The Magi

A slow drizzle fell over a small gray house owned by Elijah’s uncle. The uneven beads of water collected on the window panes, making the yard outside unrecognizable. The rain gutters spilled water onto the ground in steady beats. It was a perfect day. A sad day. A day to sit on the front porch with a blanket and watch the world become blurry.

Six days had passed since Elijah escaped his house, and already he was busy. As the rain sprinkled outside, he was inside organizing photographs. His parents’ photographs. He couldn’t quite muster a smile as he found a picture of his mother and father, much younger then, embracing each other. Elijah’s mother held onto her husband and was kissing him on the cheek so hard her nose scrunched. Elijah’s father was laughing. They looked so in love. Happy. Carefree.

Earlier that morning, Elijah’s uncle, named Stan, handed Elijah a large box filled with his parents’ possessions. Pictures. Love notes. Keep sakes. Elijah spent most of the morning sorting through everything in piles spread across his room. He took his time looking at each item.

“How are you doing?” Uncle Stan interrupted, poking his head through the doorway.

“Fine,” Elijah answered flatly. “Just looking through these pictures.”

“I meant how are you doing?” Uncle Stan replied. “You know, with everything?”

“Oh. I’m okay.” Elijah knew his uncle could see right through his lie, but he didn’t feel like talking right now.

Uncle Stan seemed to understand. “Okay. I’ll be in the kitchen. Just let me know when you’re ready for lunch.”

Elijah felt bad. Uncle Stan just wanted to talk. To have Elijah open up. Ever since Elijah was sent to live here, Uncle Stan seemed restless. Uncomfortable. Often, he would hover around Elijah, like he wanted to say something comforting, but wouldn’t say a word. On one occasion, Uncle Stan tried to give Elijah a hug, but at the last minute, he paused, frantically looked around, and then flipped on a light switch behind Elijah, even though the house was plenty bright.

Good ol’ Uncle Stan. Elijah appreciated his willingness to listen, but it hadn’t even been a week since that horrible night. Elijah still needed time to make sense of things. After all, his life had just been turned completely upside down.

Six nights ago, Elijah lost everything that ever really mattered to him. His parents, William and Julia Hawk, had been killed. When the police finally talked to Elijah, they told him they found his father dead outside. His mother was found dead halfway up the stairs. Kyria, however, had not been found.

Elijah sobbed the entire ride to his uncle’s house. He couldn’t even speak. He hoped and prayed his sister was somehow still alive, but three days later, Uncle Stan received a phone call from the police saying Kyria’s bloodstained clothes had washed up on the shore of a beach, twenty miles from their house. It was over. Final. His entire family was dead. Elijah spent the rest of the day throwing up in the bathroom.

Even now, almost a week later, he thought about them constantly. He felt guilty for not talking with his mother while he pouted about something as stupid as being too ordinary. He wished he had taken the time to talk with Kyria just a little longer. He couldn’t even stay awake long enough for his father to come home. His family’s last night together was wasted while he thought about himself. Selfish.

Elijah continued sorting through his parents’ possessions. Uncle Stan had offered to put any extra items in storage, so Elijah decided to store everything he didn’t need immediately.

He came across pictures his parents kept from their many vacations. The Grand Canyon. The Hawaiian Islands. Numerous camping trips where he and Kyria fished and swam in freezing lakes. He flipped through the pictures one after another, letting the memories flood his emotions.

He gently ran his fingers over the faces of each family member as if the flat, glossy material somehow resurrected them. The tears came quickly. It felt good to cry. To feel the sadness overwhelm him. To allow his uncontrollable sobs escape his body without restraint.

An hour and a half later, Elijah emerged from his room looking completely composed. He found his uncle in the garage working on his truck.

“Hey there Eli. You ready for some lunch?”

“If that’s not too much trouble.”

“Nope. Just give me a sec to finish up and I’ll be right in.”

Elijah went back inside. He inspected himself in the mirror to make sure he showed no evidence of crying. All clear. Uncle Stan soon walked in wiping his dirty hands on a rag.

“What’ll it be today?” Uncle Stan said, rummaging through the refrigerator as though he had never looked into it before. He moved items here, then there, muttering and grunting to himself. The man could rebuild a car engine, but apparently the refrigerator was a complete mystery. “How about sandwiches?”

“Sounds good.” Elijah had to laugh inside. Every day they had sandwiches for lunch. He wondered why Uncle Stan wasted his time looking through the fridge. It was always sandwiches for lunch and some kind of takeout for dinner—usually pizza. But Elijah didn’t mind. It was kind of fun to eat junk for a while.

Uncle Stan looked like a ranch hand. He was tall, fit, and always needed a shave. He never had a family of his own, so he spent lots of time with Elijah’s family. He was unpredictable and a bit of a flake, but he always made sure to include Elijah, even when other adults were around. Uncle Stan was different, and Elijah was thankful he was sent to live with him.

“Here you go. Bon appétit.” Uncle Stan handed Elijah a ham and turkey sandwich on a plate with some potato chips. He even tried to put the chips in a nice arrangement, maybe to make it seem like a fancy lunch.

“Thank you,” said Elijah.

“Don’t mention it,” said Uncle Stan. “Just wanted you to know the police called today and want you to do a walk-through with them tomorrow. Sounds like they have some questions.”

Elijah’s sandwich immediately lodged in his throat. The last place he wanted to go was back to the house. He nodded.

“How much more of your folks’ stuff do you still need to go through?” asked Uncle Stan.

“Not much,” Elijah answered. “I think I’ll put most everything except the pictures in storage.”

“Alrighty. I’ll start loading the truck pronto. I have some other things to put in there too. Just some old furniture and books and such.” Uncle Stan’s voice may have sounded upbeat and chipper, but Elijah noticed his eyes weren’t committed to his smile. There was grief beneath his blithe exterior. Pain. Elijah wondered if Uncle Stan cried when he looked at pictures of his brother. Maybe he cried when Elijah wasn’t looking. Or maybe he didn’t cry at all. Perhaps some people are too hurt to cry.

After lunch, Elijah returned to his parents’ belongings. He wanted to keep something to remember each of his family members.

To remember his mother, he kept a locket with a picture of her and Elijah’s father inside. Elijah had given the locket to his mother for her birthday years ago. At the time, it was all he could afford. It was very plain, and it started to turn green on the back, but his mother kept it and wore it often, even though it turned her neck green. He thought the locket would remind him of her love and thoughtfulness.

To remember his father, Elijah kept a gold pocket watch. All his life, Elijah remembered listening to stories about the watch.

“This watch,” his father would say, “was created with the finest gold and the best craftsmanship you’ll ever see! I want it to be worn and carried by the first-born sons in our family, and that starts with you. You must promise to protect this watch once you inherit it. It has a power inside that may never be understood, but you must search for the answers.”

Elijah was never sure how much of his father’s stories he believed, but he knew how important the watch was. He delicately touched his father’s gold initials inscribed on the inside. He held it up to his ear and listened to the soft ticking noise.

The box Uncle Stan gave Elijah contained nothing belonging to Kyria, so Elijah picked up a picture of his sister and himself at the beach. It would have to do for now. He found an old shoebox and placed the three items inside. Then he pushed it under his bed. These would now be his most prized possessions.

Elijah surveyed his piles. Two things still needed to be sorted. One in particular had him puzzled and fascinated at the same time: a glass cube filled with dirt. The casing was about the size of a golf ball. There were no markings on it anywhere, which was odd because his mother was meticulous when it came to labels. The cube itself was interesting because there didn’t seem to be an opening, but somehow, it had dirt inside. It meant nothing to him, but until he knew what it was, he couldn’t bring himself to throw it away.

The other item left to sort was an old handwritten book. It was almost three times the size of a normal book. Elijah randomly opened the book and read.

“One hundred and forty years past the reign of Maliphist and there still is no sign of his sphere. Where there was once certainty in the world of the Magi, there is now fear and mistrust.”

Elijah had no idea what in the world that meant, so he turned the pages and read a few more lines.

“Tibirus and his people are withdrawing from the city. It is much too dangerous to be among the common people when the Magi do not even trust each other. We may be wise to discuss fleeing.”

After a few more lines, Elijah decided he wasn’t going to understand the book. Still, he was curious to read more, even if it didn’t make sense. He gently placed the book on the floor. When he had time, he would pick it up again.

Elijah looked at everything neatly organized on the floor. It was done. He didn’t know why, but he suddenly felt very empty. Hollow. He paused for a moment in honor of his parents as he prepared to part with their things.

When all the belongings were secured in the back of the storage garage, Uncle Stan ordered two large pizzas. He and Elijah took them back to the house and spent the evening watching action-packed movies, each on a chair with a pizza box on his lap, until they were too tired to keep their eyes open anymore.

Very early the next morning, Uncle Stan shook Elijah awake.

“You ready to go? The police don’t exactly like to be kept waiting, y’know.”

“Right now?” Elijah asked mid-yawn. “It’s still dark out.”

“Yup. We need to get a move on. It takes a few hours to get there from here. Go hop in the shower and I’ll get breakfast ready.”

Elijah stalled, using every available second in the shower. He knew he had to face the house at some point, but he wasn’t sure he was ready. Finally, when his fingers looked like raisins and the hot water turned cold, he got out.

Uncle Stan lived five hours north of the house. Elijah tried to fall asleep. Maybe he would wake up to find he had actually been dreaming. Maybe everything would go back to the way it was. Or maybe he could at least fall asleep long enough to keep from smelling cow poop the whole drive.

The police were already in the driveway when Uncle Stan’s truck pulled up. Elijah swallowed hard as he looked at the place he last saw his family alive. Uncle Stan got out of the car. A police officer and a detective Elijah had never seen before greeted him.

The detective looked just like Elijah pictured a detective would look. He was tall and muscular with brown hair and a square jaw. He had on a white button-up shirt with a necktie and brown slacks. In one hand he held an envelope and a note pad. The detective walked around to Elijah’s door and bent down.

“Hey there, you must be Elijah. My name is Detective Scott. Do you mind taking a walk with me?” Elijah gathered his courage, got out of the car, and followed the detective into the house. “Follow me,” he said firmly. “Do you know why you’re here?”

“Not really,” Elijah admitted.

“I know you’ve told your story to the police already, but I want you to walk me through everything that happened.” Detective Scott glanced quickly at Uncle Stan, and then whispered, “As it happened here in the house. From your testimony, you heard something down here?”

Elijah didn’t want to admit he actually hadn’t heard anything at all—he just felt it. So he went along with the detective’s assumption.

“Yeah,” Elijah answered. “I was upstairs in my room.”

“Why don’t we go up there,” Detective Scott suggested. Elijah left Uncle Stan and the other police officer on the bottom floor. Halfway up the stairs, Elijah froze. He remembered being told his mother was found killed here at this very spot. He backed into the railing and stared at the steps. The detective cleared his throat impatiently, breaking Elijah’s trance. He hurried up to his room.

“Walk me through it,” Detective Scott instructed.

Elijah took a long breath. “I was in here and I heard a noise so I got up and hid in the corner.”

“How long?”

“I’m not sure. Not very long.”

“Then what did you do?”

“I went down the stairs.” Elijah hated that his escape sounded so mundane, as if he just went down to grab a snack or take out the trash. How could he explain that the trip downstairs was one of the most terrifying moments of his life?

“What made you decide to go down the stairs?” asked the detective.

“I’m not sure. It just felt right,” Elijah said.

“Did you see anything?”

“No.”

“Did you hear a noise somewhere else?”

“No. I don’t know how to explain it. I just knew I needed to do it.”

The detective was just doing his job, but Elijah became irritated at his tone. Like he was in trouble.

“Okay,” said Detective Scott, “then what happened?”

“I went into the kitchen.” They tracked the same footsteps Elijah took a week ago, following every turn. “I tried to use the phone to call for help, but the power went off.”

“Okay,” said Detective Scott. “What happened next?”

“I saw him.”

“Who?”

“The man who murdered my parents and sister!” Elijah’s voice started to rise.

“What did he look like?”

“I could only see his eyes and his. . . .outline.”

“And you said he had yellow eyes.”

Elijah wasn’t sure if this was a question or a statement.

“Yes. He did.”

When they reached the side yard where Elijah’s father was killed, the intensity of Detective Scott suddenly changed. He moved extremely close to Elijah and asked him to be very specific. Elijah could feel the detective’s focus. He knew this was why he had been called back to the house.

“How did you see your father?” Detective Scott asked.

“I ran into him,” Elijah answered.

“How did he get here?”

“I don’t know. He just appeared. My head was turned and then he grabbed me and talked to me.”

“What did he say? Be specific.”

“He said…” Elijah thought carefully. “He said he loved me and that there was a plan.”

“What plan? What did he mean by that?”

Elijah wished he knew because it seemed to him the plan didn’t work.

“I really don’t know what he meant,” answered Elijah.

Detective Scott looked frustrated. “Was there anything else? Did your father say anything else to you? Think, Elijah.”

“That was all.”

Detective Scott looked around the yard, deep in thought. Elijah shifted uncomfortably and stepped into a wet puddle next to the house.

“Elijah,” Detective Scott said slowly, “there was also a lot of debris scattered around the yard.” He pulled out the envelope he had been holding and handed Elijah a photograph of the scene. “We cleaned it up already, but does any of this look familiar?”

Elijah peered over at the picture and had to blink again to make sure he was seeing straight. Tree branches littered the yard. Metal scraps and charred pieces of wood from who knows where were scattered everywhere. It looked as though a tornado had attacked the house.

“No,” said Elijah, still mesmerized. “When I left everything looked completely normal.”

Detective Scott wrote that down and took a deep breath. “Believe it or not, this case gets even more bizarre.”

Elijah scowled at the detective. This case? This was his family!

The detective continued. “I’ve seen a lot of crazy things before, but I’ve never seen anything like this.” He pointed to the house. Elijah had to look closely before noticing dozens and dozens of burn marks about the size of dimes. “I hoped you would share with me what you know about that.”

Detective Scott looked very intensely into Elijah’s deep-blue eyes, as though searching for something Elijah knew. Elijah felt uncomfortable. Unprotected.

“I don’t know what that is,” Elijah muttered.

Detective looked surprisingly relieved. “Whatever it is, it was powerful enough to go clear through to the inside. We found these marks on your parents too. We think it’s what killed them.”

Elijah looked at the house in horror. What on earth happened? Detective Scott inched closer. Elijah’s body suddenly began to pulse. He wished Uncle Stan would come out.

In a very soft, very low voice, Detective Scott said, “Do you now see why we needed to talk? I’ve never seen anything like this. Nobody has seen anything like this. Can you imagine the commotion this would create if it were to get out? I think it’s best that until we figure this out, you keep it private.”

Detective Scott began to lead Elijah back into the house. On the way, Elijah caught a glimpse of something peeking over the edge of a bush just outside Kyria’s window. He was about to point it out, but decided against it. He didn’t trust Detective Scott.

“Sir?” Elijah said. “May I have a moment alone please?” Detective Scott looked uneasy, but he allowed it.

“Just make sure you don’t touch anything,” he directed.

When he was confident Detective Scott couldn’t see, Elijah walked over to the tall bush and inspected the object peeking over the top. It looked like a small book. Elijah swiftly shook the bush. Surprisingly, two objects fell. The second they hit the dirt, Elijah knew exactly what they were: Kyria’s diaries.

Both books were small and brown, but one had a gold lock. Elijah distinctly remembered the day Kyria started writing in the locked diary just six months ago. She was never a private person, but she was so secretive about her locked diary. So what were they doing out here? He knew she always kept them inside her dresser drawer. From where he stood, it looked like Kyria threw them out of her window. But why?

Not wanting to get caught with any evidence, Elijah crammed the diaries in the back of his pants, under his belt. He hoped Detective Scott wouldn’t notice the books, so he pulled his shirt over his belt.

“How are you doing?” the detective asked when Elijah walked inside the house.

“I’m good. Thank you,” Elijah responded politely.

They met up with Uncle Stan and the other police officer. Everybody shook hands and left in a hurry. And that seemed to be that. Elijah felt relieved he and Uncle Stan were alone again, but he was completely confused. He wondered if it was okay to tell Uncle Stan about the burn marks on the house or the diaries tucked under his belt. Before he could say anything, Uncle Stan chimed in.

“Man, that guy seemed intense. You okay?”

“Yeah.”

Uncle Stan became serious. “The policeman just said they don’t have any leads, but they think the murders were a random act of violence.” He briefly put his hand on Elijah’s shoulder. “I’m sorry. I thought you should know.”

Elijah gazed out the window and shook his head. Nothing about that night seemed random. The figure was definitely searching for something.

Then a thought came to Elijah that haunted him the entire ride home. Did the figure find what he was searching for? And if not, would he come looking for Elijah?