Bowen shifted uncomfortably in his kneeling position upon the purple velvet cushion. He squinted at the outline to the gypsy's figure ahead of him. A few weeks ago, he had started to see ghosts walking on the streets. Each ghost would slowly turn its head in his direction. Although ghosts had no eyes, it still had felt as though they were staring into his soul. He could not read their emotions, and could only stare back into the two dark, empty sockets in positioned in the center of their faces. Magicians in his world were inexperienced in matters dealing with the undead, which was why he sought the help of the gypsy. It was peculiar for him to be exposed frequently to these ghosts, who rarely left the premises of their graves. Bowen could only conclude that the ghosts were trying to relay him a message. Perhaps the gypsy could shed light upon what the message was.
"You come because the spirits are giving you attention," the gypsy said softly. Bowen squeezed his eyes shut and nodded. He could understand why the gypsy wanted to remain anonymous, but he wished she had worn a veil or something instead of using the harsh backlighting.
The gypsy laughed mildly, "Return to your hometown and you will find the answer that you seek."
Morning came, and Bowen was soon aboard the first train departure to Loredoma, the city that he spent his childhood in. When he stepped off onto the boarding platform, he felt his stomach rumbling and set off to find his favorite bakery.
Three blocks later, he discovered that the bakery was nowhere to be found, but in the distance he could see a tall building decorated by beasts made of stone. A chill ran down his spine. There was something familiar about that building, but he couldn't place his thoughts on what. He walked to the building entrance and experienced a jolt against his body. A force field. Nothing I can't handle, Bowen thought, after all he wasn't Baolania's greatest magician for nothing. He whipped out his cedar wood wand and muttered a few incantations to form a hole in the barrier.
He gently pushed the front entrance open and found him facing a reception area labeled Welcome to the LD Mental Institute. LD stood for Loredoma, no doubt. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a ghost in the form of a small girl. When he turned her direction, she slipped through the wall.
"Wait!" Bowen called out. He ran down the corridor and was shocked when hundreds of apparitions suddenly jumped out at him. They pawed at his hair, tugged at his clothing, and gripped his wand. After what seemed like an eternity of being bashed around by these translucent figures, Bowen raised his wand to the air and fired three spouts of light to the ceiling. The ghosts wailed and dispersed.
Bowen wiped the sweat from his brow and polished his wand with the tail of his shirt. Then he set off to find the girl. The mental institute was filled with many rooms stocked with ample testing equipment. Thirty years ago, citizens lacking the ability to produce magic were admitted into this institute. They were subjected to harsh testing so that researchers could figure out the defects in their genes. These mental institutes were eventually shut down for obvious unethical reasons.
At the end of the corridor, Bowen drew his focus to a room in which the blinds had been drawn back. The light from the moon seeped into the halls and casted a light blue glow upon the bed. The ghost girl he had seen earlier sat cross-legged on the bed, handling a section of tubing between her fingers. She concentrated on tying multiple knots in the tubing. Bowen felt a sharp pain in his chest and swallowed with difficulty as the unpleasant memories came back to him.
"Annabelle," he whispered. The girl slowly turned her head to face him. Even three decades later, he could still see the weak smile she always gave him when he visited her in the institute. She had been a beautiful and bright girl, with long, shiny pink hair and eyes the color of rubies. They went to wizardry school together, and although she had been at the top of class for history, she came short in all aspects that could not be gained merely by knowing its process. At her eighty-ninth failure to brew a growing potion, she was declared unfit in the magic world, and immediately registered as a client for testing at the LD Mental Institute. Because he was just a young child, all Bowen could do was watch as the authorities dragged her away from her boiling pot of unmagical brew and toss her into the private LDMI shuttle.
Bowen had visited her everyday at the institute, bringing her books to read, but they lay in a neglected pile on the lamp desk beside her bed. There is no point in knowing things that I can't even put into practice, she had reasoned. Instead, she spent long hours staring into space, tying knot after knot in a piece of clear IV tubing. When Bowen swung by his favorite bakery on the way to the institute one day, he saw a woman knitting. He asked her what she was doing and she responded that she was making the skin for a doll. "A skill that lacks magical properties," she muttered. It gave Bowen an idea. He rushed to the town seamstress and asked for materials that he carefully packed in a box addressed to "Dear Annabelle."
As he was on his way to the LD Mental Institute the next day, he was stopped by his mother who displayed a worried look. "Son, we have to move today. Your father has been transferred to Baolania for work," his mother stated. He eyed her in dismay. His mother glanced at the box, "Is that for Anabelle? I'll have one of the neighbors deliver it to her. Honestly, I don't know why you bother doing things for that girl, sweet as she is. It's no good for you. You will be transferred to Baolania's Wizardry School. It's the best in the nation. There, you can make new friends, ones who you can actually practice magic with." Then she hurried off to start shrinking the household items into travel-appropriate sizes.
Thirty years ago I didn't have the authority to do as I wished, Bowen thought. He sank to the floor of the moonlit room and sighed, "I'm sorry, Anabelle." Anabelle's spirit nodded slowly at Bowen and vanished to reveal a tan crocheted bear leaning against a pillow. Bowen stood to pick up the bear and hugged it until morning casted golden streaks upon the bed.
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