I don't remember ever being a kid. I don't recall the games of hide-and-seek, musical chairs or even playing horror games in the bathroom mirror of a friend's during a sleepover. What I did remember however had been the constant golden glare of street lights that washed my father's car as cars streaked by, leaving nothing but a beam of light to my left, and a sea of red brake lights to my right. I remembered the grand magic shows in Vegas and street magicians in LA. I remembered magic.

My father had been the kind to never settle down in one place for too long - always racing towards the next greatest feat of magic. At times, I would joke about it, stating he had been some kind of Mortimer-like character. But instead of finding this rare and sort after book, he only succeeded in turning our lives into a sad excuse of a travelling circus.

The town we were in for the last few days was a quiet one, placed on the outskirts of Massachusetts like some sort of trap for hipsters, artists or anyone who saw the allure and simplicity in living so far from the busy city life. Only for it to slowly kill you through the sheer boredom of not being able to do anything.

Of course, the occasional tourists would come by and provide some entertainment. But watching their antics and inexplicable need to buy useless junk from the gift store at the town entrance had grown tiring in a short while. Hell, we were tourists of every town we've been in and yet I can't explain the behaviour.

Then, there had been the constant and overwhelming scent of horse manure that wafted across the town from the stables. The mayor had insisted that horseback was the only way to truly take in the town. No one told him otherwise. Not because they didn't disagree, but his hulking mass held a heart so sensitive no one could bear to break it.

I sighed. The town was a dump, but it was home. For now.

"We've come a long way from the dark ages for a 'real-life witch' to have her business marked down on Google maps," I stated in a near bitter tone as we stepped out of the Mercedes we slept in that night. My legs ached. My back cracked. "And I thought you were more into the theatrical crap."

He flicked the end of his cigarette and emptied his lungs of the cloud of mist. It was November and the air was dense. The potent sour scent of carved pumpkins of the October-past attempted to wash away the putrid scent of horse crap to hardly any avail. We stepped onto the porch of a house that might have been Dracula's summer home - even without its Halloween decorations. Black drapes covered the windows and an ornate door knocker adorned the dark oak door - a jackal.

Bellow the steel number fifteen that marked the address had been a name - Grayson. The house had been an away home to a now-deceased British author that no one really knew about. And those who had took interest in the allure of his obscurity. Now, it was turned into nothing but a tourist destination by some hedge witch and her five-dollar crystal ball. The thought was almost sickening.

"Don't trust this con-woman," I read a review off the Google maps page. "She'd read your palm and tell you a bunch of bull that couldn't be further than the truth. Buy a fortune cookie instead."

"You can't believe everything you read on the internet, Anne." My father spoke. A young girl peered through the drapes - her light hair dyed with streaks of blue, green and red. I waved, only for my father to frown. "For all you know, those just a bunch internet trolls. Most of which haven't even seen this town."

"Unfortunately, you would be right... " A woman's voice sounded from behind us. Her hair wasn't greyed out. She didn't dress in a long brown coat that covered her face. No pointy nose or comically oversized wart. No magic wand, either. She seemed normal - her hair a gentle black mullet that ran down her back with the one side shaved and covered in a tattoo that crept down to her ear; a feather. Her form was slight and her skin pales from a lack of sunlight, making her seem little more than a goth girl my age. She shrugged. "I don't get many customers."

"Hi," I stuttered, wondering if I should help her carry her shopping bags inside. She smiled before setting them down as my father lifted them. "Our names are-"

"Anastasia and Jason Willows," She twisted her key in the lock before nudging her shoulder into the to unjam it. She slipped through, inviting us in. "Don't worry. No crystal balls. The mayor told me two crazy folks were interested in seeing me."

The woman walked to her kitchen and started unpacking her groceries into the cupboard. Six cans of cat food, all differently flavoured and a box of honey-flavoured cereal. I wondered where the cat had been, but a low mrow from the counter to my right met my answer. The cat was... ugly. Its fur looked like an archipelago of fur, placed in patches across its bare skin in a half-hearted attempt to make whatever hellspawn who created it seem like they cared. Its eyes were glazed over and its ears were clipped. A rescue, perhaps?

The cat hopped off the counter before wrapping itself around her legs, only to hiss at my father. He stepped back, startled. "Anastasia is a nice name. I'm Emma."

I nodded, and my father shook her hand. The kitchen was a cosy one - a large wooden table, scribbled all over in chalk written runes. On the far end was a bookshelf meant for recipe books, but left filled with books on Freud and old tightly woven books with titles I couldn't read. Apart from that, there had been nothing 'witchy' about her decorations. Then again, there hadn't been anything normal, either. The refrigerator was barren of crayon drawings and fruit magnets, there were no photographs hanging on any of the walls and no book of numbers next to the land-line. No land-line, either. "I saw a kid peek through your curtains earlier."

"A kid?" She frowned, turning her gaze to me. "I live alone. Salem here comes and visits every now and then - I always make sure her food bowl is topped up so that she doesn't go hungry."
I pursed my lips.

"Anyhow, your website says you specialize in magic people don't often see." My father spoke. He was dressed in a checkered shirt and messy hair. His beard, grown out in the last few days, made him look almost as homeless as we were. I remember a time where he stated a man who doesn't shave every morning is a man that would never make it beyond where he is. But my father wasn't the man he once was. It was as if a piece or he had vanished the night that-
"Conjuring up the dead is a dangerous thing, Anastasia," Emma spoke sternly and my father's gaze darted towards me in grief that mirrored my own. She continued, staring down at the kitchen table. "I know that look."

Emma pressed her lips together, running her hand across my necklace - a silver heart pendant. "Did she have the other half?"

I nodded.

With a sigh, she grabbed a wet cloth and began to erase the runes written on the table, then pulled a large piece of sidewalk chalk and started drawing in the table in a series of circles and symbols I couldn't understand, yet it felt right as it all came together as if it were pieces of a puzzle. She finished the symbol by writing out a word, or name, in the inner circle. Vassago.
Emma hopped onto the table, sitting with her legs crossed. She nudged her head as to say we should join her. I shrugged, then did the same. My father followed suit.

"You might want to keep your eyes shut," Emma spoke, weaving her fingers into both mine and my father. She shut her eyes. We did the same before holding hands as well. She began chanting.

Keyan vefa jedan tasa Vassago...

Were you not told to keep your eyes shut?

The voice sounded like broken glass - nearly inaudible if you weren't focused on it. My heart sank to my gut as my eyes locked onto the hollow holes in his skull where his eyes should have been - he tilted his head as if to show off his horns - the only thing that made it obvious that he wasn't the old man he appeared to be. With a bloody grin, he raised his hand over his head for a hawk to take its perch.

"Prince Vassago," Emma spoke, still keeping her eyes shut. She seemed calm. Comfortable, even. The demon turned his ear to her. It twitched like that of a predator. Vassago shifted across the room, riding a crocodile who's eyes focused on me like the sights of a sniper. My body felt if it was mine no longer - my limbs cold and rock heavy, my heart quiet in my rib cage. I tried to shut my eyes. It was too late. What was that thing?

Why have you called me, witch? State what it is you need of me, and I shall help.
Emma remained silent.

So it isn't you who needs my help. I see. He spoke, as he turned to face me in the most unnatural way possible - his bones pivoted in his body, his head twisting right around, his limbs popping in and out of its sockets. His outstretched hand - charred and shrivelled - ran across my neck, checking my pulse as if to see if I was still alive. Or how long I'd be alive for. I felt the urge to hurl. But not because of disgust, rather of fear.

He found my necklace.

Child, is that truly what you wish of me? Very well.