Dahlia - The Velvet Witch and Her Dark Spirit

PART 5 - STAKEOUT

"Are you serious?" Ruben asks over the phone.

"Deadly," I say, still shaking from the night's events.

"Did you report it to the police?"

"Yeah, they're on their way."

"Are there cameras in your building?"

"Not that I know of."

"A home invasion. Jesus, that's wild, man. That's why I keep that bloody gun. You should think about one too."

"There was so much mayhem I would have shot myself."

"And you didn't recognise the person?"

"No. I'm not even sure it was a person."

The police say much the same thing though they take a statement all the same and ask if I'm comfortable here alone.

I spend the rest of the morning bandaging up my foot, drinking straight whiskey and daydreaming of Dahlia.

I return to the festival in a cab after lunch with no ticket, no plan and no idea. Unfortunately, the rain has flooded the dome, and not a soul is being let in. I roam around under the thunderous sky for an hour before eventually giving up and catching an Uber back to the flat.

I go to bed with all the lights on and toss and turn until sun-up. Eventually, I slip into solid sleep and don't wake up until mid-afternoon. I shower, dress and feel almost human by the time I Google '13 Moons,' the store where Dahlia works. It closes at seven which still gives me a couple of hours to find it and hopefully her.

Down on the footpath, clouds are mingling their way along the street. The moisture's playing havoc with my phone. I get so frustrated with it that I wind back to hurl it before deciding that's probably not the brightest idea.

There are buses and a tube that'd make the journey far more efficient, but I go on foot to wash off these nerves. Plus, as an artist, there's always more to take in above ground than under it. An hour later and I find the sign I've been looking for. 'Brick Lane'.

My stomach's on tumble dry as I stop on Whitechapel St to light a cigarette. I lean against the wall of a Punjabi deli and take in the spicy aroma that's bleeding out of the door.

After running through every worst-case scenario and figuring this is an excellent chance to drop the whole thing, I surprise myself and decide the reward might just outweigh the risk. Another minute down the road, I spot a sign that reads '13 Moons'. I slow to a creep and cross through the bustling traffic.

The shop front is darkly inviting. The dress window has an elaborate display of candelabra and voodoo dolls, books with horned creatures, oracle decks, sparkling crystals and bundles of dried flowers and spice. A long piece of string twined with tarot cards weaves its way through the display. The most striking feature is their handcrafted insignia suspended above it all. It's fashioned from wicker and so ornate I find myself lost in awe. I photograph it with my mind to recreate the scene later.

Behind all that, the top of a head is bobbing around. It's a dark-haired woman, but that's all I can tell. I move for a better view, but it doesn't help. The head disappears, then a moment later, the shop door springs open. I freeze before realising it's not her. It's a random customer off on her merry way with a bag full of loot.

I reach for the door handle, pull in one last lung full of air and grab it. The dangly bell fastened to the door rings as I enter the shop. The store is eerily quiet and strangely absent of any kind of muzak. It's loaded with burning incense and is rather minimal. A slender man with a dyed-black ponytail sits proudly behind the counter. His name tag reads 'WILL'.