Chapter 1: Paul Meets Rosemary

After six years of searching, Paul was discouraged and depressed.

He had visited hundreds of people, saw thousands of demonstrations, and explored dozens of dead ends.

"There is no such thing as real magic," Paul had to admit. "Now, what am I going to do with my life?"

Paul parked his car in the driveway and looked up. It was an old Victorian mansion, looking especially run down and seedy. What little paint remained was peeling, the yard was strewn with litter, and the wood was rotting away. He heard trucks rumble by, just through the trees.

"Might as well check out this one last lead," he sighed, without much hope.

Paul crossed the porch to the front door. Idly, he wondered if the floorboards would hold his weight. He rang the bell and waited.

Two minutes went by. Paul rang again. He peeked into the side window (cracked), though dirty lace curtains, and peered down a dark and deserted hallway. After a minute, he saw someone cross the hallway.

Paul rang a third time and waited.

Paul rang a fourth time.

"What!?" The door was yanked open and an old, cranky face shot out.

"Oh!" Paul stumbled back. A host of ugly smells washed over him; cigarette smoke, stale sulfur, cheap perfume, baby powder, mildew. "Hi," he coughed, "my name is Paul."

"State your business," she said, impatient and agitated. Her head had a slight uncontrolled quaver to it.

"Right. Mrs. Carter? I saw an article that mentioned you in the Corbet County Times from 1954. A society piece that mentioned a magic trick that you did for a benefit party? Something about a glove that would put itself on your hand, ummm..." She looked at him with complete contempt. "Yeah, well I'm curious how you did it. I'm really good at illusions, and I don't see how that trick could be possible."

"Well, maybe it wasn't a trick. Maybe it was real?"

Paul felt his heart skip a beat. "Real?" he stammered.

"Har har haaarr," she wheezed at him. Paul felt a gentle mist of spittle land on his face. "You kids are so gullible. You'll believe anything. Some magician you are. Well, I'm sorry, but my entertaining days are long over. Goodbye." She pulled back and swung the door shut.

"Wait!" Paul shouted, and lunged forward. "Ahhh, fuck!" he screamed as the door closed solidly on his hand and then bounced back.

The old lady appeared again. "Now what?"

"Oh god." Paul moaned, rocking back and forth, doubled over with his hand in his lap. He looked up at her. "Please. I just need to know for sure. Can you show me the trick?"

She looked at him more closely, her head tilted to one side. Her nostrils flared.

"Well, I was looking for a woman..." she said, quietly, after a long pause.

"Excuse me?" Paul asked, not sure he had heard correctly.

The old lady pushed a finger into her nose and picked at it for a second.

"Alright, come in," she said finally. "You interrupted my lunch."

Paul sat watching Mrs. Carter ("Call me Rosemary," she had said) hunched over her soup, slurping noisily. Both elbows were on the table and she covered the bowl.

"Good thing you're here, place is a pig sty. Can't say I ever cared to keep it up for anyone after my daughter died." Soup dripped down her chin. She wiped it off with her housecoat.

Paul looked around. The table was coated with a greasy film, the chairs were sticky and oozing lint, and dead cockroaches clustered in the corner. To make the soup, she just picked a random pot from a pile of dirty dishes. He was glad that she hadn't offered him any.

"Excuse me?" Paul asked.

"I said, you can start with the kitchen."

"Kitchen?" Paul was befuddled.

"Yes. Clean it!"

"What? Why?"

"God, you're thicker than a cinder block! Do you think I'm going to share a secret with a snot-nosed, wet-bottom infant like you? You're going to have to work for it."

"Now wait a minute. I don't even know if you can do magic at all. I don't even know if you're really Mrs. Carter! If I'm going to be your personal cleaning service, I need some proof or I'm headed right..."