Vanishing Act ✔️

6

The magician's voice was deep and low and even without a microphone it boomed through the fairgrounds. "And so we have a volunteer," it shouted.

Sean could not see the magician, but as he had darted out of the crowd and around the bend, he had seen the man's sign. 'A show for all ages! The amazing magic of Eric Solomon!" The man didn't sound so amazing to Sean. Magicians were supposed to have names like Valentino, Martini, or even Presto. There was no ring to Eric Solomon. The man might as well have been an accountant.

"Will someone help our little volunteer to the stage?" the magician continued.

Sean didn't have to see her to know whom he meant; somehow, Sean just knew. Sean waded into the audience, but it was amazingly large for some cheap fairground magic show. He made it a few feet in, but could make it no further, nor could he see up to the stage. He could, however, hear.

"And what's your name little miss?" the great Eric Solomon asked.

Sean had to be certain. "Excuse me." He pushed further until he found the first bench, a high wooden bench with a flat top and a rounded underside that still showed the bark of the tree from which it was hewn. He climbed up onto the bench, pressing up against the backs of the audience members sitting there. They were not happy in the slightest.

A large beefy man, ripping at some mystery fried food (they fried everything at these fairs) between his nasty teeth, turned to Sean. "Sit down you brat," he spat. Then he pushed Sean back off of the bench, before he could get a solid footing. Sean stumbled down, bumping into a young mother behind him. She cut him a look of disapproval that only a mother can cast.

Up on the stage, still out of Sean's view, the magician continued. "I don't think they could hear you, miss. Try a little louder."

Sean ignored the beefy man, and climbed up once more. He could see the magician now – a gaunt, middle-aged man, his skin stretched over his angular cheekbones. His hair was long and greasy, receding ever so slightly, and he wore a simple getup: a plain blazer over a white button-up shirt and a dark pair of slacks. This man was a lousy showman, but Sean didn't care about the magician; he needed to see the volunteer. Unfortunately she was blocked from his view by a rather tall man just one bench up.

Sean began to sidle over along the back of the bench to get a better view. As he did, the volunteer spoke up. "Melissa."

He didn't know why, but Sean felt overwhelmingly relieved. Something inside him told him that he did not want that volunteer to be Carrie. He began to climb down, only the man up front shifted to grab his drink from down by his feet. As the tall man leaned down, Sean saw her.

Sure enough, the girl on stage was his sister. She was toying at her long hair, smiling up at the amazing Eric Solomon, her Strawberry Shortcake doll under one arm and one pink sneaker rubbing against the back of her ankle. She was spreading the mud from that shoe all over her sock. Mom wasn't going to be happy about that.

Of course that didn't matter, now. All that mattered was the deep sense of dread that was building inside of Sean. Why had she said her name was Melissa? Had the magician made her say it? That was it. Somehow, in some inexplicable way, Sean knew it. The magician didn't want her to give her real name. He may have been performing at some backwoods stage, but this man had real power.