Simon and Milt Bevell and the Sorceress of Oden

Simon lingered on Belladonna Avenue gazing skyward at the churning clouds that looked like wads of dirty wet cotton. Charcoal streetlamps flickered amber as the afternoon shadows grew long. A stale breeze swept a pile of leaves in an upward draft carrying with it the scent of sour garbage. The air felt electric. “Gross!” Milt squealed from the corner of the building. Simon rubbed his hands together and cracked his knuckles, then jogged toward the alley nestled between the brownstone and the cinderblock warehouse owned by Mr. Collins. Simon rounded the corner, as the afternoon sun dipped behind the buildings casting the alley in shades of smoky gray and inky black. It smelled like the funk of forty thousand trash bins. Simon pinched his nose shut. “What’s that smell?” he whined in a nasal voice. “Flip the lights,” Milt called, stretching his arms out as if to balance between the curtain of muted sunset and the crumbling façade of the ancient brownstone. Simon pressed forward into the darkness, choking on the stench. He patted the wall until his fingers found the switch and the dusk to dawn light sputtered to life. With a strobe-like stutter the shadows recoiled, exposing the source of the odor. The garbage bin, at the back of the alley, simmered with a cornucopia of lumpy trash bags that roiled to the top and burbled over. In its final effort to purge itself, the rusty bin belched its contents onto the alley floor, splattering putrid rubbish everywhere. “That. Is. Foul!” Simon gagged, pulling his t-shirt over his nose. “Yeah,” Milt groaned, wrinkling his nose. “It smells worse than your gym socks.” “Shut it,” Simon growled, stumbling backwards. The bin continued to bubble and writhe spewing the contents of broken bags and half-empty ice cream containers. Beneath the debris a cat with lamp-like eyes and a matted beige coat surfaced from the rubble. It sprang out like a jack-in-the-box with its back arched and mouth parted, expelling a low unfriendly hiss. “Whoa, back off, Pet Sematary,” Simon said, with a sudden jolt. The scraggly cat sniffed the air and stretched its tongue out between two shockingly white fangs and began to lap up the soupy mess of splattered ice cream. “Hey, I know that cat,” Milt said, kneeling to get a closer look. “I’ve seen it around here before. I wonder if it’s a stray?” “You think so?” Simon asked. “I don’t know, it looks rather well cared for. It’s probably someone’s house pet. Let’s just check its tags. Oh wait,” Simon paused, tapping a finger on his chin. “Does Satan have a phone that we can call to let him know we’ve found his feral demon cat?” “Jeez, Simon, dramatic much?” Milt said irritably, pausing to examine the cat for a collar. HISS… CRACK… “Did you hear that?” Simon tensed. Milt jumped to his feet, searching the shadows, while the cat seemed more interested in the melted ice cream than the strange noise in a vacant alley. Simon looked up; his eyes focused on the dusk to dawn light. It flickered twice then exploded in an elegant spray of tiny slivers, blanketing the alley in darkness. Simon ducked, throwing his hands over his head, deflecting the shards of glass raining down. Stumbling backward he skidded through the ice cream and hit the ground hard with his right knee. His hands gliding through goopy chunks of curdled custard. He groaned through gritted teeth. Milt teetered back on his heels – squeaking his protestations as the demon cat skittered off. Simon exhaled audibly, flinging muck from his hands. Grimacing, he wiped the remaining goo across the side of his shoes and forced himself up. He dusted the pea gravel from his jeans, noting a fresh tear across his right knee. On the opposite side of the avenue the setting sun peeked between the brownstones. It marbled the alley in veins of gold. “Simon?” Milt’s voice faltered. “What?” Simon breathed, his eyes finding Milt, who was staring toward Belladonna Avenue at an old woman moving slowly through the shrinking blades of afternoon light. She wore a shabby frock and what looked like a large lace doily draped over her shoulder, She looked like something out of a Stephen King novel, one-part withered mummy, a dash of hag, and a hint of ghoul. The excitement Simon had been wishing for had finally shown up. However, a visit from a haggard old lady and a demon cat was not on his bingo card. Specificity is everything, he thought to himself. “Meow,” the mangy cat mewled as it darted between Simon’s legs and leaped eagerly into the arms of the old woman. “Good kitty,” she said in a throaty voice, and stroked the cat until it purred like an idling car engine. “Well, well, what have we here, Yarrum?” The old woman licked her lips and bared a toothless grin, her gaze fixed on Simon and Milt, appraising them curiously. “We’ve been looking for you,” she said matter-of-factly. Simon’s brows knit together, and he stretched a protective arm in front of Milt. “Who’s we?” he demanded, half expecting someone or something else to lurch from the shadows. “Allow me to introduce myself. My name is Asil, and this sweet creature is my companion Yarrum.” She scratched under the cat’s chin, and it purred louder. “I am a Traveler from the Corridors of the Seventh Realm,” she explained. “Yeah… okay, that’s nice. Shall I take you to our leader?” Simon muttered sarcastically. “Ah, Son of Arlo, I wish you could. Your father would be of significant help right now. I don’t suppose you know his whereabouts, do you?” Asil asked. Simon felt the blood drain from his face. “How do you know about our dad?” he asked, his heart thrumming in his chest. Arlo Bevell disappeared ten years ago, and no one ever talked about him, not even their mother. “Everyone from our world knows Arlo Bevell. His powers are legendary,”