The Last Magic Show
A short story for All Hallow's Eve (i.e. All Saints' Eve) 2026 by Paul L. Pothier
Reader’s note: “Writing short stories serves as an effective writing exercise to enhance creativity, refine narrative skills, and develop concise expression. It encourages practitioners to construct complete arcs—encompassing setup, conflict, and resolution—within a limited word count, typically 1,000 to 5,000 words. This constraint fosters discipline in plotting, character development, and thematic depth, while mitigating procrastination often associated with longer forms” (xAI, Grok 3, 2025).
The following is from one of a series of short stories I wrote around the theme of Halloween many years ago as an exercise in writing for various fiction genre themes. If you find this offensive or do not wish to read it, simply exit this page. Thank you.
“Macabre” the reviewers had written! The wizened old man shuffled across his antique dressing room in New York City, newspaper in hand. In his youth, he had been the toast of the town and his magic celebrated internationally. He was an expert who had spent many years studying the mechanics of his predecessors; legends like the great Harry Houdini, Harry Blackstone, Sr., and Dai Vernon. Once, his magic show had been esteemed in the press and eagerly anticipated by the public. Now they dismissed him as “Macabre.”
After many years in retirement, the old man had returned for three final performances and been laughed off the stage. He looked down at his aged hands and asked himself if there was any empathy left in the world. Was nothing safe? Magicians with a fraction of his ability and experience had revealed the trades’ secrets decades ago. The modern audience no longer understood or appreciated his classic magic show any longer. They wanted 21st-century special effects. The old man glanced at his reflection on the dressing room mirror. His day had long passed. But to call his refined and well-rehearsed performance “macabre” was irreverent.
He reached into an old travel case and rooted amongst his magic paraphernalia until he found what he was looking for. Holding the small stone container to the light, he admired the aged vessel. It was light in his hand and strangely, the seal around the lid appeared as fresh as the day he had received it. Across the front were inscribed ancient Egyptian hieroglyphs which he had been told roughly translated to something along the lines of “a temptation for your time of utmost need.”
His mind wandered back to that night. Exiting the stage with a thunderous applause so great it shook the hall, he had pushed his way past celebrities and reviewers seeking escape from their enthusiasm in the confines of his dressing room. It had been perhaps his greatest performance and as he began removing his makeup, he noticed an older gentleman sitting in the corner of his dressing room calmly staring at him.
“May I help you Sir?” he had asked somewhat shocked. The man simply smiled and informed him that he had recently returned from an Egyptian expedition and was so taken by the performance that he wanted to gift the magician “an odd keepsake” that he had found there. They talked for some time until finally the adventurer carefully placed in his hands the bottle and told him it was good for one and one use only and to choose the occasion carefully because he had been assured that the consequences could be simply “dreadful.” That was the word he had used, “dreadful.”
The old man had suspected a practical joke of some kind but kept the strange container as a memento of their meeting. And now almost forgotten after all these years, he held it again. He slipped the container into a pocket of his aged trench coat and headed for the stage.
When he arrived, the hall was filled to capacity. The derisive reviews of his first two performances were the talk of the town and had drawn a crowd. But the audience was not here to cheer him. They were here to mock him.
The hecklers began first. Sweat beaded on his forehead as he went through the sleight of hand portion of his performance. Though it was customary at this point to ask for a member of the audience to participate, he decided not to take the risk as the heckling turned to jeers. He performed a stage trick instead.
The taunting increased until one balding drunk in the front row finally stood and yelled “Hey you old relic! For your next trick why don’t you make yourself disappear!” The crowd rolled with laughter. It was too much for the old man. Tears welled up in his eyes and he slipped out the container and broke the seal.
Instantly the atmosphere in the hall changed. The air grew cold and became electrified in some rancorous way. An aura encompassed the hall quieting the audience.
Slowly, at first, a plume of smoke rose from the stone container. The color was of the blackest night the old man had ever seen. For a moment he was tempted to stop it with his hand but a sixth sense restrained him from attempting such a foolish act. Whatever he had unleashed, must now run its course.
The plume of smoke formed into a large black cloud and floated over the audience. A woman screamed and tried to escape through an emergency exit. The unseen force held all avenues of escape shut. She sobbed and sank to the ground. Dread gripped the audience and they remained in their seats. The old man looked at the cloud. There was really no rational explanation for it.
Without warning a bolt of energy burst from the cloud and struck him. The audience groaned with fright. The old man stumbled around the stage for a moment then regained his composure. Walking to the center of the stage, he surveyed the crowd becoming suddenly aware that he now knew everything about them. Everything. His feelings of failure and despair vanished.
The crowd recoiled in panic as the old man strode to the edge of the stage, chuckling. The worm had certainly turned. He spoke loud enough so that everyone could hear him. “And now ladies and gentlemen, for my next act I will read your minds.”
Walking from one end of the stage to the other, he began pointing out those who had behaved the worst and revealed their most shocking secrets, lies, corruption, infidelities, and twisted acts for all to see. Given the nature of this particular audience, that took awhile. Once, while revealing a humiliating peculiar secret of the balding drunken man who had jeered him earlier, he was almost assaulted. The man’s face had turned bright red. He jumped up, yelled, and attempted to climb onto the stage. But instantly a bolt of energy shot forth from the black cloud and the obnoxious man collapsed backwards unconscious.
The old man paused but then continued again and did not stop until all of their most vile secrets were at last exposed. When finished he said simply, “That concludes tonight’s performance ladies and gentlemen,” bowed, slipped the empty container back into his pocket, and left via a back exit as the black cloud began to dissipate.
He never returned for his equipment, and was never seen again. The gossip columnists who had come to write derisive reviews about the old magician’s magic show ended with a lot of new material to write about each other and the other members of the audience who had come with bad intent. It was a columnists’ field day.
But no one present for the old man’s last magic show was ever really the same again.
