The Familiar

“Are you sure this is it?” I asked, pacing beside Thomas. My yellow eyes narrowed at the house peeking over the brick wall. “Doesn’t exactly scream murder mansion.”

“Yes,” Thomas said. His hands stayed tucked into his trench coat pockets as he studied the façade beneath the brim of his fedora. “The Ghost House of Baker Street. Six deaths in the past six years. All human.” His tone was idle, but his gaze didn’t leave the house.

The building was an eighteenth-century Georgian, its multistory brick façade looming behind a weathered wall. Trees stretched high above, their branches spilling over the barrier and casting restless shadows across the grounds. Vines clung stubbornly to the stone, threading through cracks, while the grass on both sides grew wild and knee-high. At the center, a stone arch framed a wrought-iron gate whose rusted bars hinted at better days now gone.

We stopped at the gate. Thomas studied it slowly. A coded call box clung to the left side, its metal casing streaked with age. He pressed against the iron, then tugged; the gate held firm.

Leaning closer, he squinted and pointed at a small button on the inside. “Think you can reach that?”

I rolled my eyes. “Of course I could,” I said, glancing up at the wall. “But it’s too high.” My tail flicked in irritation. I added a half-hearted whine.

“Lazy ass.” Thomas shook his head. He slipped a hand from the folds of his coat, fingers brushing the air as he whispered in Latin, “Aperta.” The gate clicked and swung inward with a slow, reluctant groan.

“Are you seriously going to be like this the entire time?” Thomas asked, casting me a sidelong glance.

“You were the one insistent on my coming, remember.” I stepped forward.

That was my mistake. The damn human had me distracted. My paw brushed the wrong line—and the ward exploded in a searing crack of magic.

A deafening crack split the air. Pain seared through me as the blast hurled me past Thomas. I screamed before I hit the curb and skidded into the street.

“You had that coming.” Thomas chuckled as he moved ahead, eyes sweeping the walkway. “This is Walton Fredrickson’s home, after all. Disgraced council member—but paranoid to the bone. Be more careful.”

I coughed out a rough mewl, shaking myself until the ringing in my ears eased. One paw pressed against each ear until a sharp pop brought relief. My yellow eyes narrowed. “Oh yes, laugh it up.” I bounded forward to catch up.

“Not sure how mere mortals ever managed to get this far if he’s got wards set up,” I said, scanning the yard. Twenty feet of walkway stretched from the gate to the front steps, circling a fountain long since fallen silent. Cracks split its stone basin, and moss clung to the edges—a relic of better days left to crumble in silence.

“The wards aren’t for mortals. They’re to keep out the supernatural.” Thomas kept walking.

A minute later, we reached the door. He twisted the handle. It opened without resistance.

“Creepy,” I said, sitting back on my haunches and looking up at him.

Thomas sighed. “Let me guess. Human first.”

“If you insist.” My tail flicked.

He rolled his eyes and pushed the door open. The interior was swallowed in pitch black, the antique fixtures overhead failing to pierce the threshold.

“Lux.”

A small sphere of light bloomed in the air, drifting forward to cast a pale, steady glow. We stepped into the foyer—a broad, boxlike chamber wrapped in silence. Rooms opened left and right, while narrow passages flanked either side of a sweeping staircase. The stair rose to a mid-landing, then split into twin flights that curled upward toward the shadowed wings of the second floor.

“The first body was found in here, six years ago.” Thomas moved left. He pushed open a pair of doors with a long creak.

We entered a study. Two walls rose floor to ceiling with shelves crammed full of books, their spines dulled and sagging with age. The third wall was cut by tall, arched windows that looked out toward the yard.

The room was divided in two. Near the entrance, a couch and chairs faced one another across a low coffee table, end tables with unlit lamps at either side. Farther back, a broad desk stood squarely on a worn rug, the faint outline of old footsteps ground into its faded fibers.

The couch, like the chairs, was upholstered in faded brown leather. Unlike the chairs, though, its surface bore a dark, unmistakable stain.

My nose wrinkled. The air reeked of dust, stale human musk, and the copper tang of dried blood. The iron oxide still clung sharp and potent, barely masked by the veil of chemical cleansers.

I stepped farther in, eyes drifting over the shelves. “Bit of a collector, wasn’t he?”

The collection was a strange mix: a cracked crystal skull beneath a glass dome etched with warding sigils, a dagger in a tarnished sheath, antique pocket watches gleaming beside grotesque ivory carvings. Proof of power—some earned, some bought.

“Helps when you come from a baron’s family.” Thomas slipped past the couch toward the desk. He scanned the desk quietly, glancing at the objects on the shelves, then to me before walking back toward the foyer.

“Huh.” I followed him back to the foyer.

We pressed on, visiting other rooms where the dead had been found.

In the gathering room, heavy curtains sagged over tall windows, dust thick enough to write names in. A cracked chandelier hung precariously overhead, its crystals dull, a silent witness to the dinner party that had ended in blood.

The bedroom was worse. The four-poster bed still bore faint rust-brown stains along the mattress edge. The air reeked of mildew and old perfume, cloying in my throat. A dressing table was scattered with broken glass and hairpins, as though someone had fled in a panic and never returned.

The dining hall stretched long and echoing, the massive oak table scarred by knife marks that were far too fresh to be culinary. Chairs stood neatly pushed in, but one bore deep scratches along the arms, as if someone had clawed at it in desperation. The smell of smoke lingered faintly here, long after the fire had been put out.

Each room whispered of violence, of moments frozen and left to rot under layers of dust.

We finally descended to the cellar. According to the survivors, this was the heart of it all—the place where everything began. The stairs groaned and shivered beneath the weight of Thomas’ steps. Each creak echoed off the stone walls. I slipped down more lightly, gliding to the landing without a sound.

I paused, waiting until Thomas joined me at the bottom. The cellar opened into a wide chamber with two side rooms branching off into deeper shadow.

“Wine room.” He nodded toward the door on the left. Then tilted his head to the right. “Tools and storage.”

The main chamber was ringed with shelves, their wood warped and rotting with age. Boxes sagged under the weight of damp, their corners eaten by mildew. The sour stench of mold clung thick in the air, prickling the back of my throat.

“So, how does one summon a murder ghost?” I padded deeper into the cellar, my eyes sweeping the shadows.

“Not sure.” Thomas sent the glowing orb drifting to the center of the room. It swelled in brightness, pushing the darkness back. “They say it shows itself around midnight. At least… that’s the story.” He shrugged. “I have other ideas.”

I stopped, sitting back on my haunches. “So you don’t actually know how to summon this ghost. Nor do you even believe it is a ghost?” A wide yawn broke over my fangs. My tail flicked. “Creepy house. Dead wizard. Murdered humans. Murder ghost fits the bill just fine.”

“Or it’s the perfect alibi.” Thomas folded his arms. He checked his watch. “We’ll know in five minutes.”

“They never did find Fredrickson’s body.” He leaned against a support post.

“Oh?” I glanced over my shoulder. “I’m unfamiliar with this wizard.”

“He was nearly two hundred years old.” Thomas tilted his head back. “About fifty years ago, the council barred him and exiled him from the community over his research—work on extending life through the harvesting of human essence.” His voice dropped, steady. “After that, he lived in seclusion here, though the council kept watch. Then, about ten years ago, he vanished. Six years later, the bodies began appearing inside his home. The community blamed a serial killer who was never found. The council…” His eyes locked on me. “They whispered it might be his ghost.”

“11:59. One minute.” He checked his watch again.

Midnight struck.

Nothing happened. The silence that followed was heavy, almost oppressive, filling every corner of the cellar. Still—nothing.

“Seems like the ghost thing was a bust.” I stretched. “So… now what?”

“You know,” Thomas said. “You were almost convincing.”

I blinked. “Excuse me?”

“Funny thing.” Thomas gave a faint smile. “For the first four years, Walton’s murders went unnoticed—probably buried or hidden. Then, suddenly, the killings shifted into his own home, and voilà: the Ghost of Baker Street is born. A beautiful cover story, honestly.”

I stared, ears flattening.

Thomas shook his head. “Right. Let’s start with the facts.”

“Fact one: three years ago, I got involved with these murders and discovered each victim was missing their essence. The style of the killing was only a cover. I couldn’t check the earlier bodies, but I had my suspicions.

Fact two: you tripped the ward. My familiar would have known better—he trained me in that magic.

Fact three: you walked past half a dozen magical artifacts in the study and didn’t flinch. My familiar would have named every one.

Fact four: you’ve been off your game for the last six years. Sloppy. Distracted.

And fact five…” His gaze hardened. “Two years ago, I noticed your little disappearances—always between midnight and one a.m. On this very day.”

He drew his wand. “So I asked myself, how would I apprehend the most wanted fugitive in the wizard world who’s supposed to be dead? Answer: bring them to the scene of the crime, on the day they must commit a murder.”

I exhaled. “Well. I suppose the game’s up.”

My body stretched forward, bones shifting with a dull series of cracks. Paws reformed into hands. Claws retracted. My hind paws reshaped into feet. I rose slowly, returning to my natural form—not the frailty of two centuries, but the sharpened figure of a man in his fifties. Silver hair combed back from my brow, blue eyes steady, my frame clothed in plain black, bare feet silent against the stone floor.

“In hindsight, I should have studied your familiar more carefully,” I said. “Still, I required access to my home. The magic here is unusually potent—this ley line strengthens every working, every ritual. Which means the essence I take is amplified. Life extension becomes more efficient. Eventually, one life will be enough to sustain me for a decade.” I shrugged.

“So your paper was true. Your research was never theory—it was practice.” Thomas narrowed his eyes. “How vile. We are meant to guard life, Walton. Not strip it away.”

“You mistake pragmatism for cruelty,” I said. “Humans live brief, unremarkable lives. They squander them on petty concerns. To use them—selectively, purposefully—for something greater than themselves… is not corruption. It is efficiency. It is responsibility.” I looked him in the eye. “And it is necessary.”

A pause.

“It’s unfortunate you will not live to explain this to the council. You are strong, Thomas. But I am older. And necessity always wins.”

From outside, the cellar windows flared with sudden light, brief flashes of color that twisted across the glass. The ground trembled once, then again—then nothing. Silence pressed in.

A slow fog rolled through the street, clinging to the stones and swallowing sound. The house loomed dark and waiting, its windows empty. Time stretched.

At last, the door creaked open.

Thomas stepped out. Alone.

He lingered on the threshold, framed by shadow, before moving forward into the fog. Halfway to the gate, he stopped and turned. His eyes lingered on the house for a long, unreadable moment. Then he shook his head once, almost imperceptibly and walked out the gate.

“Claudere.”

The iron gate shut behind him with a final groan. The door followed, sealing the house in silence once more.

Thomas walked away, hands tucked in his coat pockets.