Faced with a such a curious injury, Sandelene wished she'd sprung for the brighter light bulbs. The shop held a dim, rosy glow: bright enough to see the numbers on a credit card, but low enough to keep the items wrapped in an aura of mystical mystery. She always sold more when the lights were low; something about a bright, naked white light incinerated the imagination from all but the most serious of shoppers.

Worked that way for sex, too. The woman looked Margery Alesa over with just a shade of disappointment. Her visitor wasn't entirely unattractive, but he was the sort of attractive that you'd have to supplement with adjectives and phrases like 'sort of' and 'mildly' and 'in the right light.' And it'd been a while since she'd... So of course it stood to reason that for the first time in over a year since she'd last had a man willing to take off his shirt for her, it was to display a glistening, gruesome slash. And because the lights were dimmed, she couldn't tell if it was a talented artist's fx skills or an actual injury.

"I won't lie and say I'm not intrigued," she decided, gesturing at the injury. "Mind if I move in closer?"

"Rather you didn't," Margery said quickly, letting his shirt swish back into place. When it did, Sandelene noticed the dried dark stains that suctioned the fabric to his damaged skin. The wound really did seem fresh. Margery buttoned his jacket over the mess and smoothed the colorful scarf over the barest stain that had seeped through, just a small discoloration at the seam, like a period's arrival a day early. His eyes scanned the shop's contents. "Unless you're about to tell me this shop is just your side hustle and you're actually a registered EMT."

"Why aren't you with one now?" Sandelene asked, tossing her hair over her shoulder. Her stomach grumbled. When he didn't immediately answer, she shrugged and turned toward the shop's back room. "Mind if I eat something? Had half a granola bar for lunch."

"By all means," Margery said. A tentative smiled flashed across his lips. "Must've been a busy day."

"Something like that." 

After a depressing look at the financial spreadsheets, she'd spent the better part of the afternoon scouring the internet for tips on training toads to perform tricks. Maybe Neville could become a Youtube star, and she could afford to keep the shop going and Dida would never figure out that a toad was more profitable than her granddaughter. Nodding, she indicated a door behind the register. "Come on out back. Tell me what you're doing here instead of the hospital."

The plain door led to a basic office, with a small laptop, a television, mini-fridge and microwave. There was a desk covered in paperwork, a bulletin board  covered in sticky notes, a couple boxes of inventory and a few stacks of yet to be enacted marketing ideas. Sandelene spun the room's single chair toward her guest, but he hovered at the doorway. Shrugging, she reached for a package of ramen noodles stacked on the fridge, and a ceramic bowl nearby.

"So?" she prompted him, reaching for a plastic water bottle.

"Ah," he began, playing with his scarf. "One of our primary supporters, the governor's wife, is reading to an elementary school tomorrow morning at nine am. This event's been scheduled for eleven months. With elections around the corner, we're going to be on the front page of the Saturday morning paper. We never hit the paper," he added, "and I don't want it to be a front page exclusive of screaming children as the floor underneath their little crossed legs erupts with fountains of blood."

"And you came to me?" she said incredulously.

"You're a witch, aren't you? And you're local."

Sandelene sighed. "You saw advertisement in the paper then. I put that out to draw in teenagers and college students looking to be occult for a weekend." If you can't beat 'em, make money off 'em. 

Margery was silent. 

"I'm a witch*, Mr. Alesa. Not an exorcist, not a miracle worker."

*If Mr. Alesa could hear the asterisk, rather than her soft pause, he would've learned that she was a self-taught white witch, but these days more or less a retailer to the witches. Sure, she knew spells, rituals and incantations, but she left the doing to her buyers. Sandelene had never lived the kind of life where she needed a spell to do something, or a curse to be lifted or worse than a paper cut healed, or much else for that matter. The only time she'd thought about casting something wicked, was back back in high school when she'd been bullied for believing in hocus pocus. What she'd learned, however, was that a fist to Lacey's nose worked just as well as reciting prayers over a lit candle. 

And, if she was being honest, punching that smug bastard was more fun, even if it sent her to the principal.

"...not from the advertisement," Margery was saying.

Sandelene remembered what she was supposed to be doing and put the the noodles in the microwave. "Then how?"

"Nancy drives by this place when she takes her mom for her doctor's appointments."

"Great," she said dismisively. "But why a witch?"

A touch of dismay flashed across Margery's face. "Well, you know."

Sandelene's eyebrows rose. "I don't."

"Witches and demons go together like peanut butter and jelly."

"Maybe in the movies," she began, fighting to keep her face straight. "We're mostly Wiccan now. Harmonious balance, peace and all that good stuff. Harmless charms and helpful tricks, mostly. If you're looking for a blood-drinking sexy sorceress, sorry, you've got the wrong address. I like my animals to stay unboiled, unbled, and very much alive."

"But you are a witch."

Margery, for whatever reason, seemed glued to the fact for whatever reason. Sandelene wasn't sure what to make of that. She opened her mouth and closed it again. "Look, if you want to pay me, I'm happy to go along with whatever hokey advertising yarn you're spinning in time for Halloween. Haunted history. I get it. Sells tours." She peered a little closer at Margaery. He hovered around the door frame, almost afraid to touch the feathered quills stacked on a box beside him. Maybe if he was a bit more square-jawed, a little more handsome, her heart would've won out over her stomach...

Nah, she decided, turning back to the microwave timer. It's the flashy men who draw the most storm clouds.

"Before we go any further I've gotta ask you something about that mark there," she continued, watching the clock tick down.

"It'd be odd if you didn't," he replied with a consenting nod.

"Is this the sort of situation where you write me a little check, I go in and say, 'yes I am a certified medium of all things spooky and this here place is spooked out the wazoo,' and you go on and use that to draw in a crowd? I've seen it done with murder houses and the like. I don't blame you. I won't tell anyone."

He shook his head. "I can see why you think that, Ms...."

"Sandelene Jhel."

"What is that?" he asked, narrowing his green eyes.

"Not sure," she admitted. "My family's been bumping and grinding around America for two hundred years or so. Bit of everything I suppose, with a sprinkling of Indian from my father. He's fresh blood, compared to my mother's side anyway. Immigrated from Bangalore thirty years ago. Anyway," she said. "You can't tell me this situation is kosher and not let me verify that scratch of yours."

He frowned, but his fingers found his shirt hem once more. She stooped closer to peer at the clotted blood. His stomach moved at her exhale, and with it the blood. When she was that close, she caught the faint coppery odor and the stench of burned flesh. She leaned back to meet his green eyes.

"Stick your finger in it," she said.

Margery gaped. "Excuse me?"

"I'd do it myself but if it's real, I don't want your blood on me. I want to see if it hurts as bad as it looks."

"I could be faking."

"I'll be able to tell," she said simply, watching his face.

"It's not sanitary, I don't think I should-"

"I'm not asking you to gut yourself," she continued, watching him carefully. "I've got paper towels."

Margery, one hand already supporting his shirt, reached slowly with the other hand and...

She stopped his shaking fingers with a grin. "Just joshing. That's disgusting. I'm minutes away from deliciousness. I don't need the visual."

Either that's some serious dedication to a ruse or...well, that was her philosophy for now. Not once had she encountered anything beyond luck and simple explanation. The microwave beeped. She'd never been one to buy into spooks, demons and the like, but she did have the resources and knowledge to deal with them if they were real. IF. "I'll need to take a few things," she said slowly. "Make myself a kit. I take it you want me there tonight?"

"Now, and if you'd put down that disgusting food I'll get you a grinder on the way."

Rent was due when, Tuesday? and this check would clear in a day so... "You have yourself a deal Mr. Alesa."

*

The William Wisener library overlooked the rolling waters of the Mississippi. Granted, there wasn't much to see of it past the busy downtown roads, just brief glimpses of lonely lights of boats chugging downriver on a quiet night. The library itself sat among a wealth of ivy and bloomed roses. It was an old brick structure with dark roofs and antique windows that had just enough of a sheen to trick the eye into seeing things.

"Beautiful, isn't it?" Margery said as they headed up the brick walkway.

"Never been one to admire a building," Sandelene replied, trying to subtlety pick a piece of lettuce out of her teeth. In her humble opinion, ramen noodles were delicious, but she had to admit the little sandwich shop Margery had taken her to made a fantastic turkey club. "But I can  admire attitude, and your library has got plenty of presence."

The lights were off, but the main doors were unlocked; apparently Margery and the cleaning staff had gotten himself the hell out of there. He hesitated even now, hand on his chest, wincing with every grey stair and adamant that the overheads had been on when they'd made their mad scramble for the exit.

"You scared?" she asked him, slinging her bag down over her shoulder.

"Can't let you go in alone," he said. But he didn't touch the door knobs.

Sandelene herself felt a prickle of something in her spine, but she wasn't prepared to call it fear quite yet. This was more along the lines of roller coaster fear, or public speaking or haunted houses. Sure there was a small chance something could actually be wrong, but the odds were in your favor. That was thrilling fear, that was dipping your toe into unknown waters on a foggy night. And the unknown, whether you were prepared or just a victim like Margery over here, had that ability to put just about anyone on edge.

She shared a brief look with her companion, and then opened the door and walked inside. Margery flipped on the lights and took a sharp breath. "Oh!"

"What—?!" she hissed, trying to act like she hadn't just jumped out of her skin.

"Coat rack fell," he said, panting. He clutched his chest again. "I was thinking...never mind." His pupils were so wide, his breath so short, Sandelene ordered him to sit on the floor to keep him from passing out. And it was that, more than anything else in the quiet, stuffy library, that truly gave her pause. It was as if stepping across the threshold had taken his breath away.

Sandelene ran through her list, thought about the steps and situations she knew about. Malevolent spirits. She gripped her bag tighter and looked down at the man. He was white as a sheet and sweating heavily.

"Has it always been cursed?" she asked, an eye on carefully ordered books and cheerful decorations strung about in place for tomorrow morning's event.

Margery wiped the sweat from his brow and leaned his forehead against his knees. "We're an old building. People have been seeing and hearing things since the library opened, but nothing has been bad until recently."

"What changed?"

"Renovations? New exhibits? Did we bring it in or make it angry? I don't know." The poor man looked so ill she fished her phone out and started dialing 9-1-1. "What are you doing?" he gasped, voice raising in alarm.

"If you saw your face right now you'd thank me," she said when the call was done. "An ambulance is on its way."

He shook his head, grabbed the edge of a librarian's desk and pulled himself onto shaking legs. She forced him back down. "The reading..." he said.

A series of thumps upstairs distracted her from a sharp reply. Though it hadn't seemed possible, Margery's face had discovered another shade of white.

"You know what? We're handing this over to the police," Sandelene said, grabbing the man's arm. The footsteps were louder now, heavy, descending. With Margery stumbling after her, she pulled him to the door.

The lights went out, but neither her hand nor Margery's sweaty palms had gone anywhere near the switch. Sandelene pushed against the door. It was unlocked and yet the knob wouldn't turn. She tried again. Stuck. And then the man beside her whimpered and collapsed to the floor. At the same time, the hair on her arms prickled. Cold breath fogged the glass beside her head. And in that dull, frosted reflection she saw a man's fingers curl around her throat.