Project Rapunzel : A Fictional Sketch

of the paranormal variety

Author’s Note: Y’all, I have been trying to get an essay done but it seems that one must choose an actual focal point and I can’t settle on the aspect I want to explore, nor the format in which to explore it. Therefore, my essay remains in drafts for me to continue to puzzle through. I’m trying to develop a pattern of one post per week, no particular theme at this point, just something out in the world. Due to the aforementioned lack of decisiveness I have elected to pull an old fictional draft out of the archives to share. For reference, this is a paranormal story and hasn’t been worked on several years outside of a few little corrections before posting. Also, I forgot how much I previously enjoyed writing descriptions 🙃 I hope you enjoy!

Photo by conner bowe on Unsplash

A single pair of work boots crunched atop the old, overgrown gravel, the weeds brittle and half dead from the first frost. Autumn leaves in the vibrant yellow of beech and ash littered the ground among the brilliant reds of maple, and the muted brown of oak.

Hands shoved deep in the pockets of his coat, Abe kicked a stone loose and sent it skittering across the dead grass. The rock clattered over the half grown lane, coming to rest a few feet ahead of him. Abe looked up from his mindless study of the path he walked, taking in the woods just beyond the railroad tracks that lay ahead.

To his right, the dull reds and umber of the old bakery’s brick wall served as a muted counterpart to the chilly radiance of the October afternoon. Two rusted goose neck lamps were mounted on the wall: one over each of the doors that had once served as entrances for employees.

He had been here only a few days ago, brought in to assess the spells used in a brutal crime scene. His stomach twisting at the memory, Abe rolled his shoulders, and then his neck, trying to loosen some of the tension that had settled in. He glanced at his watch.

Four thirty.

He should have a good two hours before dark, but the densely wooded park was already heavily shadowed and he did not relish searching in the gloom.

Abe had not thought himself afraid of the dark until a few days ago, when the bodies of two young men had been found in the park that lay not two hundred feet from him. He shook his head, pushing back hard against the memories for the mutilated bodies, of the lingering taint of magical intent that had coated his insides - slick and rancid. It hadn’t been his first time attending a crime scene as a contracted mage but something about the spell work used on the victims bodies had gripped him and refused to let him go.

As he neared the tracks he felt an ethereal chill stretch for him, cold and light, delicate as ice crystals. It reached out, fearful, desperate, landing on his shoulder, sliding down his arm to grip his wrist. A phantom grasp of potent emotions: anger, fear, agony, desperation. The lingering magical signature holding just enough energy to touch him.

Abe nearly tripped over his own feet as he stumbled to a halt and turned, scanning the abandoned bakery wall, looking for the source. Just the offset layered bricks. He yanked his glove off and he lifted his hand to the wall. The intensity was fading, but a pulse of something brushed against his fingers before pulling back, retreating in on itself, as if to shield itself. Dumbfounded, his eyebrows shot up to his forehead, and he paused, running his eyes over the bricks.

“Hello there,” he murmured softly, “you don’t need to hide.”

Spells weren’t alive, not as such, but they were sentient. Few mages could interact with spells on a sensory or emotional level and Abe was fortunate to be one of them. It didn’t add him to the ranks of highly powered mages, but it was a unique gift and he treasured it.

He coaxed softly, “come on,” trying to find that thread of awareness that had touched him. Bringing both hands up in front of him, Abe carefully sketched the symbol for sight into the air. A feeble shove of resistance met his efforts. Abe frowned. Not sight then. Perhaps illumination? Or perception?

Perception, he decided and shifted his stance, reworking the positioning of his fingers. With care he sketched the spell for perception,his movements quick, but his intentions gentle. Building a framework to see past an obscuring spell was a delicate task, as the spell had a tendency to punch the caster in the face. One never knew what the layers of obscuring magic contained. They were often threaded through with emotions of the caster and those they drew magic from, from the barest tease to powerful and devastating. Rarely were pleasant or happy emotions woven into spells that acted in fear and then tried to hide.

Gradually, his perception spell took form, opening Abe to an onslaught of sensation - the acrid taste of smoke and violence burning his tongue and coating his stomach. His eyes ached with the violent explosion of colors - bold and saturated, but rusted at the edges and threaded through with corrosive shadows. A tapestry of magic was woven into the brick and it looked ill. Abe could feel his heart pounding in his chest, fear and curiosity driving him forward and holding him back in equal measure. A thin presence caught his eye. He followed it, letting the pattern reveal itself to him. It crawled across the bricks, interwoven with the warp and weft of the spell, hidden here, crawling over the threads there, revealing -

“Shit.” The impressions within the spell were familiar. In fact he had seen this same signature only recently - across the train tracks and lifted from the bodies that had lain in the woods.

The weaving was complex and would not be easy to unravel. But why was it here, of all places? On the back wall of an abandoned bakery. Glancing at his surroundings, Abe cast a quick parameter spell, something that would alert him should anyone approach. Turning his attention back to the spell, he lifted his hands and zeroed in on the top layer. Carefully he manipulated his own gentle spell work, lifting the threads before him, separating and unraveling them.

Gotcha.

Resting his hands gently against the bricks, Abe felt tentatively at the edges until his found the carefully hidden edges of a door. He pressed at the edge, but it remained stubbornly shut. Impatient, Abe stepped back and worked another spell. He could feel a secondary spell, a locking mechanism of sorts, jerk against his efforts. Scolding himself, he softened just a bit, finagling his spell, shifting it, letting it slide against the lock like the gentle hand of a parent soothing a child. The locking spell gave way and the door loosened. Cautiously, Abe pressed his fingertips against it, carefully sliding it into the frame of the wall.

It opened to a step, tall and narrow, barely illuminated by the afternoon sun, hidden as it was by the shadow of the building. Cautiously, Abe leaned into the darkness, craning his neck but unable to see beyond the first few steps.

Pulling back, Abe cupped his palm and twisted his wrist. A soft rose colored ball of light spun out from his palm, warm and kindly. He smiled a small but pleased smile as it bobbed gently.

“Well then, you’re a sight more cheerful than the last witch light I conjured.” he said softly.

The last one had been awful: big, green and indiscriminately furious. The little light twisted slightly. Abe liked to imagine the light was turning to face him, despite knowing it couldn’t.

He gestured with a tilt of his head to the entry and the little light led the way into the dark, narrow stairwell.