Exchange Fic #12: The Sarah Williams Files: The Case of the Oddity in the Attic, Chapter One
The actual identity of the writer will remain secret until all the submissions are in and posted.
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Title: The Sarah Williams Files: The Case of the Oddity in the Attic, Chapter One
Author: surelady
Recipient: shengirl
Prompt: Jareth meets Sarah's parents
Rating: T
Plot Summary: Today, Sarah is in a bit of a flap, getting her apartment clean enough for her parents’ visit. Not to mention keeping her real occupation, as a private investigator of the strange world of the supernatural, a secret. What a pity that Sarah’s troubles for the day are only just beginning.
Author’s notes: This story just grew, and grew, and grew - and I was too weak willed to rap its delinquent knuckles and make it behave. But if I can get just one smile from my recipient’s face while she reads this story, then it will have been more than worth the effort :) Many thanks are due to my star beta, who will have to remain anonymous for the time being. Thank you again for picking up all those things I would have missed.
Chapter One
The jarring twang of my doorbell never fails to provoke an instinctive physical jolt; even if I’m expecting company, which today unfortunately I am. That’s why I’m currently on my hands and knees - scrubbing my bathroom floor like I have a personal grudge against it.
The bleach bottle and anti-bacterial spray stand shoulder to shoulder in front of me, inanimate spectators to the proceedings. They have a look about them as though they are perfectly assured of the fact that I can scrub this floor all I want and it still won’t be clean enough. Or, it could be the bleach fumes are making me see things. I’m one of those people who uses the industrial strength type of toilet bleach; the kind of stuff that will make your head swim with just one whiff.
… And haven’t I already scrubbed this part of the floor…?
Abandoning my task with a sigh of resignation, I hastily tossed the tell-tale cleaning armaments into my bedroom without a thought and jogged towards my front door. Taking a short breath to collect myself, I swung the door open with a pre-arranged bright smile on my face.
Only to see no one there.
I stepped over the threshold a little to look up and down the hallway. Not a person in sight.
Urgh. Those kids from the fifth floor were at it again with their silly games. It was usually on days when the weather was miserable and they couldn’t play outside. Although, there was glorious sunshine streaming through my window the last time I checked…
As I turned to go back into the apartment, I felt a touch brush the back of my head. Instantly my hand whipped up to grab whatever was there, reflexively spinning around so I would be facing the assailant head on - but instead I had a fistful of my own hair in my hand and was gazing once again at an empty hallway.
Definitely not the kids from the fifth floor, that time. Something much worse - me, going crazy.
I scrubbed a weary hand over my face and mentally counted to eleven. Just get through the next few hours and then you can collapse somewhere and shut your brain off. It’s the only sure cure for stress. Well, not the only cure…
I ignored that last thought and trudged back inside. A quick glance at my clock told me that I had a little more time; so, I could either go back to properly finish off the bathroom floor or I could give the living room another vacuum or I could squirt some de-odorising spray on the couch just to make sure it’s extra fresh.
I don’t always find myself in such a flap about house cleaning. Today, however, is different.
My dad and my stepmother had scheduled their monthly “daughter inspection” for this weekend. An event that would include a quick but thorough laser scan of the areas of the apartment that were in view of parental eyeballs. This not quite so covert examination would of course be in accompaniment to Karen’s veiled criticisms, executed with an engineered smile bedecked with teeth too harshly whitened. All rounded off with false cheer and promises to meet up again sooner next time.
I looked at the clock again and settled on another quick vacuum; since the bathroom floor clearly hated me enough to never look clean even when it was clean, and spraying the couch at this late stage would only make it slightly damp to sit on.
With my parents coming over it was virtually an ingrained chemical reaction to break out the cleaning supplies and become anxious about ridiculous things; like, has my carpet become too thread bare? Or do those matching curtains suddenly look like they don’t match? Or is that extra vase of flowers overkill?
Apart from Karen and her beady scrutinising eyes, I have to admit cleaning is also a necessity for me above the normal hygiene issues. In my line of work it’s a means of self preservation. There are a lot of pretty nasty spells a practitioner can conjure with even a few threads of hair or a teeny fingernail clipping. Not that I have many enemies lurking around, waiting to hatch their revenge; but a girl can never be too careful. The only reason I had allowed things to slide a little in the last week was because my latest case had proved a bit more problematic than I had first anticipated.
About two weeks ago, a young newly married couple contacted me because they had been hearing strange noises from their attic. Upon inspection of said attic, the new Mr and Mrs Dwyer discovered something they had described only as “out of joint” with the rest of the room. Crouched in one corner was a shadow that appeared to move independently of its surroundings. It even seemed in some instances to have solid form, they said, but neither of them would willingly be pinned down on what they had thought they had seen.
I can’t say I blame them for that sort of evasiveness. When first confronted with a mystical occurrence, the common reaction is to immediately find an explanation that conforms to a real world scenario; because surely that is far more likely than what you are actually seeing with your own eyes. Even recounting details of an event to an expert doesn’t quite put a person at ease. This is mainly due to the fact that, until that moment, you probably weren’t aware that experts in the supernatural even existed outside of the movies.
Well, they do. The reason I know? Because I’m one of them.
My name is Sarah Williams and I’m a private investigator of the supernatural. At least, that’s how I introduce myself in person. On my business cards it just reads: “Supernatural P.I.” - not the most original title I could have thought of. But as far as I’m aware, I’m the only one listed in my profession.
I find it kind of funny actually to think of it as a profession, since it’s not the kind of vocation you select after careful consideration of your options post-graduation. Certainly, there’s no career guidance counsellor that will point you in that particular direction. In my own case, it was born out of a brush with the realm of the magical at a young and impressionable age. Once upon a time, I challenged a dastardly Goblin King, traversed his Labyrinthine kingdom, and defeated every obstacle he put in my way. You might wonder how I managed to find myself caught up in such an adventure.
Well, that’s another story.
Anyhow, it was from this early experience that I felt compelled to explore the magical world further. At the time I figured that if one fantastical Goblin King was real, not to mention an entire kingdom of strange and wonderful creatures, then it stands to reason there must be other magical beings out there, too. And once you start looking for them, you quickly discover how many of them are lurking in your very midst.
You’ve probably come into contact with them yourself on more than one occasion.
Those times when you were walking home all alone one night and had that prickling sensation that you were being followed. The times when you supposedly misplaced your car keys, TV remote, wallet, hairbrush, favourite pair of slippers; were convinced there was at least one more chocolate bar left in the cupboard; could have sworn you saw something move out of the corner of your eye; heard a peculiar sound in the night, like a tapping in the walls or a scuffling on the roof. If you’ve found yourself in any of the above situations, chances are you’ve just had a close encounter of the mystical variety.
A lot of the cases I work on deal with the run-of-the-mill selection of otherworldly upheavals in the everyday life of regular people; usually regarding the type of creature that, although more or less harmless, simply won’t bother to keep itself concealed. Often a smart incantation or a carefully concocted brew will put a stop to most disturbances. However, I do sometimes come across more complicated episodes. While I pride myself on the knowledge and skills I’ve developed over the years, I can’t claim to be any sort of accomplished practitioner. There are instances in which even my own expertise might not really be enough to deal with the issues at hand.
That’s when I call in my expert consultant. Although, he hates it when I call him that.
This latest case would be a good illustration of how my operation works.
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When I first heard the Dwyer’s description of the oddity in their attic, I quickly narrowed it down to a couple of potential candidates; the most likely of which was a Festare. I refer to them in shorthand as “squatters”, because that’s essentially what they are. Preferring to nest in darkened corners or tuck themselves into little nooks and concealed spots around the home, squatters are generally pretty harmless. Except for the property damage they can cause. For some reason, wherever it is they cram themselves into, squatters generate a fair amount of moisture. If you’ve ever had problems with dampness in your house it’s possible you’ve had a squatter living with you and didn’t realise it. And if that gives you the shivers, try speculating on where it is that moisture comes from…
However, once I actually visited the Dwyer’s residence and had a look at this thing with my own eyes I sensed there was something not quite right. It didn’t seem to exactly fit with my initial assessment. Just the way it shifted almost imperceptibly from side to side and even just the smell of the thing. Squatters tend to be smelly creatures, for obvious reasons. This one, however, didn’t seem as pungent in its odour compared to squatters I’ve come across in the past. Although, I could see where the dampness had seeped through into the ceiling of Mrs Dwyer’s walk in closet, which was directly below where the squatter was nesting in the attic. An exceptional shoe collection deserves better than that.
I cracked out my kit and tried a basic repelling incantation. This is a fairly easy procedure in which the squatter is basically pushed out of the house, like sweeping dust off your floor with a broom. This particular spell doesn’t always work, but I have a policy of at least trying the simplest method first.
When the straight-forward solution didn’t work, I then turned to a full cleansing of the residence; a process that can take anywhere up to three hours but it is the one I routinely use for squatters, since it has an excellent success rate. It’s quite a handy one to learn since the procedure can be adapted for different purposes. In the case of squatters, it involves creating a small containment area for the creature using a single line of salt, so it can’t escape and hide somewhere else in the house. Then incense must be burned at various points in the home, starting from outside and gradually working your way in towards the point in which the disturbance is located. I’ve found that it doesn’t hurt to recite a pre-prepared incantation at the same time, just as a means of better channelling the exact effect you want to occur. This process can be repeated any number of times in succession until the disturbance has been forced to relinquish its grip on the dwelling.
After nearly five hours of cleansing, with the squatter still refusing to be removed, I realised it was probably time to rethink my strategy. It certainly wasn’t pleasant having to explain to the Dwyers why my usual methods weren’t doing too well.
“It just means the creature has obviously been nesting here longer than the usual kind,” I reasoned. “Didn’t you say that the house had been standing empty for a number of years before you moved in?”
“Yes, but, this is just not the kind of pest control issue you would ever expect to deal with… This is all very strange.” The look in Mr Dwyer’s eyes wasn’t very reassuring.
There have been occasions when, even after successfully completing a case, people have wiggled out of paying me; usually by claiming that I was a freak who must have somehow orchestrated the entire thing as a hoax, just to cheat them out of their money. And of course, pursuing compensation for an unpaid bill through a court of law isn’t really an option for someone like me.
“How much is this going to cost us again?”
That’s the one question I really don’t like hearing. I think in any profession if the client has to bring this up with you, it’s probably an indication that things aren’t going very well. I decided that some more research on squatters was definitely required. Of course, there aren’t many books in the library about how to get rid of magical creatures nesting in people’s attics. That’s why I have my own collection of practitioners’ books that I’ve built up over time. They’re the kind of books you get from basement and back-alley type shopping or from special delivery online - or in some cases very special delivery from other realms entirely.
After about three days of solid research, and after drinking about two dozen gallons of coffee, I had become quite the expert in squatters; although a lot of it was rehashing things I already knew about them. Nevertheless, relearning some of it allowed me to go back to first principles in dealing with them. Squatters prefer climates that are dark and tight as well as being cool in temperature. According to my research, it should theoretically be possible to drive them out of a residence if you can dramatically alter their environment into one that’s much less appealing for them.
Armed with this new information I went back to the Dwyers’ place, and thankfully they were still willing to let me in, where I put operation attic-climate-change into effect. First, I positioned several heaters around the room and turned them up full blast. Next, I began to strip some of the obstructions from the corner where the squatter had tucked itself in; this included removing sections of the wall features, something I’m sure the Dwyers weren’t particularly ecstatic about. Finally, once the room had reached a sauna-like temperature, it was time for the grand finale - I approached the squatter slowly, where I could see it increasingly shifting around in an irritated manner, and suddenly pointed a huge flashlight directly at it like a gun.
The effect, let’s just say, was less than thrilling.
Aside from its obvious appearance of agitation, the squatter remained exactly where it was. I stood there for awhile, continuing to point my flashlight while trying not to faint from the increasingly intense heat in the small attic. After twenty minutes of this, my arm began to ache and soon I had to admit defeat. At this point, I knew I had no other choice but to seek outside consultation; something I had been trying to avoid.
Not that the Goblin King isn’t a very helpful resource to call upon in these types of tricky cases. In fact, he is an excellent source for the realm of the magical; probably much better than any of the most comprehensive books I have at my disposal, and he’s certainly more experienced in these matters than I am. The problem is he won’t exactly offer this information in an obliging and straight-forward manner.
Oh he’s happy enough to appear whenever I call him forth and he at least shows a genuine interest in the cases I’m working on; but he is at heart a manipulator and enjoys playing his own little games. Add to the fact that most of our conversations are invariably riddled with his brazen solicitations.
And yes, this is the same Goblin King that I had that dramatic encounter with when I was younger. We ran into each other a few years ago when I was working on one of my first really big cases. It involved a man who was so desperate to please his little boy that he used magic to make his toys come alive to entertain him. This might seem harmless enough but the potion he used was designed to bestow a personification to inanimate objects; and when that potion accidently spilled onto other objects while he was at work in his office, it created not a small bit of mayhem. I received a frantic phone call from him on the day it all went wrong. He had initially contacted me sometime before this, in the belief I could help him acquire the supplies he needed for the potion. Needless to say, I hadn’t helped him acquire anything on that occasion but I did assist him in putting things to right during the fallout. Apparently the little boy had learned that his father was in trouble and managed to call upon the Goblin King for help; because it was in the man’s office, whilst trapped in a grumpy and vindictive elevator, that I once again came face-to-face with my childhood antagonist.
Following this dramatic reunion, the Goblin King developed a habit of showing up randomly whilst I was out on a job. He would lend his special commentary, not all of which was entirely aggravating, and offer some suggestions when he was in the mood to do so. Eventually I hit upon the idea that he might like to provide his so called advice in a more official capacity, as my expert consultant.
Although he agreed to the arrangement, maintaining the professionalism of our working relationship has essentially been down to me. For instance, I stipulated very early on that some form of remuneration had to be established. Trying to convey the necessity of this to the Goblin King, however, was near to impossible. He’s never had a real job, so he has no conception of things like salaries or money. Constant nagging therefore became the only tactic in my arsenal that I could use.
“I don’t understand why you must insist upon this so incessantly,” he had drawled indifferently.
“If I’m employing you for a service then I have to compensate you, in order to keep the arrangement more official and not based on whimsy. Otherwise, it’s just you hanging around being a wise ass.”
He smiled, pleased no doubt with the way in which I had phrased my explanation about ‘compensation’. “But my dear, this is a whimsy. I assist you because it amuses me to do so.”
“See? That’s what worries me. That one day you’ll just decide it no longer amuses you to help me with this stuff.”
“Well then, you’ll just have to make sure you’re keeping me amused, won’t you?” How I hate that self-satisfied smirk.
“This is my job, Jareth; I can’t have you treating it like it’s some little hobby you can just pick up and drop whenever you feel like it. Especially if I find myself in the midst of some hugely complicated case that I only took on because I assumed I would have access to a knowledgeable resource.” At this he lounged even further back into my armchair, in a manner designed to be insolent. “Maybe we should write up a proper contract for a fixed period of time…”
“Cookies.”
“Uh… what?”
He levelled a thoughtful gaze at me. “You can pay me with cookies.”
I sighed with frustration. “Please, try to take this seriously.”
“I am being serious.” He rose from the armchair and elegantly glided (there isn’t really another word for it) towards my kitchen, where he was strangely able to navigate his way to my cookie stash without too much difficulty. “The goblins love cookies, but I have no patience for baking. Or for wading through some infested convenience store.”
“So… you want me… to give you cookies?”
Opening a packet, he delicately popped a crunchy ginger snap into his mouth and began chewing. “Unless you can think of something else to give me.”
Good grief, the man can carry off a solicitation with a mere turn of a phrase; even while boyishly munching on a cookie. This is precisely why remaining firm on the strict professionalism point is so important.
It might also be partly the reason why I resist the urge to call on him for advice too much. Although I like to think the main reason is my need to manage things on my own. After all, it is my business; I’m the one who’s supposed to be the private investigator. I can hardly claim such a title if I’m constantly asking someone else to work out the answer for me. However, with the Dwyer situation looking critical, especially after my slight remodelling of their attic, I was entitled to seek some professional guidance.
Whenever I want to consult with the Goblin King I have to specifically call him forth using a carefully worded incantation, allowing him to cross directly from his realm to wherever I’m located. This precise formula is mandatory in the case of a private residence, since Jareth cannot enter a person’s home without their permission - and yes, I’ve already used up my repertoire of vampire jokes on him.
The procedure is fairly simple; as with all real magic it’s the intent that’s important. In a sealed cabinet fixed into the wall in my living room I keep a wooden engraving depicting a birds-eye view of the Labyrinth as well as a single candle that is the representative shade for Jareth’s essence. I simply open the cabinet, light the candle and then chant the right words. Interestingly enough, the incantation to really summon the Goblin King doesn’t actually include the words “I wish”. Well, at least if you don’t want to continually wish people away to the Labyrinth, that is.
Oh sorry, if you think I’m going to tell you the right words to summon the Goblin King, then you’re out of luck. He’s not someone I would recommend you get mixed up with anyway.
On this particular occasion, after reciting the necessary words, I was left standing around for several minutes before he decided to announce his presence from my kitchen, where he was perched merry as you please on my counter.
“It’s a good thing you called on me,” he remarked by way of greeting, waiting for me to come into view before continuing, “I was almost out of these.” He indicated the box of custard creams he was holding in his left hand, while taking a few for himself with the other. “Where are the gingery ones?”
“I’m beginning to question whether these cookies are really for the goblins.”
“Aren’t I allowed to have a cookie as well? For all my hard work? It is supposed to be my celery, or what have you.”
“Your sal-ary.”
“Yes, well let’s not waste time with frivolous semantics.” He vanished the rest of the cookies beneath his midnight cloak, then slid off my counter and was directly in front of me in one graceful motion. “I’m at your service, Sarah.”
Ignoring his attempts to invade my personal space, I silently turned from him and proceeded back into my living room, knowing he would follow me. “I need you tell me everything you know about different breeds of Festares; focusing primarily on the surest means of expelling them from a residence they’ve nested in, alone, for a period of approximately four years.” I held out one of my books to him, open at the page that listed all the known shapes and sizes Festares could come in.
He ignored the book. “You can’t possibly have called me forth to ask about Festares. They are the simplest creatures to deal with. Even goblins are trickier to handle than Festares. Although… that’s not saying much.” With a sly smile firmly in place, he began to approach me, carefully closing the distance between us. “You wouldn’t be making up flimsy excuses just to call on me, would you?”
“What? No!”
He didn’t slow his advance and I stubbornly held my ground, refusing to be intimidated. “I know it’s been a bit of a slow month for you, and so you haven’t had any reason to ask for my help.” Before I had the chance to prevent it, he had captured some of my long dark hair in his hand and was idly twirling the silky strands around his elegant fingers. “Be assured that you will never have to make excuses with me. If you wish to enjoy the pleasure of my… company, you need only summon me here.”
Steadily holding his gaze, I once again held up the open book between us, which forced him in his current position to take a step backwards and ultimately relinquish my hair. “What do you know about Festares?” I repeated firmly.
The best way to handle Jareth when he’s in a particularly licentious mood is to simply ignore it and continue the conversation as though nothing has occurred. It irritates him enough to make him give up on any perceived opening he’s decided to pursue.
Feigning an expression of exasperation, he accepted the proffered item and deigned a glance at it. “Well, I can certainly tell you this book’s illustrations of Festares are ridiculously inaccurate.”
I rolled my eyes. “Never mind that, tell me all the methods you know for getting rid of them.”
“A full house cleanse usually does the trick.” He tossed the book aside and wandered over to my mantelpiece, where I keep all my cutesy ornaments. One thing I learned about Jareth - he gets distracted by shiny baubles very easily.
“I already tried that, it didn’t work.”
“Then you obviously did it wrong,” he said distractedly, as though this was the obvious conclusion to the problem.
“No, I didn’t do it wrong, I cast these spells all the time and they always work on squatters - I mean, Festares.”
He turned to smile triumphantly at me. “If you’re such a great expert on cleansing spells, why ask me for help, hm?”
I gritted my teeth to reign in my frustration. “Because, it didn’t work. So, clearly, I am dealing with a different kind of Festare I haven’t come across before.”
He appeared to ponder this for a moment, before idly making his way towards the swivel chair at my work desk in the corner. Most of my books and hastily scribbled notes were strewn across it. Jareth made a show of looking through them in a knowledgeable fashion, as though he were satisfying himself on the accuracy of my research. I hovered nearby, feeling inexplicably like I was at school again.
“I also tried altering its environment, you know? Like, making it hotter and brighter.”
“And what effect did that have?”
“Pretty much none,” I replied, not bothering to hide my sullenness. Jareth remained quiet for awhile, quickly flicking through different items at random, although I had the strange impression his thoughts were really focused elsewhere.
“Hm…” Was all I got after ten minutes of this.
“Hm? What does that mean - hm?”
“It means that I haven’t got an answer for you on this one. The best course of action now is to let me deal with this creature myself. A direct confrontation, as it were.” He added, almost inaudibly to himself.
“No way, this is my case. I’m the one who closes it, that’s the rule. Besides, you can’t go inside their house without the Dwyers summoning you directly.”
“I can just enter as your guest.” He replied easily.
“Well, I’m not bringing you as my guest then.”
“Sarah,” I could see he was making a concerted effort to maintain his appearance of composure. “It doesn’t seem reasonable to seek my expert guidance on these matters and then blatantly disregard the advice I give you, now does it?”
In fact, he appeared just a little too composed. “You’re hiding something.” And I knew it was true from the way his eyes flashed briefly, whether in surprise or admiration it was hard to tell. “What are you not telling me?”
“There are a lot of things I don’t tell you, little girl.”
I had no idea how to respond to that, especially since he had pulled out his you-can’t-guess-what-I’m-thinking face; so I flicked my hair slightly in a nonchalant manner and decided to try going for his vanity. “Oh well, I guess this is just a bit over your head, too. No need to be embarrassed about it. Maybe there’s someone else I could ask for help…” I pretended to seriously ponder my options.
“You’re terrible at mind games.” Jareth remarked, as though this were an observation he had already privately made long ago. “You should stick to bribery. It’s one of your better talents.” Strange how a compliment can feel like an insult. “Furthermore, there isn’t anyone else you can ask for help. I’m all you have.” He clearly took pride in that undeniable fact.
“And yet you don’t want to help me by telling me what I need to know.”
“On the contrary, I do want to help you. But on the condition that I am the one to do it.” I huffed in irritation at his stubbornness on that point. “Surely you can’t expect me to tell you how to get rid of this thing if I haven’t even seen it myself?”
There was something wheedling in his tone that gave him away. “You’re lying. I bet you already know how to get rid of it; you just don’t want to tell me. This isn’t a game, Jareth. These people are expecting me to help them.”
“I’m growing bored of this now.” He rose from his chair and walked away from me, repositioning himself in the centre of the room. This was usually the signal that he was preparing to leave. “Either take my advice, or don’t. It makes very little difference to me.” With that pronouncement, he vanished.
Perhaps in retrospect, if I hadn’t been so irritated with him, I might have better read the expression on his face as he said that last part.
Chapter Two
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Title: The Sarah Williams Files: The Case of the Oddity in the Attic, Chapter One
Author: surelady
Recipient: shengirl
Prompt: Jareth meets Sarah's parents
Rating: T
Plot Summary: Today, Sarah is in a bit of a flap, getting her apartment clean enough for her parents’ visit. Not to mention keeping her real occupation, as a private investigator of the strange world of the supernatural, a secret. What a pity that Sarah’s troubles for the day are only just beginning.
Author’s notes: This story just grew, and grew, and grew - and I was too weak willed to rap its delinquent knuckles and make it behave. But if I can get just one smile from my recipient’s face while she reads this story, then it will have been more than worth the effort :) Many thanks are due to my star beta, who will have to remain anonymous for the time being. Thank you again for picking up all those things I would have missed.
Chapter One
The jarring twang of my doorbell never fails to provoke an instinctive physical jolt; even if I’m expecting company, which today unfortunately I am. That’s why I’m currently on my hands and knees - scrubbing my bathroom floor like I have a personal grudge against it.
The bleach bottle and anti-bacterial spray stand shoulder to shoulder in front of me, inanimate spectators to the proceedings. They have a look about them as though they are perfectly assured of the fact that I can scrub this floor all I want and it still won’t be clean enough. Or, it could be the bleach fumes are making me see things. I’m one of those people who uses the industrial strength type of toilet bleach; the kind of stuff that will make your head swim with just one whiff.
… And haven’t I already scrubbed this part of the floor…?
Abandoning my task with a sigh of resignation, I hastily tossed the tell-tale cleaning armaments into my bedroom without a thought and jogged towards my front door. Taking a short breath to collect myself, I swung the door open with a pre-arranged bright smile on my face.
Only to see no one there.
I stepped over the threshold a little to look up and down the hallway. Not a person in sight.
Urgh. Those kids from the fifth floor were at it again with their silly games. It was usually on days when the weather was miserable and they couldn’t play outside. Although, there was glorious sunshine streaming through my window the last time I checked…
As I turned to go back into the apartment, I felt a touch brush the back of my head. Instantly my hand whipped up to grab whatever was there, reflexively spinning around so I would be facing the assailant head on - but instead I had a fistful of my own hair in my hand and was gazing once again at an empty hallway.
Definitely not the kids from the fifth floor, that time. Something much worse - me, going crazy.
I scrubbed a weary hand over my face and mentally counted to eleven. Just get through the next few hours and then you can collapse somewhere and shut your brain off. It’s the only sure cure for stress. Well, not the only cure…
I ignored that last thought and trudged back inside. A quick glance at my clock told me that I had a little more time; so, I could either go back to properly finish off the bathroom floor or I could give the living room another vacuum or I could squirt some de-odorising spray on the couch just to make sure it’s extra fresh.
I don’t always find myself in such a flap about house cleaning. Today, however, is different.
My dad and my stepmother had scheduled their monthly “daughter inspection” for this weekend. An event that would include a quick but thorough laser scan of the areas of the apartment that were in view of parental eyeballs. This not quite so covert examination would of course be in accompaniment to Karen’s veiled criticisms, executed with an engineered smile bedecked with teeth too harshly whitened. All rounded off with false cheer and promises to meet up again sooner next time.
I looked at the clock again and settled on another quick vacuum; since the bathroom floor clearly hated me enough to never look clean even when it was clean, and spraying the couch at this late stage would only make it slightly damp to sit on.
With my parents coming over it was virtually an ingrained chemical reaction to break out the cleaning supplies and become anxious about ridiculous things; like, has my carpet become too thread bare? Or do those matching curtains suddenly look like they don’t match? Or is that extra vase of flowers overkill?
Apart from Karen and her beady scrutinising eyes, I have to admit cleaning is also a necessity for me above the normal hygiene issues. In my line of work it’s a means of self preservation. There are a lot of pretty nasty spells a practitioner can conjure with even a few threads of hair or a teeny fingernail clipping. Not that I have many enemies lurking around, waiting to hatch their revenge; but a girl can never be too careful. The only reason I had allowed things to slide a little in the last week was because my latest case had proved a bit more problematic than I had first anticipated.
About two weeks ago, a young newly married couple contacted me because they had been hearing strange noises from their attic. Upon inspection of said attic, the new Mr and Mrs Dwyer discovered something they had described only as “out of joint” with the rest of the room. Crouched in one corner was a shadow that appeared to move independently of its surroundings. It even seemed in some instances to have solid form, they said, but neither of them would willingly be pinned down on what they had thought they had seen.
I can’t say I blame them for that sort of evasiveness. When first confronted with a mystical occurrence, the common reaction is to immediately find an explanation that conforms to a real world scenario; because surely that is far more likely than what you are actually seeing with your own eyes. Even recounting details of an event to an expert doesn’t quite put a person at ease. This is mainly due to the fact that, until that moment, you probably weren’t aware that experts in the supernatural even existed outside of the movies.
Well, they do. The reason I know? Because I’m one of them.
My name is Sarah Williams and I’m a private investigator of the supernatural. At least, that’s how I introduce myself in person. On my business cards it just reads: “Supernatural P.I.” - not the most original title I could have thought of. But as far as I’m aware, I’m the only one listed in my profession.
I find it kind of funny actually to think of it as a profession, since it’s not the kind of vocation you select after careful consideration of your options post-graduation. Certainly, there’s no career guidance counsellor that will point you in that particular direction. In my own case, it was born out of a brush with the realm of the magical at a young and impressionable age. Once upon a time, I challenged a dastardly Goblin King, traversed his Labyrinthine kingdom, and defeated every obstacle he put in my way. You might wonder how I managed to find myself caught up in such an adventure.
Well, that’s another story.
Anyhow, it was from this early experience that I felt compelled to explore the magical world further. At the time I figured that if one fantastical Goblin King was real, not to mention an entire kingdom of strange and wonderful creatures, then it stands to reason there must be other magical beings out there, too. And once you start looking for them, you quickly discover how many of them are lurking in your very midst.
You’ve probably come into contact with them yourself on more than one occasion.
Those times when you were walking home all alone one night and had that prickling sensation that you were being followed. The times when you supposedly misplaced your car keys, TV remote, wallet, hairbrush, favourite pair of slippers; were convinced there was at least one more chocolate bar left in the cupboard; could have sworn you saw something move out of the corner of your eye; heard a peculiar sound in the night, like a tapping in the walls or a scuffling on the roof. If you’ve found yourself in any of the above situations, chances are you’ve just had a close encounter of the mystical variety.
A lot of the cases I work on deal with the run-of-the-mill selection of otherworldly upheavals in the everyday life of regular people; usually regarding the type of creature that, although more or less harmless, simply won’t bother to keep itself concealed. Often a smart incantation or a carefully concocted brew will put a stop to most disturbances. However, I do sometimes come across more complicated episodes. While I pride myself on the knowledge and skills I’ve developed over the years, I can’t claim to be any sort of accomplished practitioner. There are instances in which even my own expertise might not really be enough to deal with the issues at hand.
That’s when I call in my expert consultant. Although, he hates it when I call him that.
This latest case would be a good illustration of how my operation works.
****
When I first heard the Dwyer’s description of the oddity in their attic, I quickly narrowed it down to a couple of potential candidates; the most likely of which was a Festare. I refer to them in shorthand as “squatters”, because that’s essentially what they are. Preferring to nest in darkened corners or tuck themselves into little nooks and concealed spots around the home, squatters are generally pretty harmless. Except for the property damage they can cause. For some reason, wherever it is they cram themselves into, squatters generate a fair amount of moisture. If you’ve ever had problems with dampness in your house it’s possible you’ve had a squatter living with you and didn’t realise it. And if that gives you the shivers, try speculating on where it is that moisture comes from…
However, once I actually visited the Dwyer’s residence and had a look at this thing with my own eyes I sensed there was something not quite right. It didn’t seem to exactly fit with my initial assessment. Just the way it shifted almost imperceptibly from side to side and even just the smell of the thing. Squatters tend to be smelly creatures, for obvious reasons. This one, however, didn’t seem as pungent in its odour compared to squatters I’ve come across in the past. Although, I could see where the dampness had seeped through into the ceiling of Mrs Dwyer’s walk in closet, which was directly below where the squatter was nesting in the attic. An exceptional shoe collection deserves better than that.
I cracked out my kit and tried a basic repelling incantation. This is a fairly easy procedure in which the squatter is basically pushed out of the house, like sweeping dust off your floor with a broom. This particular spell doesn’t always work, but I have a policy of at least trying the simplest method first.
When the straight-forward solution didn’t work, I then turned to a full cleansing of the residence; a process that can take anywhere up to three hours but it is the one I routinely use for squatters, since it has an excellent success rate. It’s quite a handy one to learn since the procedure can be adapted for different purposes. In the case of squatters, it involves creating a small containment area for the creature using a single line of salt, so it can’t escape and hide somewhere else in the house. Then incense must be burned at various points in the home, starting from outside and gradually working your way in towards the point in which the disturbance is located. I’ve found that it doesn’t hurt to recite a pre-prepared incantation at the same time, just as a means of better channelling the exact effect you want to occur. This process can be repeated any number of times in succession until the disturbance has been forced to relinquish its grip on the dwelling.
After nearly five hours of cleansing, with the squatter still refusing to be removed, I realised it was probably time to rethink my strategy. It certainly wasn’t pleasant having to explain to the Dwyers why my usual methods weren’t doing too well.
“It just means the creature has obviously been nesting here longer than the usual kind,” I reasoned. “Didn’t you say that the house had been standing empty for a number of years before you moved in?”
“Yes, but, this is just not the kind of pest control issue you would ever expect to deal with… This is all very strange.” The look in Mr Dwyer’s eyes wasn’t very reassuring.
There have been occasions when, even after successfully completing a case, people have wiggled out of paying me; usually by claiming that I was a freak who must have somehow orchestrated the entire thing as a hoax, just to cheat them out of their money. And of course, pursuing compensation for an unpaid bill through a court of law isn’t really an option for someone like me.
“How much is this going to cost us again?”
That’s the one question I really don’t like hearing. I think in any profession if the client has to bring this up with you, it’s probably an indication that things aren’t going very well. I decided that some more research on squatters was definitely required. Of course, there aren’t many books in the library about how to get rid of magical creatures nesting in people’s attics. That’s why I have my own collection of practitioners’ books that I’ve built up over time. They’re the kind of books you get from basement and back-alley type shopping or from special delivery online - or in some cases very special delivery from other realms entirely.
After about three days of solid research, and after drinking about two dozen gallons of coffee, I had become quite the expert in squatters; although a lot of it was rehashing things I already knew about them. Nevertheless, relearning some of it allowed me to go back to first principles in dealing with them. Squatters prefer climates that are dark and tight as well as being cool in temperature. According to my research, it should theoretically be possible to drive them out of a residence if you can dramatically alter their environment into one that’s much less appealing for them.
Armed with this new information I went back to the Dwyers’ place, and thankfully they were still willing to let me in, where I put operation attic-climate-change into effect. First, I positioned several heaters around the room and turned them up full blast. Next, I began to strip some of the obstructions from the corner where the squatter had tucked itself in; this included removing sections of the wall features, something I’m sure the Dwyers weren’t particularly ecstatic about. Finally, once the room had reached a sauna-like temperature, it was time for the grand finale - I approached the squatter slowly, where I could see it increasingly shifting around in an irritated manner, and suddenly pointed a huge flashlight directly at it like a gun.
The effect, let’s just say, was less than thrilling.
Aside from its obvious appearance of agitation, the squatter remained exactly where it was. I stood there for awhile, continuing to point my flashlight while trying not to faint from the increasingly intense heat in the small attic. After twenty minutes of this, my arm began to ache and soon I had to admit defeat. At this point, I knew I had no other choice but to seek outside consultation; something I had been trying to avoid.
Not that the Goblin King isn’t a very helpful resource to call upon in these types of tricky cases. In fact, he is an excellent source for the realm of the magical; probably much better than any of the most comprehensive books I have at my disposal, and he’s certainly more experienced in these matters than I am. The problem is he won’t exactly offer this information in an obliging and straight-forward manner.
Oh he’s happy enough to appear whenever I call him forth and he at least shows a genuine interest in the cases I’m working on; but he is at heart a manipulator and enjoys playing his own little games. Add to the fact that most of our conversations are invariably riddled with his brazen solicitations.
And yes, this is the same Goblin King that I had that dramatic encounter with when I was younger. We ran into each other a few years ago when I was working on one of my first really big cases. It involved a man who was so desperate to please his little boy that he used magic to make his toys come alive to entertain him. This might seem harmless enough but the potion he used was designed to bestow a personification to inanimate objects; and when that potion accidently spilled onto other objects while he was at work in his office, it created not a small bit of mayhem. I received a frantic phone call from him on the day it all went wrong. He had initially contacted me sometime before this, in the belief I could help him acquire the supplies he needed for the potion. Needless to say, I hadn’t helped him acquire anything on that occasion but I did assist him in putting things to right during the fallout. Apparently the little boy had learned that his father was in trouble and managed to call upon the Goblin King for help; because it was in the man’s office, whilst trapped in a grumpy and vindictive elevator, that I once again came face-to-face with my childhood antagonist.
Following this dramatic reunion, the Goblin King developed a habit of showing up randomly whilst I was out on a job. He would lend his special commentary, not all of which was entirely aggravating, and offer some suggestions when he was in the mood to do so. Eventually I hit upon the idea that he might like to provide his so called advice in a more official capacity, as my expert consultant.
Although he agreed to the arrangement, maintaining the professionalism of our working relationship has essentially been down to me. For instance, I stipulated very early on that some form of remuneration had to be established. Trying to convey the necessity of this to the Goblin King, however, was near to impossible. He’s never had a real job, so he has no conception of things like salaries or money. Constant nagging therefore became the only tactic in my arsenal that I could use.
“I don’t understand why you must insist upon this so incessantly,” he had drawled indifferently.
“If I’m employing you for a service then I have to compensate you, in order to keep the arrangement more official and not based on whimsy. Otherwise, it’s just you hanging around being a wise ass.”
He smiled, pleased no doubt with the way in which I had phrased my explanation about ‘compensation’. “But my dear, this is a whimsy. I assist you because it amuses me to do so.”
“See? That’s what worries me. That one day you’ll just decide it no longer amuses you to help me with this stuff.”
“Well then, you’ll just have to make sure you’re keeping me amused, won’t you?” How I hate that self-satisfied smirk.
“This is my job, Jareth; I can’t have you treating it like it’s some little hobby you can just pick up and drop whenever you feel like it. Especially if I find myself in the midst of some hugely complicated case that I only took on because I assumed I would have access to a knowledgeable resource.” At this he lounged even further back into my armchair, in a manner designed to be insolent. “Maybe we should write up a proper contract for a fixed period of time…”
“Cookies.”
“Uh… what?”
He levelled a thoughtful gaze at me. “You can pay me with cookies.”
I sighed with frustration. “Please, try to take this seriously.”
“I am being serious.” He rose from the armchair and elegantly glided (there isn’t really another word for it) towards my kitchen, where he was strangely able to navigate his way to my cookie stash without too much difficulty. “The goblins love cookies, but I have no patience for baking. Or for wading through some infested convenience store.”
“So… you want me… to give you cookies?”
Opening a packet, he delicately popped a crunchy ginger snap into his mouth and began chewing. “Unless you can think of something else to give me.”
Good grief, the man can carry off a solicitation with a mere turn of a phrase; even while boyishly munching on a cookie. This is precisely why remaining firm on the strict professionalism point is so important.
It might also be partly the reason why I resist the urge to call on him for advice too much. Although I like to think the main reason is my need to manage things on my own. After all, it is my business; I’m the one who’s supposed to be the private investigator. I can hardly claim such a title if I’m constantly asking someone else to work out the answer for me. However, with the Dwyer situation looking critical, especially after my slight remodelling of their attic, I was entitled to seek some professional guidance.
Whenever I want to consult with the Goblin King I have to specifically call him forth using a carefully worded incantation, allowing him to cross directly from his realm to wherever I’m located. This precise formula is mandatory in the case of a private residence, since Jareth cannot enter a person’s home without their permission - and yes, I’ve already used up my repertoire of vampire jokes on him.
The procedure is fairly simple; as with all real magic it’s the intent that’s important. In a sealed cabinet fixed into the wall in my living room I keep a wooden engraving depicting a birds-eye view of the Labyrinth as well as a single candle that is the representative shade for Jareth’s essence. I simply open the cabinet, light the candle and then chant the right words. Interestingly enough, the incantation to really summon the Goblin King doesn’t actually include the words “I wish”. Well, at least if you don’t want to continually wish people away to the Labyrinth, that is.
Oh sorry, if you think I’m going to tell you the right words to summon the Goblin King, then you’re out of luck. He’s not someone I would recommend you get mixed up with anyway.
On this particular occasion, after reciting the necessary words, I was left standing around for several minutes before he decided to announce his presence from my kitchen, where he was perched merry as you please on my counter.
“It’s a good thing you called on me,” he remarked by way of greeting, waiting for me to come into view before continuing, “I was almost out of these.” He indicated the box of custard creams he was holding in his left hand, while taking a few for himself with the other. “Where are the gingery ones?”
“I’m beginning to question whether these cookies are really for the goblins.”
“Aren’t I allowed to have a cookie as well? For all my hard work? It is supposed to be my celery, or what have you.”
“Your sal-ary.”
“Yes, well let’s not waste time with frivolous semantics.” He vanished the rest of the cookies beneath his midnight cloak, then slid off my counter and was directly in front of me in one graceful motion. “I’m at your service, Sarah.”
Ignoring his attempts to invade my personal space, I silently turned from him and proceeded back into my living room, knowing he would follow me. “I need you tell me everything you know about different breeds of Festares; focusing primarily on the surest means of expelling them from a residence they’ve nested in, alone, for a period of approximately four years.” I held out one of my books to him, open at the page that listed all the known shapes and sizes Festares could come in.
He ignored the book. “You can’t possibly have called me forth to ask about Festares. They are the simplest creatures to deal with. Even goblins are trickier to handle than Festares. Although… that’s not saying much.” With a sly smile firmly in place, he began to approach me, carefully closing the distance between us. “You wouldn’t be making up flimsy excuses just to call on me, would you?”
“What? No!”
He didn’t slow his advance and I stubbornly held my ground, refusing to be intimidated. “I know it’s been a bit of a slow month for you, and so you haven’t had any reason to ask for my help.” Before I had the chance to prevent it, he had captured some of my long dark hair in his hand and was idly twirling the silky strands around his elegant fingers. “Be assured that you will never have to make excuses with me. If you wish to enjoy the pleasure of my… company, you need only summon me here.”
Steadily holding his gaze, I once again held up the open book between us, which forced him in his current position to take a step backwards and ultimately relinquish my hair. “What do you know about Festares?” I repeated firmly.
The best way to handle Jareth when he’s in a particularly licentious mood is to simply ignore it and continue the conversation as though nothing has occurred. It irritates him enough to make him give up on any perceived opening he’s decided to pursue.
Feigning an expression of exasperation, he accepted the proffered item and deigned a glance at it. “Well, I can certainly tell you this book’s illustrations of Festares are ridiculously inaccurate.”
I rolled my eyes. “Never mind that, tell me all the methods you know for getting rid of them.”
“A full house cleanse usually does the trick.” He tossed the book aside and wandered over to my mantelpiece, where I keep all my cutesy ornaments. One thing I learned about Jareth - he gets distracted by shiny baubles very easily.
“I already tried that, it didn’t work.”
“Then you obviously did it wrong,” he said distractedly, as though this was the obvious conclusion to the problem.
“No, I didn’t do it wrong, I cast these spells all the time and they always work on squatters - I mean, Festares.”
He turned to smile triumphantly at me. “If you’re such a great expert on cleansing spells, why ask me for help, hm?”
I gritted my teeth to reign in my frustration. “Because, it didn’t work. So, clearly, I am dealing with a different kind of Festare I haven’t come across before.”
He appeared to ponder this for a moment, before idly making his way towards the swivel chair at my work desk in the corner. Most of my books and hastily scribbled notes were strewn across it. Jareth made a show of looking through them in a knowledgeable fashion, as though he were satisfying himself on the accuracy of my research. I hovered nearby, feeling inexplicably like I was at school again.
“I also tried altering its environment, you know? Like, making it hotter and brighter.”
“And what effect did that have?”
“Pretty much none,” I replied, not bothering to hide my sullenness. Jareth remained quiet for awhile, quickly flicking through different items at random, although I had the strange impression his thoughts were really focused elsewhere.
“Hm…” Was all I got after ten minutes of this.
“Hm? What does that mean - hm?”
“It means that I haven’t got an answer for you on this one. The best course of action now is to let me deal with this creature myself. A direct confrontation, as it were.” He added, almost inaudibly to himself.
“No way, this is my case. I’m the one who closes it, that’s the rule. Besides, you can’t go inside their house without the Dwyers summoning you directly.”
“I can just enter as your guest.” He replied easily.
“Well, I’m not bringing you as my guest then.”
“Sarah,” I could see he was making a concerted effort to maintain his appearance of composure. “It doesn’t seem reasonable to seek my expert guidance on these matters and then blatantly disregard the advice I give you, now does it?”
In fact, he appeared just a little too composed. “You’re hiding something.” And I knew it was true from the way his eyes flashed briefly, whether in surprise or admiration it was hard to tell. “What are you not telling me?”
“There are a lot of things I don’t tell you, little girl.”
I had no idea how to respond to that, especially since he had pulled out his you-can’t-guess-what-I’m-thinking face; so I flicked my hair slightly in a nonchalant manner and decided to try going for his vanity. “Oh well, I guess this is just a bit over your head, too. No need to be embarrassed about it. Maybe there’s someone else I could ask for help…” I pretended to seriously ponder my options.
“You’re terrible at mind games.” Jareth remarked, as though this were an observation he had already privately made long ago. “You should stick to bribery. It’s one of your better talents.” Strange how a compliment can feel like an insult. “Furthermore, there isn’t anyone else you can ask for help. I’m all you have.” He clearly took pride in that undeniable fact.
“And yet you don’t want to help me by telling me what I need to know.”
“On the contrary, I do want to help you. But on the condition that I am the one to do it.” I huffed in irritation at his stubbornness on that point. “Surely you can’t expect me to tell you how to get rid of this thing if I haven’t even seen it myself?”
There was something wheedling in his tone that gave him away. “You’re lying. I bet you already know how to get rid of it; you just don’t want to tell me. This isn’t a game, Jareth. These people are expecting me to help them.”
“I’m growing bored of this now.” He rose from his chair and walked away from me, repositioning himself in the centre of the room. This was usually the signal that he was preparing to leave. “Either take my advice, or don’t. It makes very little difference to me.” With that pronouncement, he vanished.
Perhaps in retrospect, if I hadn’t been so irritated with him, I might have better read the expression on his face as he said that last part.
Chapter Two