Compendium | Short Stories and More

like, hocus pocus! | commission [scooby doo]

It was a dark and otherwise ordinary night in Massachusetts. Residents slept peacefully in their homes as they prepared to embrace the new day, and the street lights illuminated asphalt devoid of traffic. It was quiet. The leaves of the trees rattled together as if in protest of that oppressive silence.

Other places were not so quiet as the sidewalks. Some places had hardly been touched by the 21st century at all, and in those places, nighttime was not something to be wasted on sleep.

"Is it working?"

"I think it did work!"

"Incredible, Winnifred! Your spectacular talent—"

"Don't be such a suck-up, Mary. ...But I am good, aren't I?"

There was a chorus of unattractive cackles that echoed throughout a darkened cottage. Sparks of magical light buzzed through the air, and a cauldron bubbled over. It was far from quiet in that cottage, as there was plenty of witchcraft to be done and so little time to do it without the prying eyes of the ignorant.

The subject of this particular spell was an old spellbook that had been fastened shut with a little metal clasp something like a shoebuckle. The spellbook, and he trapped within, had not travelled far— Salem was not far from Oakvale. Images of that place he had once called home, with its crisp autumn leaves and ever-chilly air, flashed through a particular man's mind as he slowly regained consciousness. He'd been asleep for so long that he had forgotten what it was like to see. He'd lost the memory of hearing and the understanding of touch.

First came his senses. Then, bit by agonizing bit, came his memories.

He remembered his years of research and writing and the portrait of his ancestor that was hung on a wall. He remembered a museum and a gang of nosy amateurs turned crime-solvers. There was a bespectacled girl among them who had once considered herself a big fan of his work. There was a band, too, full of young women in gothic gear, and that stupid mayor, and that noisy dog. There was Sarah. Selfish, traitorous Sarah. He had given so much to find her only to be cast aside. Only to share in her punishment.

...Punishment. That's right. He had been sealed away all this time. How many years had it been? It could have been days and it could have been centuries. He had no way of knowing.

The time and the place, though, did not matter. His humiliation and his betrayal didn't mean a thing now. He was returning. He was being brought back, being dragged out of that spellbook and given physical form with which to seek his revenge. At long last, he would have everything that he deserved.

Ben Ravencroft. That was his name. And he would wait in silence no longer.

Ben didn't know where he was. It was an unremarkable cabin full of typical witchy gear, and three women he didn't recognize bustled about adjusting this and that. He was lying on some sort of table and could see the spellbook, his former prison, sitting open on a podium by the apparent family cauldron.

How on earth had such ordinary-looking (and frankly irritating) witches managed such a thing? Sarah Ravencroft's book had been destroyed. It had been burned. And yet there it was, resting there as if nothing had ever happened to it. What of Sarah, then? Was she still trapped inside? Surely she would have a bone or two to pick with Ben if she managed to escape. It was for the best that Sarah, at least, remained trapped. Was it the same book, or some other similar tome? No, it couldn't be Sarah's, but if it wasn't, then how had they revived him? He had a thousand questions and not a single answer, but none of it mattered if he could finally be free.

A final spark of magic, and Ben felt his heartbeat begin anew. He could feel the air, could smell the bubbling potion. It was complete. Vengeance would be his— he'd find both Mystery Incorporated and that Wiccan girl and make them wish they'd never met him. He looked down, a wicked grin twisting his features, expecting to see his own hands.