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It was midnight on July 27 when the event struck Arcadia Videogames. Most of Redgrave’s residents never understood what was unleashed in their seedy town that night. But those who did know—and the ones who survived—would never forget that fateful summer of ’75. The chain of events that followed would forever change everything.
Hours before the event, an unnatural cold settled over Redgrave. The town felt still, yet the silence seemed to stir while flickers of lightning and faint rumbles of thunder rolled across the sky. They were the only things keeping Danny Zoran company as he rode around the rural town. Finished with his deliveries, he steered his bright blue Pathfinder to the curbside in front of Herbie’s Funtastic Pizzamore. His steps were awkward on the walkway. He frantically rubbed his hands together and cupped them over his mouth, catching the warmth of his exhale. Danny grinned as his windburned cheeks tingled while the heat of his breath seeped into his chilly fingers.
He checked his watch at 10:31 p.m. and switched off his bicycle headlight, thinking about how dark and cold it was for a July evening. He had grown accustomed to the companionship of the moon and stars. They had turned his lonely deliveries into a source of quiet comfort on those clear summer nights. But the overcast sky stole Danny’s simple joys, so his thoughts drifted to the dregs of his mind. There, he thought of his cousin, Ziggy Svoboda, as well as his mother, Maria Cavallo-Zoran. No matter how fast he had tried to pedal, he could never outrun his grief.
A tear slipped down Danny’s cheek and onto the lapel of his wool-lined jacket. He rubbed his eyes and pulled the visor of his red ball cap down over his wavy blond hair. He was all alone in the dark, and there was no escaping his haunting memories.
A streak of lightning strobed the night sky. As Danny watched it and began thinging of Ziggy, who used to say, “Magic is all around us—like a whisper in the wind or an inscription in a book. You can always see its signature traces in the branches of trees, the cracks in things, and the lightning in the sky.”
But the magic in his cousin’s words didn’t tear at him as deeply as the way magic reminded Danny of his mother. She used to sing the song Magic, just to tease him when chores were finally getting done. Like most boys his age, he hated doing chores. Now, he would do them gladly if he could share another moment with his mother. His eyes swelled again as he began humming Magic.
Attempting to press on, he chained his Pathfinder to the bike rack, his fatigue beginning to set in. After giving the lock a final yank, he removed the bungee cords from the bicycle’s rear carrier rack and let out a sigh of relief, thinking to himself, I made it. Just drop off the money, get home, and crash on my bed—before that storm Mr. Murphy mentioned is supposed to roll in.
He took a slow breath, trying to shake off the ache in his legs and the heaviness behind his eyes. But before he could make it inside his uncle’s restaurant, a sharp, foul odor of urine and garbage invaded his nostrils. He recoiled and stumbled, catching himself just before falling off the curb. Then he heard the sound of rummaging and a haunting voice say, “Flashes? Earthquakes? Lightning? Baaad omens…bad omens.”
He looked up and was startled to see a haggard man in his 60s at the trashcan beside the bike rack. Danny’s heart sank as he saw the unmistakable grimy navy jacket and knew right away who the man was. The homeless man was Brock Willard. He wasn’t sure what Brock was going on about, but he couldn’t stand seeing another human being digging through garbage for food. “Sir—if you’re hungry,” Danny said, “I can see if my uncle has any food to give you.”
Brock looked up at Danny and said, “T-thank you.”
“You’re welcome,” Danny replied. He gave Brock a warm smile, his eyes filling with sympathy as he watched him continue to forage through the trash, just as Danny had seen him do many times before. He couldn’t help but stare at the tangled remnants trapped in Brock’s peppered beard and wild dreadlocks. He thought about how people called Brock the Zombie of Redgrave because he roamed like a tattered, empty shell of a man.
“You’re Mrs. Cavallo-Zoran’s kid, aren’t you?”
“I–uh–yes,” Danny said in a soft tone.
“You have her eyes––and kindness. Most people just ignore me. She was always kind to me.”
He looked deep into Brock’s fragile eyes and saw a tear streak down his cheek before vanishing into the caked grime of his beard and weathered skin.
“Th-thank you,” Danny sighed, lowering his head. “Uh––it’s late; I should go inside and hopefully find you some food before it gets tossed,” he said, rushing away.
“Wait!” Brock shouted after him.
He flinched at the urgency in Brock’s voice, turning to face him, reluctant but concerned.
“There’s bad omens tonight; be careful,” Brock sighed. “I-I get premonitions sometimes.”
He pondered Brock’s words for a moment. He knew Brock wasn’t crazy, but no one ever took his premonitions too seriously.
Danny soon shrugged off the warning as he entered the restaurant, greeted by the inviting aroma of tomato sauce and garlic. However, the pleasure was immediately lost as his eyes met the stark brightness of the lights. Squinting, he hung his denim trucker jacket on the coat rack by the doorway. Once his eyes adjusted, he scanned the dining area. His cousins were nowhere in sight, but he spotted his Uncle Herbie, rag in hand, hard at work wiping down the heavy wood dining tables. As always, Dean Martin’s voice crooned from the jukebox.
The ambient music blended nicely with the wall-to-wall Italian décor, an eclectic mix of famous Italian imagery and photos of the Cavallo family. It was a unique blend of an Italian restaurant and a game room filled with attractions that ensured the place stayed lively. There was something familiar yet surprising to experience at Herbie’s—especially the food—people were poised to come back for more. And that was altogether another kind of magic. The kind Maria Cavallo-Zoran would have called the truest: tender, timeless, and served warm from secret family recipes passed down through generations. Kitchen magic rooted in traditions born in the heart of Italy.
Danny dragged his black-and-white Converse shoes as he glanced at the vacant kitchen. “Did Don and Geno go home already?” he asked, his legs wobbling with each step.
Herbie glanced down his prominent nose and past his bifocals, pausing to look at Danny. Brushing sweat from his brow with his large, hairy forearm, he answered, “Yep. They already finished inna kitchen and went home.” Chuckling, he added, “Boy, you looka tired!”
“Yeah, been pedaling all day and night on that bike you got me. Haven’t ridden around like that since elementary school,” Danny replied, unbuckling the fanny pack of money and receipts from his waist and setting it down beside Herbie. “I forgot to write it down, but Buck Wallace wants to lay a hundred bucks on Ali for the October match.”
“Ha! No wonder your legs are wobbly. That musta been some hike on a bicycle, kid!” Herbie laughed. “I’ll talk to Wallace later,” Herbie said, rifling through the money and bookings in the fanny pack. “Well, you did good tonight. Got some bad news for you, though—a kid named Freebird beat your high score on Wizard!”
“Freebird? What the hell kinda name is that?”
“It’s his handle. His real name is Jessie. He comes around now and again. He’s a kid about your age—sixteen or seventeen. Does side work for me here and there. He’s a bit of a hustler. Moved here from the other side of the lake, the reservation. Yeah, so Geno bet him money to beat your high score—and he actually did! I couldn’t believe it.”
Herbie’s casual remark hit like a punch to Danny’s gut, intensifying the angst already building in him. His sanctuary—the Wizard! pinball machine—had been invaded by a kid named Jessie. It was the one place where Danny could forget the heaviness of his real life. He had poured hours into mastering the game, hours of his escape from the world, his home drama, and even himself. Danny knew it was something his uncle could never understand, and hearing about his toppled score now felt like yet another loss in his life. A part he had to get back at all costs. He had lost enough. But this... this was something he could control.
Danny stood in silence, his world narrowed until only the pinball machine remained—Herbie’s ranting faded. The unrelenting lights of the pinball game felt like they were daring him to rectify the score. He snatched a pack of red licorice from his back pocket, biting into a vine before tucking the rest away.
“So you think you can just waltz in here and demolish my score, do you?” Danny muttered through clenched teeth. “Well, think again, Jessie—I’m the king of this machine. I swear I won’t be second best to you or anyone.” He knew the words weren’t his—sharp and familiar, they were drilled in his mind by his father. Danny’s face hardened as he staggered toward the pinball machine, his eyes fixated on the score reel like it had betrayed him. There it was: 86,463—fifty points over his own. One point, fifty, or fifty thousand—it didn’t matter. His crown had been stolen. His father’s voice rose up, cold and familiar, Losing is not an option in this house, Danny… The words swelled, drowning out everything else. He didn’t choose the next thought — it chose him. He would take back what was stolen.
(continued to chapter 2)
