Cryptids, Kaiju & Creeps: The Man from Magus by Philip Grippi

When the man from Magus came for her, Isabelle was only 9 years and 3 months old. It was a Sunday afternoon and her mother was crying. Her father barely looked at her, but stood close by as she packed her things. Isabelle was a worrisome child. Too much so for Francis and Margaret Issacs, who were nearing a very similar madness to their young daughter. Isabelle saw things, and then drew them. Sometimes they were nice things like a fairy or things that were compelling and adventurous, like dragons and troll like creatures. These were attributed to an active imagination and cast aside as the whims of a bright child. But then came Mr. Pitch. A slender figure with a funny hat and would seemed to be stringed instrument like a guitar. He played songs that enchanted people to his will, according to Isabelle, and threw wild parties full of dancing and singing. At first this didn’t alarm the Issacs, until Isabelle started crying out at night, saying Mr. Pitch wanted to take her away. Again, nothing more than nightmares to be brushed aside. Nights went by and the crying never ceased, and Isabelle stopped sleeping. What’s more, she began to hear things while awake. Things not said aloud, things kept unsaid for good reason, and that should not have been known to Isabelle. An affair between Francis Issacs and one of the maids. Margaret’s stashes of money and treasures unknown to her husband. The gun tucked into the gardeners pants-with bullets intended for Isabelle. The manor staff had grown to fear the child, whispers of sleepwalkers and devils. The bridging of the astral schism between Isabelle’s young mind and any who wandered into her incorporeal reach. The attempt on her life brought the police… and with them came the press. Thereafter came the people of the group called Magus. The man who came to represent them said his name was Rupert, but Isabelle told him he was lying. This made the man called Rupert smile. “Very good, very clever,” he said. He had a guitar pick with nylon string run through it laced around his neck, and his fingers were calloused. “Such a talented young one. I had such hopes and I’ve not been disappointed. I’ve written such wonderful new songs for you, though you’ll excuse me if I don’t tip my hat, I left it with the doorman.” Mr. Pitch had come for her.