Mad Magic Read online

  Despite his silence, I had learned a lot about him by watching him in passing. I’d gotten good at reading people that way. Call it the curse of the incredibly bored.

  For instance, I knew he had to be a heavy smoker. I saw him standing outside the apartment finishing off one of his weird cigarettes early in the morning as I left for school every day. Mr. Bregger didn’t allow smoking in the building, but my tattooed neighbor had built a regular bird’s nest of burned-out cigarette butts in the flowerpots out front. Clearly, it wasn’t a casual habit—not that I was any kind of smoking expert.

  Normally, I would have found a smoking habit like that a total turn-off. But there was something different about the cigarettes he smoked. They were wrapped in a cream-colored paper, almost like parchment, and I’d noticed the butts were stamped with a small, gold-foiled design in the shape of a crown. That wasn’t a brand I recognized. Their smell was different, too. It was floral, almost like incense.

  I also figured he had to be a bouncer or worker at a nightclub. I didn’t know what else he could possibly be doing from 6:00 pm when he left, until 5:00 am when I heard him climbing the stairs to our floor every night like clockwork.

  He was also single, or at the very least not in a serious relationship, because I never heard anyone else come back with him. No girlfriends, no drunken one-night stands—nothing. I’d never seen him with any friends or visitors, and he never went out of town or away on vacation. In fact, he seemed to be almost as reclusive as me.

  I was discreetly trying to sneak a peek at some of his mail while slipping my key into my own box. Okay, so maybe I was being a little creepy. I just wanted to find out what his name was. What’s the harm in that?

  And then the lock on my mailbox made an awful clanking noise.

  I groaned. It only made that sound when the lock jammed. I tried not to curse aloud as I fought to get my key free. I tried wiggling it, twisting it, and beating on the mailbox door. Nothing. The lock refused to budge or let go of my key.

  I was about to resort to something more violent when a big hand suddenly eclipsed my view.

  “You’re gonna break it if you keep jerkin’ on it like that,” a deep voice murmured right behind me. My tattooed neighbor muscled his way into my space, sliding me out of the way while he worked the lock.

  I gaped at him in stunned silence, trying to wrap my mind around the fact that he’d spoken to me. He had an unlit cigarette between his lips, and his sharp eyes glanced my way for a brief second before he turned his attention back to my mailbox.

  That was enough, though. That one, short glance sent a jolt through me like I’d stuck my finger in an electrical socket.

  He had to have been wearing contacts. Either that, or I was seeing things again. His eyes looked purple. That couldn’t possibly be real, right? I guess when you took the rest of his bizarre style into account, it didn’t seem so strange that he might be wearing colored contacts, too.

  He jiggled the lock a few times, twisting the key and finally popping it loose. Then he dropped the key back into my hand without a word and began walking away.

  I stared at his broad back. It was almost too late when I finally remembered to call out, “Thank you!”

  He didn’t answer. He just raised one of his hands in a casual gesture without ever looking back and sauntered out the front door.

  Wow.

  It had all happened so fast. I was dazed as I climbed the stairs to my apartment. My frazzled brain churned, replaying every second. His tone had been so casual, like we knew one another already. And like an idiot, I had blown my perfect opportunity to ask his name. I was so busy mentally kicking myself about that, I had almost forgotten to be on guard when I arrived at my front door.

  As soon as I realized where I was, I froze with my hand on the knob. I sucked in a sharp breath, and braced myself as I cracked open my door.

  The things I saw at school were unpleasant. They were usually embarrassing and terrifying. In the past, doctors had diagnosed me with post-traumatic stress disorder. They said it was because my dad had died so suddenly and in a traumatic way, and that it would take time for me to recover. They prescribed all kinds of medications to help with the anxiety and hallucinations. Their diagnosis seemed to make perfect sense … until I got to my own front door.

  That’s where the real world seemed to stop.

  Some things couldn’t be explained away.

  I opened the door slowly and as quietly as possible, leaning to peek inside before I dared to turn on the lights. The lamps lit around the room when I flipped the switch, revealing the chaos I’d been dreading. My couch was turned over with its cushions thrown everywhere. All the pictures had been ripped off the walls again. The drapes had been yanked off the windows, and the tv was face down on the floor.

  I stepped carefully over broken glass on my way to the kitchen. There, I found the fridge door wide open and food strewn everywhere. It was as if someone had intentionally sprayed the walls in ketchup. A chill crept over my body, making my skin prickle as though I were walking into an icy dungeon. I stood there for a few moments, shivering and staring at the mess.

  The doctor had assured me that it wasn’t uncommon for people with ptsd to have episodes like this and not remember them later. He’d called them “blackouts.” I didn’t remember doing anything like this to my apartment. Everything had been neat and orderly, the way I liked it, when I left for school that morning. Anyone else probably would have immediately called the police and reported a break-in, but I knew better than that.

  The police couldn’t help me. No one could.

  It took me all afternoon to clean things up. I scrubbed ketchup off the walls and cabinets, swept up broken glass, and hung all the pictures back on the walls. Thankfully, I’d already taken all the photos with any sentimental value out of the frames a long time ago. These were just generic snapshots—some of which had come with the frames. Before, I’d adorned my home with every snapshot I could find of my family. Having them there, smiling at me, made me feel less alone. But after a similar incident where all those images had been torn from their frames and my dad’s face was scratched out of each one, it wasn’t worth the risk. I didn’t want to lose the few I had left.

  When everything was clean and tidy again, I collapsed onto the couch and let out a sigh. It was getting late. I was exhausted, and yet I still had lots of homework to do before I could even try sleeping.

  I took a quick shower and braided my coppery colored hair into a long, soggy rope down my back. I changed into pajamas, which were a pair of old sweatpants, socks, and one of my dad’s old t-shirts. Then I curled up on the couch with my usual blanket and pillow, propped a textbook in my lap, and prepared to study.

  Of course, sleeping in my bed or even stretching out across it to do my homework would have been nice, but I had given up on that a while ago. I couldn’t sleep in my bedroom at all anymore, and I hated going in there. More things seemed to happen there than anywhere else in the apartment. The living room was the only place that even felt remotely safe. I knew it was only a matter of time, though. Slowly, but surely, I was being driven out of every room in this apartment. If things kept going at this rate, I’d be sleeping out in the hallway in the next few weeks.

  I only made it halfway through my homework before nodding off. My face met my book a few times, and I finally gave up. Placing my textbook and notes in a stack on the coffee table, I bundled myself up in my blanket and drew my legs in toward my chest. All the lights in the apartment were still on, which made me feel a little better and the shadows less intense.

  It wouldn’t last, though. It never did. The darkness was my enemy, and I knew better than to think I would be safe just because there were a few lights burning.

  My mind wandered back to that special school again. If I did decide to transfer, Ben would want to know why. He’d find out about my incidents at school, that I’d been seeing a few doctors secretly—basically everything
I’d been hiding. I couldn’t let that happen. I had to make it to graduation. It was only a few more months. I could do it.

  Visions of colorful tattoos swirled in my head as my body slowly relaxed, pulled under by the stress of the day. I drifted off, after one last glance at the clock.

  It was only midnight. I still had a few hours left to sleep before 3:02 am.

  The sound of something like glass smashing in the kitchen made me bolt upright. The room was pitch black. My heart began pounding at a frantic pace. I panicked and a cold sweat made my whole body shiver.

  It was here.

  Something else broke, crashing against the floor right next to the couch.

  It was too dark to see what it was. My chest got tight. I struggled to breathe and dove under my blanket for cover. Reaching down, I pulled my cell phone out of the pocket of my sweatpants. I clung to it as the screen glowed. It was the only source of light in my apartment now.

  I had to calm down.

  I had to think.

  I tried some of the coping techniques the doctors had taught me for dealing with panic attacks. Breathe, count, and claim the area around me as my personal safe space. I started counting, taking deep breaths with every number.

  One … Two … Three …

  Another loud crash made me scream. It sounded an awful lot like my television hitting the floor again. I curled up into the smallest ball I possibly could, hugging my knees to my chest, and squeezing my phone desperately.

  The pictures on the walls were rattling. The legs of my wingback chair made scraping noises as it slid across the floor. Down the hall, I heard my bedroom door slam shut, over and over again.

  Then it touched me.

  Icy cold fingers wrapped around my ankle.

  I screamed, and tried to kick away, but it was strong—much stronger than me. It yanked me off the couch and onto the floor like a ragdoll. The back of my head cracked against the floor. My vision spotted. I was only vaguely aware that I had dropped my cell phone.

  Something dragged me across the floor. Still dazed, I managed another desperate, garbled scream. I grabbed the leg of the couch and yelled. I knew no one would hear me. It didn’t matter how loud I was, or how long I screamed. It was like being trapped in a bubble, an unbreakable cone of silence, where no one else could reach me.

  I fought with all my might. It grabbed my braid, snatching my head back suddenly. I cried out as my fingers slid away from the couch leg.

  It dragged me down the hall by my hair. I clawed at it, to get my hair free, but all I touched was empty air. There was nothing but deep, terrible darkness all around me.

  It hauled me toward my bedroom. The door was still slamming repeatedly, like the chomping mouth of a hungry beast. I managed to grab the edge of the doorframe as it pulled me inside. I clung with all my strength, screaming at the top of my lungs for someone to help me.

  The door slammed again, smashing my fingers and forcing me to let go.

  The darkness swallowed me, gulping me down. The bedroom door slammed and locked. I screamed his name with all my might; I didn’t know anyone else to cry out for.

  But Ben never came.

  I was shaking in the dark.

  The cold was so intense. It felt as though someone were squeezing my lungs in clenched fists, preventing me from taking anything but short, frantic gasping breaths. My hands and feet were numb, although not enough that I couldn’t feel the aching pain where the door had slammed on my hand.

  I was only vaguely aware of strong, cold fingertips on my skin, gripping my throat. Not enough to choke me, though. It was just enough to let me know if it truly wanted to kill me—it could.

  I should have been dead, but instead, everything seemed to be spinning. I felt weak and tired, like I could have slipped off into an eternal sleep.

  And then suddenly, there was light.

  The closet doors opened one by one. The grip on my throat vanished in an instant, and I gasped like I’d been holding my breath for an eternity. At that moment, I didn’t know how I’d wound up in the closet—I couldn’t remember anything except the darkness. It was all confused, terrifying chaos.

  Looking up, I hoped to see my dad. I’d dreamt of a moment like this, when he would come home, smile at me like he used to, and rescue me from this nightmare.

  But it wasn’t him.

  A pair of warm hands touched my face, patting my cheek like they were trying to revive me. Then he grabbed my shoulders and picked me up, pulling me out of that dark place. I heard his deep voice, but it was so muffled I couldn’t make out what he’d said. He cradled me in his arms like a child and kept talking, as though he were trying to get me to answer. I couldn’t. The world around me was still hazy, and yet his warmth was all too real. It made me instinctively cling to him.

  My tattooed neighbor from across the hall carried me, holding me against his chest as though I were something precious. No one had ever carried me like that, especially not a guy.

  As soon as we left my bedroom, everything seemed to get clearer. I could breathe easier, and the coldness ebbed away from my extremities. I could see him, his strange violet-colored eyes sharp and dangerous as they focused straight ahead.

  His face was drawn into a look of quiet fury as he picked his way across the debris. Glass from the broken picture frames crunched under his shoes as we passed through the living room. My front door had obviously been kicked in. It was dangling off the hinges when he carried me across the hall. He didn’t even bother trying to shut it.

  When he opened the door to his apartment directly across from mine, the smell of him—that deep, musky, man-smell—hit me with startling force. I realized how long it had been since I was close enough to anyone to recognize his or her smell like that.

  I looked up at him with my thoughts tangled like Christmas lights. Usually, I didn’t like it when anyone touched me. It probably had a lot to do with adults dragging me places I didn’t want to go. It made me feel small and powerless.

  His touch wasn’t like that. He was gentle, but firm. His arms felt sturdy and cautious as he carefully sat me down on his sofa.

  I was feeling much calmer … right up until I heard him go back and lock his door.

  What the hell?

  I sat up immediately. Our eyes met from across the room. He walked toward me with purpose in every step.

  Alarm bells screamed in my head. I didn’t know him. I didn’t know what he planned to do that required locking the door. And I did not want to find out.

  As he got closer, I scrambled to the opposite end of his couch and snatched the remote control off the end table, holding it up like a weapon.

  He stopped a few feet away, glancing at my poor excuse for a defense, and raised one of his eyebrows. “Calm down. I’m not gonna hurt you,” he muttered.

  “Why did you—” I started to ask.

  He cut me off quickly, “You were screaming bloody murder over there. I’m sure everyone in a two-block radius heard you.”

  “A-actually I was going to ask why you locked the door.” My voice came out like a terrified squeak.

  He snorted and crossed his arms. “Because I live here, and I don’t want whoever broke in and trashed your place trying the same thing here. What did you think?”

  I didn’t want to answer that. It seemed like a stupid accusation now, anyway. I glanced down at the remote control in my hand and slowly put it back on the table.

  “You alright?” The concern in his deep, gruff voice surprised me.

  I was still trying to figure that out. There were cuts and scratches all over my arms. Some of them even looked like bite marks. They stung whenever I moved. My ankle had finger-shaped bruises on it, and my neck still hurt from being dragged around by my hair. Then there were my fingers—three of them were turning an unsettling shade of blue where the door had smashed them. All told, I was a mess. My face grew hot with shame. How was I going to explain this?

  �
��I’m fine,” I managed to answer. Unfortunately, I had never been a very good liar. “Please don’t call the police.”

  His forehead creased as he came closer, towering over me, and pointed at my arms. “Let me see.”

  He didn’t give me a chance to refuse. He grabbed my wrists, turning my arms, and looking at the marks. Most of them were on my forearms, as though I’d been wrestling with an angry cat or something. Then he examined my fingers one by one. I winced as he probed at them, as though he were testing to see if any were broken.

  Finally, he let me go and sighed. “It doesn’t look that bad. I’ll get you some antiseptic and gauze for those cuts.”

  I barely heard what he’d said. I’d seen him from a distance plenty of times, but this was my first chance to examine him up close. He had defined, squared features that struck me as classic—almost like one of those young Greek heroes in old renaissance paintings. There was a dusting of short, dark stubble on his sturdy jaw, and his strangely colored eyes were so serious and mesmerizing.

  When he looked at me again, I couldn’t speak. His gaze scrambled all my thoughts.

  He didn’t seem to notice though. “Sit tight.”

  I nodded, watching as he disappeared down the hall. After a few minutes, he came back with a spool of medical gauze and a tube of antibacterial cream. He sat down on the couch beside me and held out a hand expectantly.

  “Arm,” he demanded.

  I put one of my arms in his hand. He smeared cream on all the cuts, scrapes, and bites. Then, he carefully wrapped both of my forearms in gauze. He seemed entirely focused on his work, and completely oblivious to how I kept staring at him.