The 13th Warlock

The 13th Warlock By R.W. Clinger The warlock Wilhelm Ravenrock had a spell on me. I wasn’t sure what it was called or how he exactly accomplished the task, but it was done, and well. So easily and faultlessly. So quickly. A twirl of his left index finger. A handshake. A wink. A word or two whispered from his plump and pinkish lips when I just so happened to be briefly in his company. A snap. Or touching something that I had owned. Warlocks could do such magic, and without mortals like me knowing. Similar to Ravenrock, they were unbelievably dark and mysterious creatures, casting fortunate and shattering hexes here and there on the inanimate, and animate. Warlocks were evil, loving, dramatic, humorous, heartbreaking, and demanding…just as humans. Perhaps the spells they created were the only separation between us and them. The spell created by Ravenrock…one could have thought it elementary. Others could have deemed it quite complex. At first, I didn’t catch on to its concentrated wholeness or subsistence. In truth, I was just an Average Joe visiting the small town of Bitter, Pennsylvania next to Lake Erie; a middle-aged man who compiled notes for a nonfiction book called Deep Grave: The Mysterious Disappearance of Jase Carmichael. I lived uneventfully throughout the summer months, renting the small salt box on Sutten Drive, on the outskirts of Bitter. I spent my days and evenings filling journals with handwritten notes regarding Jase Carmichael’s life. Innocent me. A quiet man. More into his work than his family or finding a male companion to spend the rest of his life with. I worked hard, and hardly played. I wasn’t ashamed. Honestly, I really didn’t mind my own business in Bitter, because my daily chore entailed getting a job done, and failure certainly wasn’t an option. Eating, sleeping, and interviewing the residences of Bitter became my world throughout the summer months, June until now. Long story short, the ex-homicide detective from New York City—yes, you’ve heard of him, E.M. Rutt, the best-selling writer of his nonfiction masterpieces Home Killing, Worshipping Catherine, and The Hanging King, and the award-winning director of his true crime documentaries; most readers and fans compared him to Anne Rule or when James Patterson wrote a nonfiction crime piece—had hired me as his assistant. He paid me quite generously to gather notes on the mysterious disappearance of Jase Carmichael. My expenses were paid to travel to Bitter and live there for six months, and E.M. had set my deadline on January 1. Over half of that time had already passed. Six faux leather journals were completely filled with my shaky scrawls. Soon I would have to return to New York City. My job was almost completed. Everything in my world seemed fine between June and August 31: assistant fact gatherer and writer worked diligently; thirty-seven-year-old Englishman heated up microwave dinners, eating; occasionally he (me!) enjoyed a frothy beer at The Hindermost, an eerie and dark pub on Cast Street in Bitter. I was alive, breathing, and ingested in my work. Play could come later, once I returned to New York City, my hometown since my four years spent at New York University obtaining a degree in writing. Survival with a heavy workload embraced me, distanced from the city. Bitter had become my hometown away from home for the time being. True happiness could come later. An obvious payment for my hard labor. Ravenrock’s spell occurred and I didn’t even realize it at first. I woke on September 1 a changed man: dizzy, pale-faced, and weak. My hands shook and my vision became blurred. I couldn’t move my right leg. How strange since I hadn’t visited The Hindermost the night before, consuming too many beers and becoming intoxicated. I couldn’t have had a hangover. Not in the least. In fact, the previous night I had stayed inside my rented salt box next to the lake and transferred my journal notes to documents on my laptop, which needed to be sent to E.M. My pulse became weak and a light throbbing occurred at my right temple. Dry- and open-mouthed, I looked at the time: almost nine o’clock in the morning. I needed water, my right leg to work again, and a shower. My cell phone buzzed on the nightstand. E.M. checking on me again. Normal behavior. Acceptable. “Sawyer,” he said, sounding more feminine than masculine, whispering. “How are you?” “Well, of course.” I told him about the Astor twins (Renee and Max) I interviewed the previous afternoon. Renee Astor hated the Carmichael family. She thought them demons, pushed out of hell. She called them liars, sneaks, and snakes. She used descriptions dark and mysterious, a family that was truly not normal. Maximilian Astor dated Jase Carmichael three times prior to Jase missing. I shared more details with E.M. about the lakeside party during Memorial Day the last time Jase Carmichael (thirty-four years old) was seen. “Max and Jase took a walk along the lake after ten in the evening. They smoked some weed together and shared oral s*x in the woods. Max passed out after the s*x. He was found naked the next morning and using an oak stump as a pillow. Renee told me that Jase had numerous enemies because of his bad attitude, such a foul man, and so obnoxious. She wanted nothing to do with him, or his family, and didn’t like the fact that her brother found the guy handsome and befriended him. I hate to think they’ve had s*x together. Mixing their body parts together. It disgusts me.” E.M. praised me. “You have ninety more days to fulfill our contract. Send me what you have thus far, via e-mail. Understood, Mr. Black?” Of course. Yes. No problem. I wanted to work for E.M. again because he paid well, had a soft personality, and didn’t nag. I loved being a free-range fact gatherer for him and couldn’t ask for a better job. Working off-the-leash functioned well for me. I would be a fool to be insubordinate. “What are your goals, young man?” he continued to whisper, reminding me that he was in his sixties, older and wiser than me, in charge. “To interview Wilhelm Ravenrock again. He’s very mysterious, and I sense he knows things about Jase Carmichael that he’s not telling me. He’s hiding information from me that he didn’t provide…rather, refused to share during our first meeting. The man has a dark side to him. He’s truly mysterious. He’s keeping facts from me, or so I believe. There are many things to learn about him.” The meeting with Ravenrock was just a week ago, and unhelpful. He talked more about himself than the missing man, and the party Jase attended. Nor did he mention details and facts of Jase, information about the man that I knew before Ravenrock agreed to sit with me at the coffee shop on Greenwich Street in downtown Bitter, seeing me. The meeting was useless, if I may speak the truth here and now. Nothing was learned of Jase Carmichael’s disappearance. A pure waste of my time. Except…I assumed Ravenrock had placed a spell on me. Then and there. So simply. Unchallenged by his merciless task. Touching my right shoulder. Whispering a single word that sounded like estranga at our two-person table. Making steady and prolonged eye contact with me that left me feel uncomfortable, somewhat horny, and confused. Creating his simple hex by a single touch, a whisper from his lips, or a blink, a mere sniffle. The warlock at his mysterious and easy work. How elementary. “So you’re relying on your intuition?” E.M. asked. “Yes. I’ve learned that it’s quite helpful in doing my job, as you probably already know.” “Impressive,” he said. “I like what you have to say.” He told me good luck, and that he would check in with me in a few days. As always, he ended our conversation, “Don’t forget to send me what you have. And thank you for your help, Sawyer. You’re trusted with the details you’ve collected and needed. I couldn’t create my nonfiction terribles without your assistance.” * * * * Ravenrock’s spell shook me. I became quite sick for the next twenty-four hours, following our brief meeting. The symptoms were very much like the common winter’s flu: a headache, hot flashes, a steep temperature, vomiting, shivers, and an overwhelming feeling of weakness. Eventually I could move my right leg after ten hours. And just before dehydration settled throughout my system, some twelve hours into my sickly affair, I found the strength to amble to the bathroom and consume one cold glass of water after next. My reflection looked despicable. Tarnished blue eyes had turned ringed with bright red and became hollow. Chapped lips resembled that of a zombie’s. My blondish beard became shaggy, and my head of matching hair turned into a mop of greasy strings. I felt as if I had lost twenty-plus pounds, emaciated. After hanging over the porcelain sink in the salt box’s small, single bathroom, I ventured to bed again. There, I slept for the next thirteen hours, trapped in a dream with a long-caped individual in 1800s, a fog-encrusted castle, powdery explosions during a war, and the strong scent of rosemary. Although at that fragile time, having no clue that I had so easily fallen under Ravenrock’s untitled spell, I became better. Rest and liquids healed my physical state. I can’t say the pair provided a cure or anecdote to his chosen spell, but I could function again, up and working. Firstly, I had sent E.M. his desired notes via e-mail. And secondly, I had taken a shower and walked the three blocks to The Hindermost for homemade chicken soup with two slices of thick, rye bread, and decent conversation with a handsome ginger.