Looking for the Magic

At her father’s funeral, Willa stood next to Aunt Clara, her back ramrod straight as she tried to think about anything but the casket in front of her, closed to the drizzling rain. Her gaze shifted back to the pamphlet where her father’s life was reduced to a cold string of dates, 1960-2009––something that would happen to her someday too. The priest’s voice droned on until the service ended, each attendee placing a white rose on top of the casket. Once it disappeared from view, Aunt Clara turned and gave her a patronizing smile as though it was absurd to feel sad at a funeral.

“These things happen for a reason,” Aunt Clara informed her before patting her shoulder and turning to make the journey back across the wet grass to her sedan.

“He said he would come back,” Willa called after her.

Eight years ago, when she’d been seven and her father had promised to return if they were ever separated––no matter the cause.

“That’s just what parents tell their kids when they don’t want to discuss the reality of death,” Aunt Clara replied stiffly over one shoulder. “Your dad didn’t do you any favors with that one.”

Willa didn’t reply, knowing it was useless to argue with the woman who thought that aliens helped build the pyramids. It didn’t mean I have to believe her, Willa told herself as she followed her aunt, her head bowed to keep the rain out of her eyes.

In the middle of the night, Willa woke up, groggy and confused, rubbing her eyes like cartoon characters she was too old to watch now. She sat up, her gaze scanning the room until it stopped at the pale blue fairy lights her dad had draped over her old canopy. Across from her bed, her closet door remained shut, but a yellow light gleamed around its edges. Faint music played somewhere behind it.

Willa flung the sheets off her legs before walking toward the closet door. When her hand reached for the knob, it felt warm, as if it had been sitting in the sun. She paused, her hand lightly touching it, hesitant to grip it harder.

“Daddy?” she whispered in the quiet room, but not loud enough for Aunt Clara to hear her next door. The older woman was determined to stay to ensure Willa didn’t become a burden on the state. “It’s you, isn’t it?”

As the music grew louder, Willa turned the knob. She paused, not because of the music, but because her shoes were no longer on the floor. Instead of the familiar contents she’d grown used to seeing every time she opened her closet door, she found a dark stairway with yellow walls on either side.

Willa took a step forward and then another until she stood on the very top stair. She began to descend, the music growing louder until she could make out the voice of a man singing the song.

She discovered another door a few feet in front of the last stair. It didn’t have a knob but swung open like the old-fashioned double doors in saloons. With a gentle push, she stepped through and found herself in a dimly lit club, a band playing onstage. One man sat in front of a piano while another banged away on his drums. Two others stood behind them, guitars in hand. Small tables lined the walls, and to her right stood a bartender keeping time with one foot. People filled most of the tables, singing along or talking with those around them. A banner across the stage read: “Welcome to Rockin’ the Night Away, October 31, 1977.”

What was this place? How had she ended up here? Or was it all just a dream?

Willa didn’t know the answers to her questions, but she no longer cared when she saw who was playing drums. Even though he was seventeen or eighteen, it was him. It was her father.

In a bar filled with cigarette smoke and spilled alcoholic drinks, no one asked an underage girl like herself to leave. Willa found a chair at the bar’s only empty table in the back. The band continued playing, but Willa hardly acknowledged the other three men on stage. Instead, her eyes lingered on her father’s youthful face, his brow furrowed in concentration. When he got older, the crease between his eyes would remain, even when he wasn’t concentrating, but for now, his face was unblemished.

Forgetting her mounting questions about how this had come to be, Willa allowed herself to settle on the prospect that it was only a dream. Once she woke up, this younger version of her dad would disappear and the father she’d always known would still be dead.

But what if I warn him somehow? The thought came to her like a shimmering gift under a Christmas tree, tiny lights dancing above it with possibility. If it’s just a dream, then it won’t matter. But if it’s not…

Although this possibility consumed her, she had to confront one problem first. Her dad as he was in this bar wouldn’t recognize her because she hadn’t been born yet. In fact, he wouldn’t even meet her mom until 1980. If he should remember her warning once she got older, however, he might ask uncomfortable questions she couldn’t answer now––or ever.

Then her gaze fell on a young man in a leisure suit, tapping his foot in time to the beat, just like the bartender had. He sat alone, one hand grasping a glass of beer. Maybe he could pass along a message for her, she thought.

On the table, she found an unused napkin, several sheets of paper with Bingo numbers on one side, and a few pencils. She grabbed the Bingo card and flipped it over to its blank white back before beginning to write. When she was finished, she read the message in a whisper to herself:

Jay, you don’t know me, but I’m here to warn you. Don’t get on the commuter train on October 31, 2009. If you do, you’ll die when it crashes.

Willa folded the paper and approached the young man sitting by himself. When he noticed her, he looked up with an easy smile. What had this young man gone on to do? Had he died somewhere along the way just like her father?

“Can you give this to the guy playing drums? It’s really important.”

“Sure thing,” the guy said as he took the folded Bingo paper from her, though he looked disappointed that she hadn’t asked him something else.

Willa resumed her seat in the back as the overhead lights came on and the pianist and drummer got up from their seats. The bassist and guitarist lifted their instruments over their heads and propped them up against on gig stands.

Now’s the time. They’re going on break, Willa thought, as her gaze shifted back to the young man who held her warning in his hand. He had risen from his seat and had slowly made his way up the aisle. Once he reached the stage, he waved to get her father’s attention. The latter smiled like he always did. No one had ever said anything bad about him, as far as Willa knew. That’s why it was so wrong that he had to die. Plenty of other people who were mean or who had murdered deserved it, but not her dad at the age of forty-nine.

The young man handed her father the paper, and her dad unfolded it, his smile disappearing as he read.

“Hey! Who gave this to you?” he shouted at the young man, his voice rising above the growing din of voices and laughter.

Before she turned and headed for the door, Willa saw her messenger gesturing in her direction, her father’s eyes following the young man’s pointed finger, his mouth a perfect O of surprise.

When she woke up the next morning, the fairy lights twinkled above her head, barely visible against the sunlight seeping through her window. Willa sat up and looked around her room before focusing on the closed closet door. No music or light came from it now. Just as she’d thought, it had to be a dream. To be sure, Willa got up and opened her closet door, finding nothing but a messy pile of shoes and clothes hanging haphazardly from wire and wooden hangers.

Willa closed it with a sigh, but something was beginning to nag at her. After a minute, she realized what it was. The house was too quiet, unusually so. Aunt Clara always got up before dawn, making coffee, wiping down counters, and sometimes even dusting furniture. Today, there was nothing.

Stepping onto the soft carpet in the hallway, Willa’s toes sank into its plush fibers. Next door, when Willa entered Aunt Clara’s room, she saw a perfectly made bed just like her mother always used to arrange before her death five years ago. None of Aunt Clara’s books or glass bottles of perfume lined the bureau, just the emptiness of an unused space.

“Aunt Clara!” Willa called as she started down the stairs. On the first floor, the house was perfectly quiet, except for a humming sound.

Willa stopped in the kitchen, trying to place the noise. She even closed her eyes to focus. When she opened them, she recognized the sound. It was a car’s engine, she told herself as she drew closer to the note pinned down by a banana on the kitchen counter. And then she saw it: her father’s handwriting.

Dear Willa,

I have come to the realization that I can no longer live with the fact I didn’t stop the train accident last month. While I never really believed the warning I’d received, I chose to stay home just in case. But I could’ve stopped the train before it even got started, and I didn’t. I know that you will be upset with me for what I’ve chosen to do next, but just know that this isn’t your fault. There’s nothing you could’ve done. Your Aunt Clara will be happy to take care of you until you can take care of yourself. I love you more than anything.

Love Dad

Her father’s note fluttered to the tiled kitchen floor, drifting slowly as it landed. Willa watched it fall before glancing at the second note tucked beneath the first. Jay, you don’t know me, but I’m here to warn you. Don’t get on the commuter train on October 31, 2009. If you do, you’ll die when it crashes.

After all these years, he’d kept it like a dirty secret, most likely buried in the basement with all the family mementos.

Her gaze shifted to the door in the kitchen that led to the garage. The smell of exhaust seeped through the cracks around the frame.

Willa walked toward the door, feeling like a sleepwalker, trapped in a dream. For the longest time, she stared at the brass doorknob that she’d never paid much attention to, watching as her hand reached for it, only to cover it with a tight grip, her knuckles becoming white. With one quick movement, she turned it and flung open the door. A wave of car exhaust poured into the kitchen, making her cough as she covered her mouth and nose with one hand. Willa leaned forward to see who was behind the wheel of the car, dreading what she already knew she would find––her father. Sure enough, he sat in the driver’s seat, his head flung back, mouth open, lifeless. He could be anyone, but he wasn’t just anyone––at least, not to her.

Willa slammed the door shut with a sob, then turned and fled into the kitchen. Her bare feet pounded the steps as she climbed them, returning to the starting point of the loop. In her room, she ran to the closet door, the familiar sound of music spilling from the other side. If she opened it, there wouldn’t be clothes or shoes in a pile, but a staircase leading down to a bar.

For a moment, she debated whether to open it. Deep down, she knew she had no choice. Willa steadied her breath, the smell of car exhaust still clinging to her hair. Then she opened the door and found the yellow walls that framed the staircase. Willa took one step and then another, closing the door behind her.

This time, she wouldn’t be back.

Dr. Susan Savage Lee is Associate Professor of Spanish at Jefferson Community and Technical College. Her academic articles have appeared in Confluencia, Revistas de Estudios de Género y Sexualidades, and the Hungarian Journal of English and American Studies. Her short stories have been featured in Black Petals, Bewildering Stories, and Aphelion. She writes horror, psychological thrillers, and speculative fiction.