fire? Agatha couldn't tell which, at first. Were those dark ashes dropping on the mummy's feet? Yes, without a doubt. The three-thousand-year-old wrappings had finally ignited and soon thereafter a loud whoosh let her know the desiccated corpse within had also burst into flames. A smoke-smudged dagger fell to the ground. Agatha waited until there was nothing left in front of her but a pile of ashes. Only then did she raise her head and break the spell.

Agatha lowered her arm and sank down on one knee, resting for nearly a minute before slipping the magnifying glass into a deep pocket of her dress. Then, after wiping the perspiration off the back of her neck with a monogrammed lace hankie, she picked up the fallen dagger, got back on her feet and—with a pronounced stoop—walked slowly toward her rental truck.

As soon as she got back to the shop, Agatha gulped down an analgesic potion, and then set about carefully mixing and brewing—in a glass beaker heated by a Bunsen burner—a potent mixture that included the ingredient she had acquired in the desert at such great cost.

When she finished, she gave explicit instructions to Mari.

"Call your stalker and tell him you've changed your mind about having dinner with him."

"Okay," Mari said. "I sure hope you know what you're doing."

"Me too."

Some time later, a vision of feminine loveliness descended the stairs, hesitating every few steps to preen herself. She licked the palms of both hands then used them to sweep back her hair.

"Come here and let me do your nails," Agatha said.

~

"Have you read this morning's paper?" Mari asked, the next day.

"No," Agatha replied. "I was busy giving Cat a bath."

"I thought she cleaned herself."

“She does, but there are some places in the middle of her back she can't reach."

"Is that fingernail polish remover?"

Agatha nodded. "Cat had some nasty residue on her claws that could be harmful if ingested. What's in the paper that's so interesting?" she asked.

"One of the headlines caught my attention: 'The Smiling Corpse.' The article tells how a man matching the description of my stalker was torn to shreds by a wild animal."

"Why are you so glum, Mari? If the article is accurate, I'd think that would be a reason for rejoicing on your part."

"It would be, except the write-up mentions the police found some as-of-yet unidentified human DNA on clothing left at the scene, and the description of the black party dress calls to mind the one that's missing from my closet."

"Ah! That was a serious oversight on my part. Sorry. Maybe we should consider getting out of town until this whole affair blows over."

Soon thereafter, Agatha moved her unlicensed practice to a remote location on the edge of an enchanted forest. Marigold Jones went with her.

They set up shop in a spacious cavern with a humongous main chamber and several smaller antechambers that functioned as waiting rooms. It was thought advisable to keep many of their clients separated from one another.

Mari served as the receptionist and also filled in, when needed, as a surgical assistant. For example, she held the stepladder steady while Agatha used a broadsword to lance a large boil on the backside of a troll. Later, they both agreed it would have been better for all concerned if Mari had held an umbrella during the operation instead of the ladder.

At the end of a typical day, a succession of curious problems had been dealt with until the antechambers were finally empty.

"You have one more patient to see," Mari announced, one afternoon.

"I thought we were finished. I didn't hear anyone else come in," Agatha said.

"We communicated with sign language."

"So, what's out there?"

"A banshee with a sore throat."

Agatha stuffed her ears full of cotton. "Send her in," she said.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR:

John H. Dromey was born in northeast Missouri. He’s had short fiction published in
 Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine, Gumshoe Review, Liquid Imagination, two previous issues of Plasma Frequency Magazine, Sorcerous Signals, and elsewhere, as well as in a number of anthologies, including Plan B Volume III (in potentia press, 2014).

Cake and Necromancy

By Rebecca Roland

The bell chimed over the door as Madilyn's last customers of the day left. The smells of chocolate, cake, cream, and coffee clung to her nostrils and clothes. She wore black, as she'd come straight to work in the morning from her mother's funeral.

Madilyn tidied her brochure display. The front read, "Suggestions to Maximize One's Experience when Contacting the Dead." She'd memorized the contents long ago and hardly gave them much thought any more, but tonight they rattled around in her head like dancing bones.

Unless you want a yes or no answer, you should ask an open ended question. Remember, you only get one, so consider carefully.

She bagged the leftovers to donate to the food pantry, trying not to dwell on her own unanswered questions.

The deceased cannot predict the future, so questions about winning lottery numbers, who will win a sporting event, or your future happiness will be wasted.

She counted the money three times, then carefully wrote out the deposit slip and tucked it all in the bank bag. Madilyn had made it a point long ago not to dwell on the past, but think only about today. Yet here she was, examining events from long ago. Funerals had a way of doing that to a person.

You can only speak with family, either biological or adopted, so efforts to summon Jesus, Ghandi, Lincoln, JFK, Hitler, or any other historical figures will probably not work.

She prepped for the next day, just as Gram had taught her, cleaning equipment and work surfaces. It kept her hands busy, but let her thoughts go unchecked.

Madilyn had heard all sorts of questions since she'd taken over her gr
andmother's bakery years before: Where did you keep the life insurance policy? Did you ever really love me? Were you ever proud of me? Was so-and-so my biological kid? What's the combination to the safe? That one hadn't gone so well when the deceased husband couldn't recall.

There was usually a reason some of these questions didn't get asked when folks were alive. And it was why Madilyn had never seen fit to ask a question herself.

Oh, she had plenty for her mother:
Why did you leave us?

Madilyn already knew it was because her mother
thought she'd found something—and someone—better. Gram had waited for her prodigal daughter's return, but with each passing year it grew more unlikely, and she soon took Madilyn on as apprentice.

Was the guy worth leaving your infant daughter and husband
?

Well, she'd never come back and never contacted them, so Madilyn supposed it was.

Did you ever love me, even for an instant
?

A thousand hooks seemed to grasp her heart and pull it in all directions. She was afraid of the answer to that one.
No, I'll never ask that one
. What if her mother left because Madilyn was unlovable?

With her work done, she sank into the couch in the back room where she summoned the dead, a slice of her special chocolate cake before her, and three candles on the coffee table providing light. It was a tableau she set several times a week for customers. Tonight would be different. She had to ask a question, whether she wanted to hear the answer or not, so she could put it all behind her.

She sank her fork into the fluffy cake and held it beneath her nose. She breathed in the smell of chocolate, and beneath it something spicy that tickled her nose...magic.

Before she could back out, she popped the bite into her mouth. It was moist and chocolaty and perfect. Gram's recipe, generations old by the time she learned it, never failed.

She swallowed and sat back, waiting for the magic to take hold. It warmed her throat and stomach like a shot of whiskey, then spread to her fingers and toes. When it had taken root in every molecule of her body, she summoned.

"Mother," she whispered.

A figure shimmered to life before her, clearly human, but the features unreadable.

"Madilyn," it said.

She'd watched enough home videos to know her mother's voice. A lump formed in her throat. She had little time, though, so she forced the words past it. "I have a question for you." She took a deep breath, folded her trembling hands in her lap, and hesitated. Her heart was a wild mess in her chest. Did she really need to hear this? Did she want to?

The figure flickered like a bulb about to die. Madilyn's mind spun. She had to ask her question quickly.

"If there was one thing you could have done over when you were alive, what would it be?"

Such a long moment passed that she began to think she'd waited too long. Then the figure said, "I
can't say I wouldn't have left."

Madilyn squeezed her eyes shut. She knew she shouldn't have asked a question.

"But," the figure continued, "I would have taken you. Your father might have been a decent provider, but he was a terrible husband. My life was such a mess right after you were born, I thought you'd be better off with my mother. And when I finally got my act together, too much time had passed. I thought maybe you'd hate me, and I couldn't bear that, so I stayed away." She paused. "And there is the answer to your question."

The figure faded, the last faint wisps drifting away as if on a breeze.

So her mother had worried that Madilyn hated her even as Madilyn worried that her mother didn't love her. How different would her life be if only her mother hadn't been afraid? She shook her head at all the wasted years. There was no going back now, only forward, always forward.

Madilyn packed up a slice of chocolate cake for Gram before blowing out the candles and leaving the bakery.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Rebecca is the author of Shards of History. Her short fiction has appeared or is forthcoming in publications such as Stupefying Stories, Plasma Frequency, and Fantasy Scroll Magazine, and she is a graduate of the Odyssey Writing Workshop. When she's not writing, she's usually spending time with her family, torturing patients as a physical therapist, or eating copious amounts of chocolate.