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ESP | Part Of The Saga! - Phoenix Shaving

ESP | Part Of The Saga!

1920 Ithaca, New York

Aldous blinked and lifted his head, only to see a crystal ball gleaming in the dim light, a single candle flickering just beyond it. The flame danced in a lazy draft, stirring shadows along the walls. Where the devil was he? Not moments ago he’d been strolling through Elysian Park with Douglas, somewhere in the center of the hollow Earth, and now he was...what? In a cabin? A boat? Something was moving.

He grabbed the candle holder’s loop and held it high, throwing light over a cramped space cluttered with oddities. Strange bundles hung from the ceiling; herbs, pots, pans, and some things that looked like they’d fallen out of a fever dream. His shoulder brushed against a string of garlic, or maybe it was moly, though he had no idea why that word came to mind. The draft was blowing in through rickety shutters that rattled with every bump. He reached for the latch, lifted it, and shoved the shutters open. He was moving, alright.

Voices floated up to him, low and murky, the sound of horses’ hooves clopping steadily on a dirt road. This wasn’t some riverboat drifting through midnight waters; it was a wagon, rolling down a dark trail with the smell of palo santo and incense hanging thick in the air. He took a long, steadying breath, turned back to the mirror, and froze. Whatever he was wearing, it sure wasn’t his idea of everyday attire. And just then, the wagon jolted to a halt.

A small door in the wall beside him slid open, just enough for him to make out a bearded man’s face and a few tobacco-stained teeth. “We’re here, Swami,” the man said, his voice as rough as gravel. “They expect us set up and ready in twenty.”

Swami? Was that sarcasm? He stroked his chin, considering. Before he could get much further with that thought, the back wall of the wagon creaked and began to lower like a drawbridge. Light spilled in, bouncing off the jewels in his turban, illuminating a whole carnival scene—tents, oil lamps, and tinsel flickering in the glow. Aldous swallowed hard. This was starting to look like one long, strange dream.


Later, he found himself on a small stage, seated at a table behind worn, velvet curtains. The smell of dust and old fabric hung in the air. He stood, moved quietly to the edge of the curtain, and took a peek. The crowd was a strange mix: young and old, clean and grimy, the refined mingling with the ragged. And in the back, a few figures stood out in dark cloaks, looking like they’d wandered in from some medieval pageant.

The setup didn’t feel like a dream, though. He’d watched the two bald, burly stagehands put the set together, grunting as they hefted heavy equipment with practiced ease. They moved with a kind of detached efficiency, not a single one making eye contact with him. How odd?

Aldous’s gaze fell on the colored lights that shifted in slow succession across the stage; red, blue, green, back again. It could’ve been the ‘20s, or maybe it was a twisted version of 1967, with all the bizarre trappings of a low-rent vaudeville show. Either way, this world was sharp-edged, real. He sighed, glancing at the playbill in someone’s hand in the front row. And there it was: his own face staring back at him from the page, draped in the same gaudy turban he’d glimpsed in the mirror. He was billed as “Swami Alexander, The Man Who Knows.” Groovy.

He made brief eye contact with one of the cloaked figures in the back. The figure winked and then...panted? It almost seemed to be smiling. Aldous felt a wave of unease rise up his spine. He stumbled back to his seat just as the curtain swept open and a caped man took center stage, booming into the footlights, “Ladies and gentlemen, you’re in for a real spooky spectacle tonight! The world-renowned Swami Alexander…The Man Who Knows!”

Who?


The night crawled on in strange layers. In the audience, Douglas, Fran, and Huxley huddled together, cloaked and hooded, waiting for the right moment. The tension in their bench creaked as they whispered furiously about the plan.

Doug muttered, “Alright, we better move before they start throwing rotten fruit.” But before he could lay out the details, Huxley and Fran, flung themselves into fits, thrashing on the floor, arms and legs flailing.

Doug’s mouth dropped open. They hadn’t actually decided who’d go into a fake seizure; he thought he’d been the obvious choice. Without missing another beat, he dove down too, joining in the thrashing.

“Werewolves!” someone shrieked as Huxley’s cloak unraveled, revealing his fur. That did it. The crowd erupted in panic, scattering toward the exits like ants.

As the chaos churned around him, Aldous stood, seized by some unexplainable clarity. He raised a finger toward the cloaked figures on the floor, who still hadn’t realized he was with them, and shouted, “Seize them!”

The stagehands were on them in a heartbeat, and Aldous couldn’t help but think, just before everything went dark, This had to be a dream.

TO BE CONTINUED

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