Night Owls: Chapters 22-25

When Molly arrived, a sizable crowd had already gathered outside, trailing up the front steps in various interpretations of the midcentury dress code.

Molly took the mask reluctantly, sliding it on before stepping into the first room, a parlor crammed with people.

After a few more people entered, the door to the foyer closed, and the little bit of murmuring from the black-mask wearers died down.

She couldn’t quite remember, and her attention was drawn instead to the small scene on the other side of the room, where a Charlie Chaplin silent film was being projected against the wall with an ancient-looking projector, older even than the ones Clara still preferred in their theater, and two girls were sitting in front of it, transfixed, even as she lingered in the back and as some of the other guests filed through, following mourners onward into the hallway.

When she spoke, something about her voice sounded distant and tinny.

Throngs of them gazing at her like she was standing up onstage.

Ice-cold, and bitter, and viscous, like she’d taken a swig of gasoline.

They were not supposed to try and sate their hungers with demons and the dead.

He made a grand gesture with his arms, as if presenting the main course of a decadent meal.

“I...hadn’t seen this one yet?” he said, keeping his voice low even though they were the only two people there and neither of them were paying attention to the previews, the meticulously edited advertisement for the cult horror retrospective Molly had been plotting, complete with some dreadful clips from a movie called Troll 2.

Though her hair had been piled up, her skin still appeared lightly gray and sickly, her features human but gaunt.

Clara grabbed the first bread she could get her hands on, the half a loaf of challah sitting on the counter, and a well of salt before rushing to her sister’s side.

When Daniel had mentioned going to Williamsburg to find one Rafi Edelman, he had assumed they were meeting with some disaffected Hasid.

The carpet was worn down, completely threadbare in places, and standing by a shoe rack, Boaz found himself being watched by a large, deeply unsettling golem poster and a black light Tree of Life Kabbalah poster that Boaz was certain came from one of those occult stores that hawk “Jewish” magic next to Aleister Crowley texts and crystals.

They both sat gingerly.

“This one here, Dr. Abraham Abrams, in the definitive book on Jewish women monsters, says himself that the Estrie does not reveal her form to men under any circumstances.”

“Excuse me? I have a fantastic sense of humor, and I absolutely meant what I said. Why should I believe that guy or you know anything about Estries?” said Boaz, incredulous.

“A test. I needed to know how much bullshit you’d swallowed before you got here. You wouldn’t believe the messages I get in my DMs, asking for magic spells and pet golems. It’s brisk business, peddling nonsense to children who fancy themselves witches. If this impressed you, I would have given you a complimentary salt packet and sent you on your way.”

“Fire or the grave. To kill an Estrie, you must either burn it or bury it in the ground, packing its mouth full of earth. You must do this, or it will keep feeding on the men of the community. They will kill with impunity.”

“As enticing as you make that sound,” he said, “my shift doesn’t end for another half hour.”

And Boaz...What could Boaz possibly have to do with an errant sheyd on the NYU campus?

Boaz, for his part, didn’t blanch half as much as when he’d stepped on the rat.

“We were only chatting. It’sssss not every day one meetsssss a young man whose reputation precedes him.”

“While this is all very gallant of you, I can assure you that your girlfriend will be fine.”

Ashmodai’s eyes flashed, and Clara thought the facade of humanity wavered, that she could almost see the demon that lay beneath.