The real and imaginative adventures of Dennis Spielman

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Real Spells for a Fake Witch - art by Janine De Guzman at Design Pickle

Real Spells for a Fake Witch

A mysterious man offers a woman dressed as a witch a device that allows her to cast real spells on Halloween. 


“Hey, Witch.”

Jill spun around with the box of wines wine she held, about to punch some guy for calling her a nasty name, but lowered her fist when the gentleman in a white suit and pink ascents continued. “I love your costume.”

“Oh, thanks,” Jill replied, her face flushed red in embarrassment from the misunderstanding. She was outside the liquor store, about to get her car after picking up some last-minute alcohol for her and her husband’s Halloween party tonight. She was dressed as a witch – decked out with a pointy purple hat, black corset, ripped leggings, and red heels for the occasion.

“It’s missing an accessory,” the man commented as he looked her over.

Jill clenched her tongue, bracing for whatever line he would give.

The man shook a finger at the sky when he realized his answer. “Real spells.”

Jill tilted her head back in unexpected confusion. “Real spells?”

“Or, more specifically, the ability to cast real spells,” he elaborated in a manner of an eccentric billionaire. 

The man in the white suit reached behind himself and impossibly pulled forward a green metal chest the size of a watermelon. Before Jill could respond, the man opened the case, revealing a glowing green fog surrounding a crystal ball. 

“Trade me one of your bottles of wine, and this device is yours,” the stranger offered.

Jill leaned forward and stared into the box. “How does it work?”

“Simply hold the crystal and say, ‘I cast,’ and what you want casted. Although, this device will only work until midnight, and you’ll have to live with whatever you created.”

Jill thought the deal over. Even if the crystal ball weren’t magical, the item would make for an excellent display prop or an accessory for her Halloween outfit. The exchange may be more in favor of the stranger, especially if the ball was mass-produced. Besides, she could always go back inside the liquor store and get another bottle of wine. She was grateful she was able to buy booze on a Sunday now.

Jill held out the case of wines. “I accept your offer.”

Without studying the selection, the man pulled out one of the wines. He reviewed the label for a moment – not long enough to read everything – before holding the chest forward for Jill. Jill picked up the crystal ball, losing herself as stars and planets swirled around inside. The display consumed her focus until the liquor store door dinged from someone entering did she snap out of her trance. Jill looked around for the stranger, but he was nowhere. She shrugged.

“I wonder,” Jill said as she held out the crystal. “I cast five boxes of red wine.”

The crystal glowed red before unleashing a spark of purple lighting at the pavement. Jill closed her eyes and jumped back but held tight onto the crystal. When she felt the danger pass, she saw five cases of premium boxed wine sitting before her. 

“Holy shit!” Jill cussed. “It fucking worked!”

Jill glanced around to see if anyone else saw what happened, but no one was around. She loaded up the wine in her black Jeep. After buckling in, Jill grabbed her iPhone from the phone mount and texted her husband. She told him to meet her in the garage as soon as she pulled inside. 

Upon arriving home, her husband followed her instructions. The garage door closed as Jill jumped out of her car.

“You won’t believe what I got,” Jill said, her voice racing as she pulled out the crystal ball from her pocket.

Her husband, Mike, took the crystal. “Neat. Where did you get this?”

“I traded a bottle of wine for it to this weird guy in a white suit,” Jill explained, still in a hurry. “It’s magically.”

Mike flipped up his eye patch for his pirate costume as he studied the crystal ball against the garage light. “I’d say.”

Jill yanked the crystal ball from him. “No, I mean, this is really magically. Watch. I cast a vanilla cake the shape and size of a human skull on a silver plate.”

The crystal glowed red before and then unleashed a spark of purple lighting at the ground, creating a vanilla skull cake. Jill smiled, proud of herself for holding steady during the spell casting this time. When she noticed Mike hadn’t said anything, she saw his face was drooped down and whiter. She picked up the cake.

“Don’t you think this is cool?” Jill asked, her voice soft.

“I’m worried,” he responded softly. “Remember that old Simpson’s Halloween special where the things they wished for had negative side effects?”

“Oh,” Jill uttered but then perked up. “But what’s wrong with this cake then?”

“I bet the cake has that fondant icing I hate,” Mike said.

Jill nabbed a tiny piece of icing from the back of the skull for a taste test. “Damn. It is fondant. But I bet other people will enjoy it.”

Mike shrugged. “I guess small spells have small consequences, so how about we keep it that way?”

Jill huffed. “I suppose you have a point. Besides, the guy said this would stop working at midnight anyway.”

“Of course he did. Typically spooky wares guy. Was he dressed in a black robe?”

“No, I said he wore a white suit with pink accents.”

“Oh, that’s right. You did say that.”

“Yeah, and he also had this strange, pink tie with white swirls,” Jill added. “The pattern made me think of Norse mythology or something like that. He wasn’t an old man either. He looked about our age.”

“Well, we should get this stuff inside,” Mike said. “We do have guests.”

“Right, you go back inside, and I’ll bring in the wine. I might have cast a spell for more wine earlier.”

Following the recommendations of her husband, Jill kept the spells small throughout the night. Whenever she wanted something, she went to the garage to create the item, which made for the perfect cover. She casted spells for things like more food, new wine glasses after being broken by a guest, full-size candy bars for the trick-or-treaters, additional Halloween decor, and other small items that wouldn’t raise suspicions.

The party lasted until almost midnight. As Jill and Mike cleaned the living room with the house to themselves, a thud hit their window. Jill thought nothing of the sound until she heard another one. She peeked out behind the curtain. A group of teenagers was throwing eggs and toilet paper at their house.

Jill pulled out the crystal from her pocket. “Oh, I’ll teach you a lesson.”

Jill stormed outside, prompting her husband to stop vacuuming and follow her. The teens laughed and started to run away. Jill’s eyebrows lowered and pulled closer together as she aimed the crystal ball.

“I cast a giant black widow to scare them!”

The crystal glowed and sparked to life a 10-foot tall black widow spider. The pranksters screamed in terror while Jill laughed in delight. The spider chased after them, knocking over her mailbox and some streetlights in the chase. The spider spewed webs, capturing the teenagers.

“Okay, this is going to have some major consequences,” her husband said.

“You’re right, you’re right,” Jill agreed with a sigh. “I cast spider be-gone.”

The crystal did not respond. Jill shook the device and tried again, but with no result.

“It’s 12:02,” Mike said while looking at his watch. “Didn’t you say everything would go away at midnight?”

“Yeah, I thought it would be like Cinderella, and everything would turn to normal, but I guess that’s not what he meant. He did say I would have to live with whatever I created.”

The black widow returned with the three teenagers, dropping them off like a cat offering a mouse. From above, three firetrucks landed like flying saucers, surrounding the spider and their home. Troops of humans in bright white and yellow uniforms poured out from the firetrucks. One with a rifle fired at the spider, stunning the creature and causing her to collapse. Another group rushed over to the teenagers and proceeded to free them.

Jill and Mike stood close together as a short woman with a yellow overcoat approached them. The couple read the name Captain Mists on her silver name tag. The leader glanced over the couple, spotting the crystal ball in Jill’s hand.

“May I see that,” Captain Mists formally requested, pointing at the crystal ball. Jill handed over the spell casting device without saying a word. The woman grunted in frustration. “Not another one.”

Captain Mists whistled, getting the attention of her team. “We got another spell caster situation. Standard procedure. Clear out anything that’s  not theirs and wipe their memories.”


Real Spells for a Fake Witch - art by Janine De Guzman at Design Pickle

This short story was triggered by my random logic process. As I was leaving a convenience/gas store, I saw a woman dressed as a witch leaving, which got me thinking of how witch rhymes with another word and what if someone offered the power to cast real spells. I’ve written a story with just Raven, so I wrote this one to feature Loki by himself.

Happy Adventures! 

Tales Unveiled: 4×04 I’m Here at Flower Bluff Manor

Sam and Geoff travel to Sulphur, Oklahoma where they meet Linda and Emily to talk about Flower Bluff Manor as well as other tales of the town. During a tour of the bed and breakfast, Sam captured an EVP from one of the residents. 

After touring the manor, Sam and Geoff meet with Detective Valerie James in regards to a fourth murder victim. 


Subscribe to new episodes of Tales Unveiled via Apple PodcastsSpotifyStitcher, or anywhere you enjoy podcasts. New episodes on Fridays!

Tales Unveiled is a production of The Show Starts Now Studios and is produced by Dennis Spielman. The voice of Sam Saxton is Dennis Spielman, with Jeff Provine as Professor Geoff DeRoot, and Kristy Boone as Detective Valerie James. If you love what we’re doing, want us to keep being artist-owned and patron supported, join us on Patreon. In return, you can get bonus content, including early access to other shows from The Show Starts Now Studios!

The Cursed Photo from the Barbershop - art by Janine De Guzman at Design Pickle

The Cursed Photo from the Barbershop

On a chilly October night during a ghost tour in Norman, a simple Polaroid photo of a haunted barbershop becomes a developing nightmare.


The October night breeze had teeth, and I zipped my hoodie to my chin to ward them off. Our ghost tour group huddled together on the downtown sidewalk as our guide, Jeff Provine, gestured toward an old barbershop. Its striped pole was faded and motionless, the glass of the large front window clouded with age. My date, Rebecca, leaned in close, her arm brushing against mine. She’s been wanting to come on the tour after devouring Jeff’s books on Oklahoma’s haunted history, but none of her friends were brave enough to join her, although the tour itself was more of a walking history tour. I had to admit, listening to his tales as he led us through the quiet streets of Norman was a perfect way to spend a fall evening.

Jeff lowered his voice to a theatrical whisper.

“They say,” he began, “that if you take a photo of this barbershop at night, sometimes you capture something extra. A man in a brown overcoat and hat, staring right back at you.”

A ripple of nervous excitement went through the group. Immediately, a dozen phone screens lit up the darkness, their digital shutters clicking in a quick volley. Rebecca was among them, eagerly snapping a photo before inspecting the result with a disappointed frown. Like everyone else, her screen showed nothing but an empty, dark storefront.

As the group shuffled toward the next stop, Rebecca tugged on my sleeve, pulling me back for a moment. Her eyes sparkled with a playful challenge.

“You should try with your camera,” she insisted, “with no one around.”

When we’d met up earlier, she’d been fascinated by my Polaroid camera, calling it a fun, vintage hobby she’d never encountered someone bringing on a date before. The weight of it in my hands felt deliberate. Each photo was a permanent, tangible moment, a single truth captured in chemicals and paper—a stark contrast to the endless, editable digital snapshots everyone else was taking. I was about to dismiss the idea, but the irresistible smirk she wore was a dare I couldn’t refuse.

As Jeff began a story about the restaurant next door, I raised the camera. The world flattened into the small viewfinder. I focused, held my breath, and pressed the button. The whir of the mechanism and the sharp click felt unnaturally loud in the quiet street. The camera spat the blank photo into my hand.

I slipped the developing print into the warmth of my hoodie pocket, and we hurried to rejoin the group. A few stops later, under the dim glow of a streetlamp, Rebecca asked to see the picture. I pulled it out. She held the photo delicately, tilting it to catch the light, her breath fogging the plastic surface as she searched its glossy depths.

“I think you got something here,” she whispered, her voice tight with excitement.

She showed it to me. In the reflection of the barbershop window, there was a murky, sepia-toned stain that hadn’t been there in person.

“That looks like a brown smudge to me,” I said, though a faint chill traced its way down my spine.

“Well, maybe it needs to develop more,” she replied, her optimism unwavering.

I didn’t argue. The night was perfect, and she was too cute to disagree with. I tucked the Polaroid back into my hoodie pocket, the cool plastic a solid weight against my chest.

The rest of the tour was a pleasant blur of local history and macabre tales. We learned about a gangster buried near his hideout just east of town and lingering spirits in historic homes, but nothing felt as immediate or personal as the strange blemish on my own photograph.

When the tour concluded, we ended up walking back toward campus under the dim glow of streetlights. The air had grown colder, and the streets were mostly empty now.

“So,” Rebecca said, breaking the comfortable silence, “did the photo ever fully develop into a ghost?”.

“I haven’t checked,” I admitted with a laugh. “I was a little too busy enjoying the company.”

She smiled at that, a genuine, heart-stopping smile. “Me too. I had a really good time tonight.”

“Me too,” I repeated, feeling a warmth spread through my chest that had nothing to do with my hoodie. We reached her car, and for a moment, we just stood there.

“You’ll have to send me a picture of all the Polaroids you took tonight,” she said, finally breaking the pause. “Especially if the ghost decides to make a full appearance”.

“Deal,” I said. “Drive safe.”

She gave me one last wave before getting into her car and driving off, leaving me alone in the quiet street.

Later, back at my apartment, the silence felt vast after the cheerful chatter of the tour. My roommate was out of town for the weekend, visiting family. The only company I had was the dozens of Polaroids strung across the dining area walls, a colorful mosaic of my life that he always said brought warmth to the bland, beige apartment. As I emptied my pockets onto the rustic white dining table my parents had passed down to me, my phone buzzed. It was a text from Rebecca, just as she’d promised: “Photo evidence please! 😉”

I arranged the dozen prints on the table and snapped a picture with my phone. Before sending the text, I zoomed in on the barbershop photo. The smudge wasn’t just a smudge anymore. It had resolved into a shape: a tall, gaunt figure in a hat and overcoat, his form indistinct but undeniably human. I sent a close-up to Rebecca and, on a whim, forwarded it to Jeff. A moment later, my phone rang with a FaceTime call from Rebecca.

“I told you!” she practically shouted, her face beaming from my screen. “I told you so!”

“Okay, okay,” I laughed, feeling a genuine thrill. “Maybe you should come over and make sure this man in brown doesn’t try to kill me.”

“Maybe I should,” she shot back, a playful glimmer in her eye. “You know, to make sure you don’t die. Text me your address.”

She said she’d be there in fifteen minutes. As I scrambled to tidy up, I gathered the Polaroids from the table. As I stacked them, my blood ran cold. The man in brown wasn’t just in the barbershop photo. He was in all of them. In a picture of the historic Sooner Theater, he stood under the marquee. In a shot of a lamppost outside The Depot, he lurked in the background. The same hat, the same overcoat, the same unnerving stillness in every, single print.

“This has to be an exposure glitch,” I mumbled to the empty room. “Maybe the lens flared, or a chemical in the film was bad.”

He wasn’t haunting the barbershop. He was haunting the photos. He was haunting me. I stacked the photos face down on the dining table, as if hiding them would make him disappear.

I decided to tidy up—get my mind off things. I was straightening the sheets on my bed when the doorbell chimed, sharp and jarring in the quiet apartment.

I rushed to the door, a smile on my face, but when I opened it, the hallway was empty. A sterile, fluorescent silence stretched in both directions.

“Hello?” I called out.

Only the low hum of the building answered.

I closed the door, a knot of confusion tightening in my stomach. My phone showed no new messages from Rebecca, and it had only been ten minutes. Just as I was about to put it away, a text from Jeff came through.

“Thank you,” the message read, “but I should warn you that those who were able to capture a photo of the barber said he haunted them until they got rid of the picture. 😉”

I chuckled, but the sound was thin.

He was joking, of course.

He had to be.

As I turned back toward the living room, I froze. The Polaroid prints were no longer in a neat stack on the table. They were scattered across the apartment, strewn from the doorway to the center of the room. Every single one had landed face up, a dozen identical figures in brown staring at the ceiling.

Then the doorbell rang again, louder this time, more insistent. My breath hitched. With trembling hands, I gathered the photos, the cold plastic feeling slick against my skin, and shoved them into the back pocket of my jeans. I walked to the door and pulled it open.

He was there. The man from the photos stood before me, but he wasn’t alone. He held an old, straight razor—like a barber would use—to Rebecca’s throat, the steel pitted with rust but gleaming dully under the hall light. His other hand was clamped over her mouth, muffling her terrified sounds. Clumps of damp earth clung to his three-piece suit, and the air around him carried the faint, musty smell of a freshly dug grave.

“I want the photos,” he demanded. His voice was a dry, rasping sound, like dead leaves skittering across pavement. The rusted razor pressed a fraction deeper against Rebecca’s skin, and a thin, dark line of blood welled up on her throat. Her eyes were wide with a terror that rooted me to the spot.

Without a thought, my body obeyed. I pulled the prints from my pocket and thrust them toward him. His hand, cold and insubstantial as smoke, passed through mine to take them. The violation of that touch was worse than any physical blow—a deep, cellular cold that seemed to suck the warmth from my very bones. He had the photos. Then he smiled, a lipless, joyless gesture, and shoved Rebecca at me.

I scrambled back to my feet and slammed the door, my heart hammering against my ribs. I turned the lock, then another, my hands shaking. I needed a barrier, something solid between us and him.

When we looked at the peephole, he was still there. He wasn’t looking at the door, but down at the photos in his hand. He slowly, deliberately, began to walk away down the hall. But instead of turning toward the stairs, he turned to face the wall. And then he walked straight through it, his form dissolving into the walls like smoke.

He was gone.

But in a way, he wasn’t. A cold spot lingered where he had stood, a patch of air that refused to warm. And the smell—the faint, musty odor of a freshly dug grave—clung to the entryway.

The sun began to bleed through the blinds, painting the room in pale, morning light. Rebecca and I ended up staying up all night, huddled together on the couch. It was intimate, but not in the way I had hoped.


The Cursed Photo from the Barbershop - art by Janine De Guzman at Design Pickle

After the love for my previous short story, I’ll Never Walk Sutton Wilderness in the Dark Again, I was inspired to write another semi-realistic horror piece. This one was inspired by a story by Jeff Provine where people on his ghost tour would capture a photo of a man in a brown suit at the barbershop in downtown Norman, Oklahoma. So, yes, that part is true! I thought having the man come to life to reclaim the pictures would be a spooky tale for the season.

Thanks to Janine De Guzman for bringing the photographic moment to life.

For early access to my short stories and to help me create more content, support me on Patreon!

Thank you for reading and Happy Halloween!

Cutting Away at The Hatchet House - art by Mikey Marchan for Tales Unveiled

Tales Unveiled: 4×03 Cutting Away at the Hatchet House

Sam and Geoff meet up with Ryan Fogle of Ride OKC at a new coffee shop called NEON in Oklahoma City’s Plaza District. From there, Ryan leads the group a few blocks north to the corner of NW 18st Street and Carey Place where they discuss the murder at the Hatchet House. Sam and Geoff get a call from Detective Valerie James and they began to notice a pattern in the murders.


Subscribe to new episodes of Tales Unveiled via Apple PodcastsSpotifyStitcher, or anywhere you enjoy podcasts. New episodes on Fridays!

Tales Unveiled is a production of The Show Starts Now Studios and is produced by me, Dennis Spielman. The voice of Sam Saxton is Dennis Spielman, with Jeff Provine as Professor Geoff DeRoot, and Kristy Boone as Detective Valerie James. If you love what we’re doing, want us to keep being artist-owned and patron supported, join us on Patreon. In return, you can get bonus content, including early access to other productions of mine!

Tales Unveiled: 4×02 The Gravity of Davis

Sam and Geoff travel to Wynnewood where they interview paranormal investigator John Mcqulliam. They talk about the Eskridge Hotel, Turner Falls, and the Lady in White at Veteran’s Lake. After the interview, Sam and Geoff visit Oklahoma’s other gravity hill, Magnetic Hill in Springer. Then as they’re heading home, Sam receives a voicemail from Detective Valerie James about a second murder. 


Meeting Detective James - art by Janine De Guzman at Design Pickle

Subscribe to new episodes of Tales Unveiled via Apple PodcastsSpotifyStitcher, or anywhere you enjoy podcasts. New episodes on Fridays!

Tales Unveiled is a production of The Show Starts Now Studios and is produced by me, Dennis Spielman. The voice of Sam Saxton is Dennis Spielman, with Jeff Provine as Professor Geoff DeRoot, and Kristy Boone as Detective Valerie James. If you love what we’re doing, want us to keep being artist-owned and patron supported, join us on Patreon. In return, you can get bonus content, including early access to other shows from The Show Starts Now Studios!

If you haven’t visited yet, be sure to check out our online store where you can buy spooky merch like this Haunted Mansion shirt inspired by the first episode of Tales Unveiled. 

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