The bathroom tile was cold on Lester’s bare feet as he crossed to the shower. Rubbing his eyes, he turned the water on and stood half asleep in his pajamas, waiting for it to become hot. Gray morning light shone through the ice crystals clinging to the outside of the room’s small window. The evenings were growing colder, and from the look of it, last night had been the first frost of the season.

Autumn in New England could be fickle. Warm days, reminiscent of the rapidly receding summer, were often followed by bitter cold nights, foreshadowing the long winter looming ahead. This teasing shift between seasons tended to make locals suspicious of anything that seemed too good or easy. Even the simple pleasure of an unseasonably nice day was apt to carry a strong sense of foreboding.

Lester was tired. He, Amanda, and Mae had talked late into the night, undisturbed in the quiet of the library’s basement. Mae had listened patiently as they’d relayed what they had seen in the alley behind The Mortician’s Eye. Part of Lester had expected her to laugh, suggest they were mad, or in some other way doubt the validity of their story, but she never did. Instead, when they were done, she’d asked a few clarifying questions and then sat quietly.

It felt good to tell someone else, and Lester had noticed Amanda relax a bit as well. Though, perhaps not as much as she might have if that someone else hadn’t been Mae Chase. Amanda had spent so much time being skeptical or making fun of Mae’s obsession with the unusual that Lester suspected finding herself in the middle of one of Mae’s investigations was somewhat unsettling.

“Okay,” Mae had said finally. “There’s no getting around it. We are going to need more information before we can say conclusively what it is we’re dealing with.”

“We?” Amanda had asked.

“Yes. The sample size of events is far too small. Don’t get me wrong. What you and Lester witnessed is compelling. Still, we need some corroborating evidence before we can posit a theory. Then we can work out some possible solutions with potentially beneficial outcomes. There’s a lot to do, and it’s obvious you two are going to need my help.”

“So,” Lester had said, swallowing hard, “you’re saying you think our fathers really could be demons?”

“Well, yes and no. Haven’t you been listening? It’s a mistake to take anything in these sorts of books too literally. That’s just one interpretation from a single grimoire, and even then, they’re depicted as demons, sorcerers, and witches. Other texts show them as actual beasts coming out of the ground or winged things from the sky. I once saw an old lithograph of the same image, but with some sort of swamp creatures.”

“Lovely,” Amanda had muttered.

“True, none of it is what one would call flattering. But my point is, of all the depictions of fate demons I’ve ever seen, no two were the same.”

“And how many is that?” Lester had asked, pulling the book closer.

“Oh, loads. There are three other volumes in this basement alone.”

At this, Lester had looked pointedly at Amanda and nodded his head towards Mae. Amanda had made a face, but before she could object, he’d slid The Lesser Key of Solomon across the table. Amanda’s shoulders had sagged as she looked down at the image of the small pile of ash.

“Fine,” Amanda had said, closing the book, careful to touch as little of its patchwork cover as possible.

Mae, who had been watching this silent exchange, had squealed with delight. “I can help!”

“You can help,” Amanda had sighed.

Mae had shot out of her chair and wrapped Amanda in a hug. “Thanks. You won’t regret it.”

Not knowing what to do, Amanda had patted her lightly on the back while motioning for Lester to help peel her off.

Now, standing on the cold floor of his bathroom, Lester yawned widely, missing the hours of lost sleep.

When the water in the shower was finally hot, he stepped inside. He welcomed the warm steam that rose up around him, letting it relax his tired muscles. Lathering shampoo between his hands, Lester closed his eyes and began massaging it onto his head but quickly stopped. Something wasn’t right. The shampoo was sticky and stiff, and his fingers stuck in his dry hair. Thinking he must have forgotten to wet his head first, he bent down under the spray, but the familiar sensation of soap suds rolling down his face failed to materialize.

Lester opened his eyes. The tub around him was wet, and looking up, he could see water coming down from the showerhead. He stepped closer, but as if blown by a nonexistent wind, the flowing droplets cascaded away. Moving left and right produced similar results, the spray performing increasingly acrobatic stunts to leave him completely dry.

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Pushing down on the rising feeling of panic in his chest, Lester reached up and clasped the showerhead. Amazingly, the water stopped exiting the spout altogether. A metal thunking reverberated from the pipes in the wall, and Lester let go, allowing the water to resume its trick of dousing everything in the shower but him.

Ripping back the shower curtain, he jumped out onto the bathmat. It was an odd sensation, as even the bottoms of his feet remained dry. He walked quickly to the sink and turned on the tap. As he waved his hand under the flow of water, it too defied gravity to avoid making contact with his skin.

Lester felt dizzy. Stumbling backward, he tripped over his towel and landed on the floor with a loud thud.

“Lester?” his mother called. “Is that you?” He heard her footsteps on the stairs, followed by a knock on the bathroom door. “Is everything alright?”

“Yes!” Lester answered, scrambling to his feet. “Everything’s fine.” He retrieved his towel and quickly wrapped it around his waist.

“Are you sure? Do you need me to help you with anything? What was that crashing noise?”

“I just slipped on the floor. No big deal. I’m fine.” He caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror. The shampoo was beginning to dry, and his hair shot out in all directions. “Oh, brother.”

“What was that?” his mother asked.

“I said, don’t bother. Everything’s good. I’ll be out in a minute.”

Lester tried splashing water from the sink onto his head but only managed to create small puddles on the counter.

“Lester?” his mother called again. “You know you can talk to me, right? No matter what’s going on. It might surprise you, but we were all young once.”

“Not like this,” mumbled Lester.

“Would you feel more comfortable talking with your father?”

“No!” Lester hadn’t meant to shout. “Really, mom,” he said through the door, trying to sound casual. “There’s nothing to talk about.”

“Alright, if you’re sure.”

Lester waited until he heard his mother’s footsteps grow faint, then quickly crossed the hall to his room. He got dressed and did his best to dry his head with the towel.

Bolting downstairs, he saw Bernard sitting at the breakfast table in yet another new sweater vest. Not stopping to say hello, Lester grabbed his backpack and sprinted out the door.

“Lester!” his mother yelled after him. “You didn’t eat breakfast!”

“I’ll grab something at school,” he called over his shoulder. “Don’t want to be late.”

Head down, Lester ran out into the driveway and nearly plowed straight into Amanda.

“Whoa! Where’s the fire, Lester?” Amanda asked, pirouetting out of his path while balancing a steaming travel mug high in one hand. As she watched him pass, a puzzled look crossed her face. “Did you do something different with your hair?”

Lester skidded to a stop and turned to face her. He opened his mouth as if to say something but then spotted her drink and snatched it.

“Hey! I was enjoying that,” Amanda said. “What is up with you today?”

Rapidly unscrewing the lid, Lester held the mug above his head. “You want to know what’s up with me? This is what’s up,” he said and flipped the drink upside down.

The genuine look of surprise on Lester’s face as streams of hot soapy tea ran from the top of his head down to his shoulders sent Amanda into a fit of laughter. Lester stood, wet and stunned, watching her double over in hysterics, trying to catch her breath. She was almost successful a couple of times, but then she’d look at him, and it would start all over again. Soon Lester was laughing too, and the two friends stood on the sidewalk, giggling at each other, tears running down their cheeks.

Patricia North stepped away from the bedroom window and turned to her husband, who was rummaging around in his half of the closet. “I’m worried about Lester.”

“Why?” Mr. North asked, emerging with a black tie that matched his suit.

“For starters, he just dumped a mug of hot tea over his head,” she said, motioning to the window.

Mr. North leaned forward and peered out the glass. “I’ll talk to him tonight.”

“Edward, the last thing he needs is another lecture from you.”

“Then what would you suggest I do, Patricia?” he asked, struggling to arrange the tie into a passable knot. “Darn it!”

Mrs. North stepped behind him. “Here, let me.” She slid her arms under his and looked over his shoulder. Smoothing out the fabric, she started over, looping the material around with practiced ease. “Lester’s at a difficult age,” she said, making a knot.

“You coddle him too much. Do you know what I was doing when I was eleven?”

Mr. North held out his left hand. A maze of raised scars wove across it, forming an elaborate spiderweb of lines that gleamed white as he flexed his stiff fingers.

“Of course I do, but is that what you want for your son?” Mrs. North folded the collar of his shirt over the finished tie. It was perfect.

“I’ll be late again tonight,” Mr. North said, shrugging into his suit coat and sliding a thin black glove over his scarred hand.

“Trouble at work?” asked Mrs. North.

“Just a few irregularities.”

“Do I need to worry?”

“Not yet. Probably another false alarm.”

“And if it’s not?”

“Don’t wait up,” Mr. North said and walked out of the bedroom.

Mrs. North watched out the window until she saw her husband’s car leave the driveway and turn down Main Street. Once he was gone, she picked up the phone from the bedside table.

“Can we meet? Yes, I understand. I would have preferred to wait as well, but we may be running out of time.”