Chapter 2

“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 terribleswithout 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.

* * * *

My knowledge and the history of Jase Carmichael amounted to very little. I knew of his younger sister, Amanda Carmichael, and how she worked at Pitt University in the biology department, steering clear of Bitter and her brother. Throughout my fact-gathering, I had obtained details about Jase’s parents: they were separated when Jase was three years old and his father moved to Las Vegas where he was purposely gunned down by a drug dealer. Barbie Carmichael, his sixty-seven-year-old mother, lived in Caribou, Maine, secluded herself from the world and studied her Bible, a born-again Christian who was never visited by her two children. Jase mostly lived his adult in Bitter; a specific location had yet to be learned. He wasn’t one to bounce from one city to the next, living off men’s money. At thirty-four, his history had proven that he had taken an assortment of jobs to survive in Bitter: baker, bartender, construction, hotel work, appliance delivery man, truck driver, and many other positions. Unlike his jobs, I couldn’t determine that he had jumped from one man to the next. Instead, I gathered he was single most of the time, on his own.