NO SHELTER HAS APOLLO: a short story.

Part 1

After drying her dog and herself, Marisol went back into the living room and began to wipe the wooden floor that her mother loved so much. She'd kill me for it, Marisol thought. Then, she placed the plants on the balcony to be watered by the rain and began to dry the bookshelf that was next to the balcony doors.

She decided it was time for a more efficient cleaning and, after removing the stinky shag carpet, she laid out the books on the floor to clean each one. As she removed the last row, she discovered a copy she had not seen since her teens, when her mother had ventured into paganism.

The yellowed pages attested to the relentless action of time on that writing, which, in spite of everything, had survived a few decades. Marisol's mother had received that book as a gift from a childhood friend, who, in turn, had received it from her grandmother. She thought it was even older, but she couldn't tell because the book didn't even have a catalogue card.

As she opened the pages and flipped through, something caught Marisol's gaze. How to contact loved ones who have passed away, was the headline at the top of the page, written in Spanish. The writings cautioned against the dangers of necromancy, but the one thing that hammered in Marisol's thoughts was her mother's voice.

She debated with herself, arguing as if to convince her consciousness that she didn't even believe that, that it would be a joke and, if something worked, she could say goodbye to her mother.

The goodbye that had been stolen from her, as a punishment for being knees deep in her work and not hearing her mother's body fall and writhe in pain on the floor, during her last moments. The terror of being abandoned that stamped her mother's gaze was what had been marked like a burning signet in the depths of Marisol's memory. Julia had told her that it wasn't her fault, that her mother knew she had cared for and loved her all her life, but no amount of arguing had been able to dissuade her from that heavy burn mark on her conscience.

Marisol put the other books back on the shelf, clinging to that one, as she went downstairs to beckon Julia, who would surely be in the café below.

***

The moonlight interweaved the grey clouds, timidly, casting itself over the cracks that the clouds allowed. Reaching part of the porch, it was enough to light up the house as Julia and Marisol sat around a small makeshift altar inside a large, dashed circle on the wooden floor. Fruits and nuts occupied a cornucopia in the centre of the altar and candles were arranged throughout the apartment. Black candles occupied the five points of a dashed star on the ground. Marisol began to light each of them and recite a banishment spell that the book had recommended her do before any incantations were recited.

Julia was laughing at the nonsensical picture of it all, but deep down she feared the success of the ritual. She couldn't tell if she wanted it to work, so her friend could have closure, or if she wanted nothing to happen so that Marisol could convince herself once and for all that there was nothing more than life itself and move on with hers.

Julia knew she was being insensitive, as both of her parents were alive and well, she had never experienced a loss of this sort. On the other hand, she didn't expect Marisol to overcome or not experience grief the way she should. She just didn't want to see her friend languishing in the dark. Perhaps helping her in this so-called ritual would bring her just that: closure. Whatever the outcome.

Despite this, nothing could shake that feeling that someone was watching them, that chill down their spine. And as Marisol sang the words of that damned old book, Julia felt more and more afraid. She thought about blowing out the candles and turning on the lights when a wind did basically half the work for her.

The girls laughed in response to the fright and Marisol argued that they should have closed the balcony door before they started.

Julia had not objected to this as long as the air conditioner was on, but Marisol scolded her, saying that the most obvious sign of a spirit's presence was the chill, and they would not feel it if were the air conditioner on. Marisol and Julia found a middle ground that suited both, which had been to leave the doors open, but after that gust of wind refreshed them also blew out the candles, Marisol put an end to the problem, closing every crack through which the breeze could pass.

She said she should start the spell again.

The words sounded different this time, not so morbid, but Julia, now annoyed and warm, didn't dare say a thing. She was to limit herself to the role of just keeping Marisol company and letting her conduct the ritual.

She reasoned that she had already helped too much and made a gesture to sit down on the couch, but Marisol told her to stay where she was, while she chanted more fervently the words that seemed to be in Greek. Julia moved to the couch anyway.

Marisol circled the dashed perimeter on the ground, now turning the page to continue reading. In the candlelight, the black hair darkened her face even more. The vision was that of a witch, capable of making any naughty little child cry.

Marisol had her hands raised, repeating the last sentences of the spell book when the doors opened and a gale blew out all the candles that were arranged in the room, swinging open the doors and windows of the balcony. She thought her friend had opened them and then turned to scold her, but found her friend unconscious, sprawled on the couch.

Her heart pounded and then she turned to the dashed circle on the floor, only to find it empty. Her disappointment was only overcome by the dismay she felt when she looked again at the porch and saw standing there a tall, blond man with an apple in his hand who looked at her and said in a deep and thunderous voice, while smiling:

"Did you call?"

Marisol felt dizzy and then fell backwards.