Solving the Magically Mundane Murders

I fumbled for my key, struggling to open the door. I was tired and stressed, and the only thing I wanted was a soothing cup of tea. But before I could even crack a smile, I felt the cold steel on my neck. "Shhhh," said the man behind me. "I'm not going to hurt you."

"Then why are you pointing a gun at me?" I asked. The man gave me a confused look like he didn't understand why I had said that. In fact, he looked just like how I would have imagined him if someone told me about this encounter. He was tall and lean with long dark hair, and wore only a tattered grey shirt and dark pants. He looked like he hadn't slept in days and his eyes were sunken into his head. He didn't say anything else, but continued to point the gun at me as he walked through my apartment door.

"What do you want?" I asked as he ushered me into my kitchen. He turned around and stared at me in silence again before sitting down at my table with his gun still pointed at me. "Listen, whatever it is you're trying to do here, you can just go ahead and--"

"It's not what I'm doing here." His voice sounded groggy; he wasn't talking loudly but his words echoed in my ears like they were underwater. "It's what you're doing."

I swallowed hard; I knew what he was talking about. It wasn't the first time someone had come after me for what happened to his family two years ago. And as much as I hated it, knowing how to fight them was essential to staying alive. "Look," I said, trying not to show how nervous I was, "if you're trying to threaten me by saying you'll tell everyone that it was actually me who killed your wife and kid, don't bother." He looked at me without saying anything else until after several long seconds he got up from his seat and went back into my living room where he picked up a blanket that was folded up on the couch and started wrapping it around himself like some sort of cape or shawl or something. It really pissed me off because even though we were having this conversation right now, whoever this guy was, he had obviously lost his mind along with any kind of decency or manners that might have once existed inside of him.

"That's nice," I said sarcastically when he finished tying the ends together so that it made one big loop around his body like an infinity sign or something. "But if you think that will help hide your face from anyone who might see us leaving together..." My voice trailed off as he pulled out something that looked like a baseball cap from his pocket and began to put it on upside-down over the blanket wrapped around him so that only his eyes were visible underneath the brim of the hat when he finally had it all settled on top of his head correctly. And yet somehow it worked perfectly: no one would be able to tell who this person was just by looking at him from any direction whatsoever. A little bit more importantly than that thought, though, was the fact that I could feel myself starting to panic when I realized just how dangerous this situation had become because now that no one would recognize him anywhere, there would be no way for anyone else to know who took me away...

"Okay," I said aloud without meaning to because apparently thinking these things out loud made them true (at least tonight). "But... wait... then who are you?" The man chuckled a little bit under his breath; apparently laughing at my question made him feel better enough not only to talk again but also to start putting some food in front of me on my dinner table where we were standing instead of continuing out of the apartment where presumably nobody would hear us talking since my neighbors had already started going home for the night which meant most people on our floor wouldn't be home for another hour yet...

"You know," he said after closing my refrigerator door quietly behind him (and most likely filling it with food from my own fridge), "you remind me so much of her." He sat down across from me and started taking things out of what used to be my dinner for one: a package of chicken cutlets, some bread crumbs and mustard (which he placed neatly next to each other on top of the counter), some ketchup packets (which he set next to everything else in a neat line) and an apple which he tossed into a bowl next to all the other ingredients before walking over towards the sink where a small white bag sat waiting for him on top of the trashcan with its contents unopened (for obvious reasons).

"Who?" As soon as this question came out of my mouth, though, I knew exactly who he meant; she had been the reason for all those letters in between all those calls telling me about how horrible of a person I am -- how dishonorable -- how guilty -- and all those threats demanding money if they wanted their precious daughter back...