The Stories That Got Us In: A Wizard in Taylor’s Holler

A Wizard in Taylor’s Holler

By: Walker Peters

"Vern, these damn wizards have ruined the economy."

            "That they have." Vern was paying more attention to his Coors Lite than he was to anything Bentley had to say. Hell if Ben knew why; Vern drank that same swill every day. Not a proper beer, like Miller. "Honest work, that's what this nation was built on. None of this sorcery shit. And Biden, he's sending 'em everywhere. I heard one just got to Whiskypoint. Saw so on Facebook." Vern nodded as if agreeing with himself.

            "That's no good. All them good folk outta jobs. Don't need no one to work the fields no more. Magic." The word tasted worse in his mouth than Coors would. Not that he ever drank the stuff. "I tell ya', that shit ain't in the Bible."

            Vern grunted in agreement then turned to the CRT TV that'd been hanging in Sparky's Bar since before they'd been old enough to drink. Fox News blared, the pretty reporter's voice just barely beating out Kenny Loggins, which was all Sparky ever played. Bentley liked that about Fox. Subtlety be damned, they knew what mattered and they got straight to it. She was giving the guest an awfully hard time, and he liked that too. Fella looked Middle Eastern, with an unkempt beard and a bunch of flashy rings. Kept talking about some guy named Solomon. How he made all this magic shit alright, somehow. Bentley wasn't buyin' it. That shit definitely wasn't in the Bible.

            "They're saying Kamala's one of 'em," Vern said, gesturing to the Middle Eastern man on TV. "A wizard, witch, whatever you're supposed ta call 'em."

            "Who is?"

            "People." Vern nodded again. "Online. You think they'd risk puttin' their real name out there?"

            "Fair enough." A witch, in the White House. This country was already in hell.

Vern drove Bentley back that night in his 2006 Ford Taurus. Bentley's ride, an old Buick Regal he'd bought off his mom, stopped working some six months ago. The engine kept shutting off for no reason. But how was he supposed to afford a new one?

            Bentley tried not to look out the window on the drive back. He didn't want to see the corn today. That's what had built Taylor's Holler, corn. Corn had bought him his house, bought Vern this Taurus. Hell, the local high school's mascot was a stalk of corn with a face. And corn would have paid for Shelly Jr. to go to college if it hadn't been for those damn wizards.

            But the fields were almost magnetic, the way they pulled at your eyes. Row upon row of perfect, uniform stalks, glittering like hubcaps under streetlights. More corn than Bentley had ever seen in one place all his life. The field had been empty half a week ago. It'd be empty again in a day or two, picked clean by invisible hands. Then they'd rinse and repeat, pumping out more corn in a week than Bentley could in a good year.

            "They don't give a shit," Vern muttered. "Don't care about the little guy, don't care about the people that made this country great. Gotta wait 'till 2024. Things'll change then."

            The porch light flickered as Vern drove up the curb, half on the driveway and half on the patchwork of grass and ground Bentley and Shelly called a yard. If Bentley didn't know any better, he'd say Vern was a little drunk. Gettin' wasted on Coors. Now that's magic.

            "Say hi to Shelly for me."

            "Will do." Once Bentley's feet were on the ground, Vern pulled the car forward, muttered something, then put his car in reverse and backed out.

A letter from the food stamps people peeked out from underneath piles of junk mail, hidden in a rush so Shelly Jr. would see the Wal-Mart ads before having a chance to ask her ma what "government aid" meant. Shelly Sr. sat at the head of the table, flicking through unopened envelopes with all sorts of official-looking logos on them.

            "Ben."

            "Shelly." She didn't react as he leaned down to kiss her. Just kept staring at the envelopes. No, not staring at, Bentley decided. Staring through.

            "Have fun?"

            "Sure did. Vern says hi."

            "I saw y'all through the window. He damn near ran over my marigolds." Shelly kept planting seeds from the supermarket in the hopes something would grow. They never did.

            "Shelly Jr. draw this today?" He gestured to some new scribbles on the refrigerator. It was probably supposed to be the sun or something. Kids just doodle whatever they feel like. They don’t care about accuracy. Probably why she'd added a bunch of horse legs where rays should be.

            "Don't you try and change the subject, you drunk." His wife slapped the envelopes against the table and marched over to the fridge, making up for the foot of height Bentley had on her through sheer rage.

            "I ain't drunk." Bentley smiled. "I'm responsible now, all right?"

            "Then you're just wasting money, drinkin’ for no reason," she huffed, ragged red hair falling over eyes tight with anger. "A drunk and an idiot."

            "Not much else to do, is there?" He forced a laugh, then immediately wished he hadn't. Shelly marched back to the table and picked up the envelopes one by one, reading them like a church bulletin.

            "Mountain Electric. Overdue. Spectrum. Overdue. AT&T. Guess what, it's overdue!" She punctuated each envelope with the kind of slap those bills deserved. Too bad the anger was directed at him. "Bluefield Radiology, Ben! Jesus Christ, we've still got SJ's treatment to pay for!"

            Bentley looked over his wife’s shoulder. Shelly Jr.'s door was shut tight, the hall light off but the bathroom light on, just how she liked it. "Nothin' I can do. No more money in Taylor's Holler, not for good folk like us."

            "Good folk," Shelly spat. "Don't just give up when their own flesh and blood only has another year or two, God willing." She held up one final envelope, a rough cream-colored slip that made a hell of an impression against all the white she'd already waved in his face. "Here. It's addressed to you.”

            Bentley's eyes fell on the green wax seal covering the crease. One of them six-pointed stars. Always gave him the creeps. "Burn it. I ain't selling my land to no wizards."

            "Bentley James Hadfield, if you don't at least look at this offer you ain't gonna have a chance to apologize to your daughter before she crosses them Pearly Gates." She wished she could scream, he could see it in her eyes. But no matter how mad she got she wouldn't dare wake SJ.

            He snatched the letter from her hand and slit it open. Why couldn't wizards just act like regular folk? Send an email or something? He pulled the parchment – that's what it was, forget about printer paper – from the envelope and sat down to read it, angling away from the bright kitchen lights.

Mr. Hadfield,

            I hope this letter finds you well, as well as any can on this day. I am Ilyas, assigned to your wonderful town by the Department of Magecraft. This morning, I had the good fortune of meeting your daughter, Shelly Hadfield Jr., at her school. Part of my job is community outreach, you see. What good would my talents do for your town did I not consider myself a part of it?

            I digress. Your daughter has caught my attention. I wish to meet her, in a more formal setting than Mrs. Derringer's class. Of course, I would not do so without your permission or accompaniment. If you find this agreeable, I look forward to meeting you at my office at 10 am tomorrow.

"Well?" Shelly was making herself a mug of warm milk, with honey and turmeric. It's what she drank when she needed to calm down. "What's the offer?"

            "No offer." Bentley was beginning to see why she enjoyed slamming these letters so much. "Fella's a goddamn pedo. Maybe Vern weren't so off after all."

            "Give me that! And stop listening to Vern! He watches the news too damn much!" She sipped as she worked her way through the letter, never taking her mouth off the edge of the mug. "I don't like it." She decided once she reached the end.

            "Told you we should burn it."

            "No." Shelly shook her head. "I don't like it, but you're takin' her tomorrow morning. Ain't no way to make a living no more 'cept be in with the wizards."

            Boy, did Bentley want to raise his voice right then and there. He about did too, standing up and puffing out his chest, only catching himself when Shelly cleared her throat and pointed to the hallway with the bathroom light on. "Wizard or no, he's a government employee. At least meet with him, won't ya Ben?"

            "Alright." Bentley slumped back down. "I’ll meet him. No more than that. But I’m bringin’ my gun."

SJ wore her Elsa pajamas to the Town Hall. To her, a day off school meant a day in pajamas. Bentley just hadn't the heart to tell her otherwise, even this early in December. She bounced up the steps with surprising energy, dipping behind each of the pillars on the porch as she waited for her dad to catch up. Miss Margaret, the secretary, gave the girl a saccharine smile and Bentley a courtesy nod. Her tone soured once he mentioned the name Ilyas.

            "Oh, we don't really like him", she said through a grin. "Gave him the office back in the corner, but he spends most of the day checking out those fields of his. I think he’s here now though. I'll let him know you're here."

            Bentley wrapped his hand around his daughter's as they walked through the worn brick halls, flanked by photos of vets from every war since the civil one. "So this fella came to your school?" he asked. SJ nodded.

            "He showed everyone a bunch of tricks. He took an egg from Mary's lunch, and when he waved his hand over it, it hatched into a chicken." Her voice had that innocence he never wanted her to lose. "He talked some about how important it is everyone has food. And he brought a friend with him, who was really nice."

            Bentley said nothing, the weight of the Smith and Wesson on the hip opposite his daughter feeling good as they neared the door. No one cared if you carried a gun in Taylor's Holler, hell, it was almost expected. He didn't want to have to use it, but damn was it nice to have the option. SJ skipped forward, pushing the heavy white door open without a single knock.

            "Mr. Ilyas!" SJ didn't seem to mind the fluorescent lights blaring above, or the heavy chemical stench that made Bentley want to gag. She leapt up to meet the dark-skinned man, her chin barely clearing the chipped desk covered in strange trinkets and tools. Bentley scanned them over; a half-dozen coins from some foreign country, two gaudy golden cups with bottoms like pyramids, brass scales, inkwells, and plenty more that Bentley couldn't name and didn't particularly care to either. The dark man behind the desk smiled.

            "You must be Mr. Hadfield." He extended a gauded hand which Bentley reluctantly met. "It's wonderful to meet you." SJ plopped herself into an empty seat and grabbed at the coins on the table, her eyes as wide and shiny as they were. Each was engraved with the same symbol as the wax seal on one side, and a snake and dog on the other. "I keep those for good luck," Ilyas explained with a laugh. "I can't let you take them, I'm afraid." SJ nodded and set the coin down dog-face up, which Ilyas quickly rectified. "Let me see if I have anything more appropriate for a little girl like you."

            He reached into the drawer and pulled out a pendulum which he handed to SJ, a gilded little disc with a silver chain. She let the links slip through her fingers, meaning to dangle it around as the adults did their talking, and let out a gasp as the disc hovered in the air just an inch from her palm. “Let go, why don’t you?” Ilyas suggested, and when she did so the chain fell towards the ground, while the disc stayed put. SJ, giddy with excitement, hopped up and down in her seat while poking the suspended pendant.

            "I was mighty surprised to get your letter, Mr. Ilyas," Bentley said as he took a seat next to his daughter, drumming his fingers on his thigh and trying not to look anywhere but the man’s strange, deep eyes. "Can't say I expected anything of the sort."

            “I can’t fault you for that, Mr. Hadfield.” The wizard’s accent was unplaceable, but not so thick and sputtery that he couldn’t understand the man. “I think most men around here would rather just pretend I’m not here.”

            “It’d be a hell of a trick to do that, these days,” Bentley grumbled, only to be met by a polite laugh.

            “Indeed, and I don’t plan on leaving any time soon. I bought some land here just last week, from Mr. Dennis Barrow. I’ve got plans for a great mansion and hope to have it done in a month or so.”

            Barrow’s land hadn’t seen anybody in decades, save the bored kids that hopped that sorry excuse for a fence to practice with their BB guns on whatever poor squirrels or birds weren’t smart enough to run. “Whole lotta woods to clear.”

If Ilyas heard him, he gave no indication. “I must thank you then, for being willing to meet me. You are a good man, Mr. Hadfield, and you have a wonderfully talented daughter.”           

SJ paused playing with the pendant and turned to the wizard, positively beaming. “I am?”

            Ilyas nodded. “Magic is a tricky thing, Mr. Hadfield. Very dangerous, in improper hands. But our study is evolving. I began my own education at the tender age of thirteen, using my father’s notes. Now, my art has become mainstream. The children who once sought to become doctors and lawyers will earn their fortune through sorcery instead, if they are so capable. Our ancient practice now enjoys the fullest gifts of modern schooling and science.” He looked to SJ, who was teetering on the edge of her seat, no longer aware of the pendant with the six-point star hanging just above her temple. “There’s a new program in Washington, a joint effort between my department and Georgetown University. I believe Shelly Jr. to be a prime candidate.”

            “You want my daughter to become one of you warlocks?” SJ jumped in her seat as her father swatted the pendant out of the air and slammed it onto the desk, hunched over like a barn cat. “Hell no! We’re good Christian folk, and I won’t have my daughter tainted by the likes of you!”

            “Mr. Hadfield—”

            “She’s just a little girl, a sick little girl! You ain’t taking her away from me, not to some devil school!” His thoughts shifted to the pistol on his hip, reluctant to grab it but too scared to keep it out of reach. Ilyas sat stiff and still, his lips drawn in a thin line.

            “Mr. Hadfield—”

            “Daddy!”

            Bentley let his hand relax, lowering himself back into the chair. “I apologize for my temper,” he said through gritted teeth. “SJ, can you go wait in the hall? I think the adults need to have a talk.” SJ sniffled and nodded, disappearing into the hall as Bentley turned his scowl back to the wizard.

Shelly Jr. stood far enough from the door that she couldn’t make out what daddy was yelling about. She tried not to think about it. Dad got mean when his voice rose. At least she wasn’t alone.

            “Do not worry, Shelly,” Buer told her, purring like Miss Margaret’s cat. “Your father will see reason.” SJ nodded and wiped her tears, turning to Mr. Ilyas's friend. The halls were empty save for them, but that didn’t matter so much anyway. She’d been the only one in her class who could see Buer, which was probably why Mr. Ilyas thought she was so smart. Buer should have been scary, with his mane wild like fire and the five hairy legs that surrounded him like sunbeams, but he wasn’t. “In time, people will learn. I have been loved before, then scorned. Soon I shall be loved again. People fear what they think they do not know, even if in truth they know it still. You cannot fault your father for being cautious. Decide no suit until you have heard both sides speak.” Shelly nodded, not really understanding.

            “He brought his gun,” she said. “He wants to hurt Mr. Ilyas.”

            “I shall not allow it. I shall protect him, as my contract decrees, just as someday I shall protect and heal you.” He had no arms with which to wipe away her sobs, but he gently reached out with one of his hooves, and it was just as warm as her mom’s hugs. “Watch, Shelly.”

            He swiveled to the wall behind them, his legs moving as smooth as a spider on a web. He gestured with one to a crack in the wall, where a chunk of brick had been knocked away and never repaired. A thin sweep of green struggled through the crevice, curling up to meet the bright fluorescent lights as though they were sunshine. Blue pooled at the tip, tender fans spreading out like Buer’s mane, a few purple stems poking through. A cornflower. Mommy had tried to plant some only about a month ago, but they hadn’t grown as well as this.

            “Take it and know I will protect you. Not our covenant, but a symbol, so that even if my form has changed you will know it is I.” SJ plucked the lone flower from the wall and stuck it in her hair, angling it down to block out her bald patch as much as she could. Before she could thank him, her daddy slammed the door in a huff and grabbed her by the hand, his eyes passing over the spirit at her side.

“Ya should have shot him then and there,” Vern said between sips of his Coors. “Not just for your daughter, for the whole town. This place would be a heck of a lot better without him.”

            Bentley didn’t look away from the TV, not even when he dribbled a little of Bud Light on his shirt. Fox was playing a story about a kid that’d gone missing from his home in Whiskypoint. “I wish what he’d been saying didn’t sound so sweet, Vern. Free school for SJ, up through college, and I’m inclined to believe him about all the money he makes. You know he bought old Barrow’s land? Said he’s gonna build a big ol’ mansion.”

            Vern belched. “You really believe him?”

            “Shelly does. Asked what we’ve got to lose.” Bentley finished off his bottle and motioned for the bartender. “I’ll tell ya what, I don’t want my daughter spending what could be the last years of her short ‘n precious life all the way in Washington D.C. with some G-Man watching over her.”

            Vern looked over to his friend, his mouth hanging slack like he expected the beer to pour itself in. “That’s it!” he slammed his bottle down and grabbed Bentley by the shoulders, shaking him away from the TV. “Boy, you really shoulda shot him while you had the chance. That’s why he wants Shelly J., it ain’t for any of that magic shit!”

            “Hmph?” Bentley raised an eyebrow, meeting Vern’s manic look head-on.

            “Didn’t the doc say SJ only had a couple more years?” he asked. “Said that cancer in her brain’s gonna kill her more likely than not. Now don’t hate me for sayin’ that, it’s the truth, you told me yourself. Chances are, this Ilyas knows that too.”

            “What’s yer point, Vern?”

            Vern looked around and lowered his voice, as though the bar’s three other patrons could hear him over “Danger Zone” or even wanted to in the first place. “You heard of Moloch?”

            Bentley hadn’t, but boy was it an ugly-sounding name if there ever was one. “Nah. What is it?”

            “One ‘a them demons that gives those bastards their power. Nasty fella, even the bible warns about him. Big ol’ bull, and the elites,” he put air quotes around that word. “They put kids in ‘em and burn ‘em up. Human sacrifice, Ben. That’s what they want with SJ!”

            Bentley raised a shaking hand to the fresh bottle that’d been put in front of him. “Vern, that don’t—”

            “You send that girl to D.C., and I’ll bet within a few months you’ll get a nice stamped letter saying that tumor finally did her in. Only that won’t be the truth. Those few months are gonna be the freshest hell anyone could imagine, and they ain’t gonna end until they shove her squirming body in that furnace.” More beer spilled on Bentley’s shirt. “Sorry, I don’t mean to be crass, but it’s just the truth. That’s what they’ll do to your girl. Remember back in 2016? They ain’t never stopped. Only now we know why. Magic. Can’t control us with just guns anymore.”

            Darting back to the TV, Bentley noticed they were playing a new story. Some wizard over in Oregon was running for congress, Democrat of course. Sayin’ people wouldn’t have to work anymore once he was in office. What if Vern was right? SJ wasn’t long for this world anyway; he’d come to terms with that months ago. It was bad enough seeing her on them hospital tables, hooked up to all sorts of machines. He couldn’t let anything like that happen. Not to his little girl.

The ride home was silent. Bentley didn’t so much as make a peep until he was standing before the safe in his den, thumping on the hard iron with a nervous rhythm. Shelly found him like that, teetering over the dial. “Ben?”

            He’d texted her the gist of the meeting earlier, making sure to punctuate all the details with remarks on how full of shit Ilyas was. “Shoulda burned that letter, Shelly,” he muttered, turning the safe’s dial. Five to the right, six to the left, fourteen to the right. SJ’s birthday. He still had the Smith and Wesson on his hip. Had he really thought that’d be enough against a wizard? He took the rifle from the safe with trembling hands as his wife choked on a gasp, frozen there in her Grinch pajamas. “I ain’t letting him take our girl.” He stepped past her, towards the door. Barrow’s land wasn’t too far, and he’d been there dozens of times as a kid. Even as dark as it was, the alcohol pumping through his veins causing him to stumble, he’d get there in no time. Brown leaves crunched under his boot as his wife chased after him, shouting through the still night, trying not to trip over her slippers.

            Wisps danced in the air above Barrow’s woods as invisible hands swept away the trees, the horizon shifting even as Bentley marched. Ilyas stood on an outcrop overlooking the land, waving his hands in tune with some inaudible song as trunks tumbled and the earth flattened, his jewelry glinting in the faint light cast by the spells. He didn’t notice his guest’s arrival until Bentley had reached the top. Lights fluttered by the dark man’s ear and his eyes widened. “Mr. Hadfield?”

            “You ain’t getting my daughter, you son of a bitch!” He pressed down on the trigger, shots spraying into the air as he failed to steady himself against the recoil. “I’m not gonna let you hurt any kids again!” Sheer winds bellowed against him as Ilyas regained his composure, flashing his ring towards his assailant. The ground under Bentley’s feet felt like rubber, sinking as he tried to aim the rifle. Rocks rose from their nooks, buffeting him, drawing blood even through his jeans.

            “Stop!” Ilyas commanded. “I detest violence, but if I must—” His words were cut off by a woman’s shriek from behind, followed by the sound of crushing stone. Horror spread across Ilyas's face, and Bentley thought he heard the sound of hoofbeats rush past him. “Stop! Stop!” Ilyas kept waving his hands around, shouting at the air. Bentley pressed down on the trigger again, and a lone bullet escaped the barrel before something swept at his legs and his head slammed against something much harder than rubber. The bullet cut through the air, seeking out Ilyas's chest, and Bentley heard the twang of metal. It had found Ilyas’s pendent, scarring the left arm of the star. He groped for his rifle. The night howled, drums beating and pounding as the bullets whizzed past the sorcerer, cutting through the invisible wraiths that tore the trees from the land.

            Ilyas raised a finger, and a force like a truck struck Bentley, causing his body to crumple. “Put the gun down,” the wizard commanded. Bentley clutched it tight to his body, the black muzzle just barely clearing his nose. The wizard was drawing close now, too close. It was a clean shot. Bentley smiled and pulled the trigger.

The sheriff’s office got the call only about twenty minutes later, but it wasn’t until dawn broke that anyone went to check Barrow’s woods. Deputy Moore pulled up in his cruiser, parking where the unpaved road ended and making the rest of the way on foot, only stopping along the way to pick up a pair of Grinch slippers stuck in a cold puddle of mud so he could toss them later. Barrow’s woods looked bad enough, trees broken and bowed like Armageddon had come and gone in a single night. It didn’t need litter too.

            He found Shelly Hadfield’s body first, at the bottom of the outcrop underneath a pile of rocks. Her body was mangled, her face too busted to recognize save for the bright red hair. Deputy Moore made sure to take copious notes. It’d be easy to dismiss as an accident, but with a wizard involved you couldn’t be too sure. Maybe they could charge Ilyas with manslaughter. Anything to get him out of town.

            Shame Bentley’s body was a lot more clear cut. The gunshot wound couldn’t have been anything but self-inflicted. Weird place for a suicide, the deputy thought. Officer Hansley was with Ilyas in that motel room he’d been calling his home, getting his side of the story. Maybe it was some wizard trick to make it look like a suicide, but then why’d he call the cops at all?

            After some time spent watching the wind blow through split trees CSI arrived, setting up their tape and taking pictures. That meant it was time for Moore to go pay a visit to little Shelly Jr. Moore had only seen her once or twice at church since the diagnosis, and damn if she weren’t a fighter. Lord, why’d he have to be the one to tell her?

            When he pulled up to the Hadfield house, the porch light was still on from last night, and the door bounced against the white siding, propped open by a worn rocking chair and blown by the winter winds. Moore knocked on the door, announcing himself loudly enough that the whole house could hear, then invited himself in. The house was dark, save for a bathroom light down the hall and the sun creeping through the windows, and as still as a mouse in a snowstorm. Moore called Shelly Jr.’s name, to no response. Had she gone looking for her parents on her own? He shook his head. The girl was sick, not stupid.

            Moore noticed something and bent down to pick it up. A thick, shiny hair. The Hadfields didn’t own a dog. And it was too long and rough anyways, with a sheen that seemed to catch every sliver of light. The deputy followed the path, past the living room with the TV turned to Fox and back out the bouncing door.

            The wind had blown away any hairs outside, but it couldn’t cover everything; Moore wasn’t sure how he’d missed them in the first place. Pressed in the ground were two sets of footprints, perfectly in line with each other albeit at a wide gait. In the front, huge, bare footprints even bigger than Moore’s. And the back two, well, he supposed they weren’t really footprints. Hoofprints, like that of a horse before their first trip to the farrier, but only two. Not four. They led into the house and then back out, ending at the dusty road that led out of town. Between the prints shone little blue flowers, swaying in the wind and fresh with dew.

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Walker Peters is a second-year MFA student who specializes in fiction, especially the speculative kind. He is also the current Editor-in-Chief of Folio. You can find him on Bluesky @walkerspec.bsky.social

The Stories That Got Us In is a new section that showcases the work members of our MFA community submitted when they applied to American University’s Creative Writing MFA program.