Invitation to the Party

A friend in my circle, whose name I must keep in secrecy, told me to meet a woman in a café. It was a winter morning in downtown Savannah. The cold breeze whispered through Spanish moss and leaves.

​The café had two stories, a window wall facing a sidewalk, and a balcony. I imagined that if I stood there, I would see a cathedral far from here. The woman sat at the black metal table in the front of the café. She was tall and thin. She wore a fur coat and a cloche hat. Her dark hair was cut to the level of her jaw. Her eyes were blue. She appeared to be in her 20s, no older than I was.

​Her grin never came off as forced, just curved naturally. She waved at me.

​My friends must’ve told her about me, I thought.

​I was wearing a grey suit and a tie, and I forgot my hat. Fortunately, I had my hair slicked back and gelled. I joined her at the table.

​“So, you’re the Cormac Stockmare, huh?” She said coyly. “I imagined you as an old man with a long beard, not a young man who shaved regularly.”

​I shrugged, “Sorry to disappoint you.”

​“Not at all, darling. Not at all.”

​I shook my head and huffed through my nose, “How did you hear about me?”

​“Our friends couldn’t stop talking about you.”

​“Ours?”

​“Yes, and they told me you haven’t been going out a lot.”

​“So, they felt thoughtful enough to pull me out of my study room.”

​She nodded.

​“I figured. What’s your name?”

​“Myrna Greenwell.”

​The Greenwell family? They have been supporting our organization financially. Otherwise, we would not have found the deeper truth of our world. They’re the big believers in the supernatural. If I remember, she and her brother just inherited the plantation house. Just what are my friends setting me up with this time? I thought.

​I squinted at her, “So, why do you want to meet up with me?”

​“You see, I’m hoping that you could join me, my brother Ezra, and our friends at a party.”

​I don’t like parties myself. Too loud, and people get too emotional when they have a bit too much. Additionally, I prefer to keep my head clear.

​“I don’t do some party tricks.”

​“Oh, I know. You see, we all are interested in the occult.”

​The occult? Just what she wants from me? For the life of me, I couldn’t figure her out. She invited me just for a talk? Perhaps in her eyes, I owe her something.

​“I don’t see what it has to do with me.”

​“I think it’s best if you come.”

​“What’s in for me?”

​She laughed, “Men like you should be ashamed for talking to a woman like this.”

​“I’ll cry over it eventually.”

​She passed me a black card that was decorated with yellow roses, and it was written in white cursive:

You’ve been invited to the Greenwell House! Please come to the party!

Date: January 10th

Hour: 9 P.M.

​So, they’re partying at their old family house. After all, it was a hotbed for the deaths of the slaves. It made me sick thinking about it. People won’t be the only ones screaming. That’s why my friends are pushing me to be there. They’re not expecting me to party. I wonder if I’ll see one of them there.

​I looked at her, “Pretty card. Tomorrow night?”

​“You look interested.”

​I grinned, “Maybe I am.”

​“I can’t wait to see you.”

​I waved her goodbye.

​

I came home at noon, passing through the front gate. I couldn’t believe that they wouldn't tell me firsthand, I thought. What kind of friends are they if they don’t trust me this much?

​My study room was cold and dark. The shelves were filled with books. They were concerned with occultism, Neo-occultism, witchcraft, dream-traveling, and histories of both the physical and metaphysical world. Knowing the Greenwell family donated those books scared me. Did Myrna feel entitled to attach some strings to me and pull them?

​I fiddled with the fireplace with a poker. The fire started to linger in the wood. The firelight and shadows danced on my face, at least, I imagine. I sat on my red highback chair. I already changed into a green robe, given to me by my English friend.

​I don’t know when it happened, but my eyes grew heavy, and I started to nod off into a slumber, full of coffee and brunch.

I dreamed about running up the white stairs that went off in impossible arcs in the void. Against my instincts, I looked back. The pale spirits crawled on the stairs. They wept without eyes and mouths. I stopped and shook my head. They jumped on me, embracing me. The words I remembered before waking up were, “Help us, Cormac.”

The fire was long gone. My body was drenched with sweat. And it was already nighttime. I couldn’t believe that I slept the whole day. I didn’t plan to sleep again. So, instead, I picked a book about dream traveling. It was bound in leather like the rest of the library, only it was dyed blue. It bore a title stamped in a silver foil: The Silence of a Warlock’s Dream. I cracked it open, and my fingertip ran down the table of contents. There, I found a chapter about dream encounters.

​I don’t believe in the significance of dreams, but this one convinced me otherwise.

​I skimmed across the book to find the passage about meeting spirits in a dream.

​It said, “If you’ve encountered a spirit and live to tell a tale, consider yourself lucky.”

​I growled at the vagueness of it. I hurled the book on the floor, and the slam echoed in this room. Maybe it was only a dream, I thought. What if I took those words as fact? Would it mean that the spirits are trying to kill me in a dream? Could I have died in this study room, and no one would know what caused it? Would the morgue rule it out nonchalantly? I have more reasons to go to the Greenwell house. It must’ve held answers, waiting for me to find them.

​I found myself in my room. I must’ve been in a trance walking across the stairs while pondering about faceless specters. A brown three-piece suit was held in my hands, which I didn’t remember picking out.