I was cursed. Didn’t know how, but that had to be the answer. At first, I thought I was merely a victim of extreme bad luck, losing so many people close to me. Everyone had to die sometime, but the timing was a sucky coincidence. Then the frequency and number of deaths became disturbing. Eventually, I reached the only conclusion that made sense, regardless of how far-fetched it seemed.
The curse perplexed me. What could I have done to bring that on? I lived a quiet life and kept to myself. My job was unassuming, processing work orders for a small company that made traffic lights. I lived in a sleepy apartment complex, and the only neighbor I knew was a woman twenty years my senior named Maggie, who sometimes dragged me out to play pickleball since she knew no one else who would indulge her. My other activities included periodically hanging out with my coworker Jax, who insisted on “pulling me out of my shell,” as he put it, and a few times a month playing tabletop roleplaying games with a trio of guys who referred to themselves as The Commandos, though they were probably the most uncommando-like group imaginable. I also regularly chatted online with Travis, my best friend from college, despite having graduated a dozen years ago. He was now happily married, living in Montana for some reason, and I heard all about his mountainous adventures while I could only tell him about updating spreadsheets and playing an occasional game. In other words, my life was boring—exactly the way I wanted it.
Then there was Lauren. Jax introduced me to her six years ago and prodded me to go out with her, which I did several times over the course of a year. Things got kind of serious between us, and my parents grew excited about the prospect of me having a relationship. However, I wasn’t ready for a commitment and pulled away. Sure, having a girlfriend was nice, but it was also a lot of work. It’s easier to lead a simple life without worrying about other people. She and I continued to see each other every now and then, but our dates became increasingly infrequent. The feelings we developed for each other lasted—at least mine did—but it was safer to have space between us and remain friends.
As you probably gathered, I wasn’t one to make waves. I was considerate of others even if I refrained from going out of my way for them. My temperament was even-keeled, and I tended to be the peacemaker when tempers flared. I couldn’t imagine ever doing anything to make anyone resentful toward me, where they would wish me and those in my life harm. Yet the curse stretched its shadowy fingers around me.
It first manifested with my mother, who had been a healthy and active fifty-six-year-old one day and riddled with cancer the next. The disease itself was not uncommon, but what baffled the doctors was that it didn’t appear to be concentrated in one organ but rather ravaged her entire body at once. According to experts, she would’ve shown signs of the illness long before this. However, she initially went to the doctor due to a rapid onslaught of symptoms, including uncharacteristic weight loss, sudden body pains, and nausea. Within weeks of her diagnosis, she was dead.
My father was inconsolable. Mom was his life, and without her, he was lost. I did my best to be there for him, his “pillar of courage” as he called me. With my two sisters out of state, I took care of the funeral arrangements, Mom’s life insurance, and all the phone calls and paperwork that needs to be done when a loved one dies. No one realizes all that goes into wrapping up a person’s life until it’s too late. For months, Dad existed in a fog. I had pretty much moved in with him—the first time being back in my childhood home on a semi-regular basis since college—and managed the household while he grappled with the loss of his spouse.
And then Dad died.
No, it wasn’t a repeat of Mom’s cancer; the curse was shrewder than that. He didn’t die of a disease—a car hit him.
Dad was walking Peanut, his Golden Retriever, something he did twice a day. As he strolled down the sidewalk, he passed a group of children throwing a Frisbee to each other in a front yard. They ran over to pet Peanut, who happily accepted their adoration. Dad proceeded with the walk and rounded one of the many curves built into the neighborhood roads to prevent speeding. However, a car barreled toward him far faster than the posted twenty mile per hour speed limit, leaving him no time to react. The Chevy Malibu jumped the curb and plowed over him before embedding itself in the Johnsons’ living room. Fortunately, they weren’t home.
The driver, a woman Mom and Dad had known for twenty years, suffered anaphylaxis from something she ate and passed out a block from her own house. Apparently, her foot depressed the gas pedal while she was unconscious. Dad was simply in the wrong place at the wrong time.
Fortunately, Peanut was safe—he had stretched his leash far enough away from Dad so he wasn’t in the vehicle’s path. And before you ask—no, the curse didn’t touch him, as apparently it only affected humans. He’s still alive and happy today, for which I’m grateful because I’m not sure I could’ve gotten through those horrible days without him at my side.
For the second time within a year, I performed the death ritual for a parent. It was tough doing it once, unbearable the second time. By that date the following year, both my sisters had joined my parents in the grave, one from an unfortunate trip down a flight of stairs resulting in a broken neck, and the other in a car wreck that also claimed the life of her husband. My whole immediate family was wiped out, and later I was grateful that neither I nor my sisters had any children.
I supposed I should’ve been grateful that Jax and Lauren offered their support, but I was in too deep a state of shock to acknowledge what they did for me. I probably saw more of Lauren during this time period than I did in the previous four years total, as she helped me sort through my parents’ belongings to divvy up between my siblings, who were also not long for this Earth. She then assisted me with the sale of the house, which I couldn’t have done alone. However, thoughts of rekindling any romance with her were far from my mind—I accepted her kindness with grace, but the darkness that enveloped me kept me from truly recognizing the love she expressed toward me.
Numb from grief, it didn’t faze me when coworkers started dying. First it was my manager, who was overweight and a chain smoker, so his massive stroke wasn’t totally unexpected. Shortly afterward, Gail from Accounting burned to death in a house fire. Tragic, yes—but I hadn’t yet connected the dots.
Then the curse targeted my buddy Jax. He drowned while on vacation at Daytona Beach when a rip current sucked him out into the Atlantic. When the lifeguards recovered him, he was already gone.
During his funeral, it all clicked in my mind. Four family members, three coworkers. The curse wouldn’t harm me directly, but instead aimed its deadly arrow at everyone around me. I was meant to suffer from the deaths of those in my life. No one close to me was safe. I was the spectre of death.
I put in for emergency PTO at work, citing emotional distress. However, I reacted with inappropriate laughter upon news of two more members of my team perishing. I can’t even tell you what happened to them as it didn’t register.
Having not heard from me since Jax’s funeral, Lauren tried to reach out, both through phone calls and texts. I ignored them all. She needed to be as far away from me as possible, and I thought maybe—it was a long shot—if I completely cut her off from my life, it would save hers. I was wrong.
My apartment doorbell rang insistently. Then loud pounding on the door. Peanut added to the noise with his upset barking.
“Wes! I know you’re in there!” Lauren called to me. “I saw you look out the window!”
Her barrage of door beatings would draw attention from the neighbors as well as bruising her fists, so I reluctantly opened the door.
“Go away,” I said.
Lauren pushed her way in. I gave no resistance, unsure if I could’ve impeded her entry if I tried. “Why haven’t you responded to me?”
“Please just leave.”
“I know you’ve had it rough. But I’m not going to let you do this to yourself.”
I snorted. “You have no idea.”
She cocked her head in a manner not unlike the gesture Peanut would make. Speaking of which, the doggo was happy to see Lauren and gave her a tail-wagging greeting. She petted him while continuing to glare at me. “You can’t hide away forever.”
“Sure, I can. It’s the only way anyone will be safe.”
“Safe? From what?”
I went ahead and told her. What did I have to lose? Naturally, she was incredulous.
“Wes, you need to get help from a mental health expert.” She tried to take my hand, but I pulled away from her, as if my touch would burn her. “You can’t go through this all alone.”
“What did I do? I’m a good person, aren’t I?”
“Of course you are.”
“Then why is this happening?”
“You are not cursed. This is all a huge, insane coincidence. It sucks, but it’s not your fault.”
“Why would someone put a curse on me?”
“They wouldn’t.”
“Maybe I did something without realizing I did it. I-I can’t think what it might’ve been. But it must’ve been horrible.”
Lauren grabbed me by the shoulders and shook me, which probably looked funny since I stood about eight inches taller than her. “YOU. ARE. NOT. CURSED! You don’t have a curse on you. Nobody put a curse on you. There is no such thing as a curse. Get that through your stupid, thick skull.”
I broke down. It wasn’t the first time during this ordeal I cried. Every time I thought it was out of my system, the tears would flow again. This time was different because it was from relief at having finally expressed the emotions bottled up inside me.
Lauren pulled me to the couch, and I relented. She cradled my head to her breast and comforted me like a small, upset child. She would have made a wonderful mother if she had survived.
I allowed her to tend to me, and before she left that night, I assured her I was all right. I never saw her again. The next day, I changed my phone number, deleted all my social media accounts, emailed a resignation letter to my employer, and found a new apartment on the other side of the city. The sale of my parents’ house put a large stash of cash in my bank, so I didn’t have to worry about supporting myself. I intended to have few expenses anyway—it wasn’t like I was going on vacation anytime soon. My goal was to exorcise myself from everyone. I could conduct any personal business online, order groceries to be delivered and left at my door, and only step outside when I needed to take Peanut for his walks. In those instances, I avoided interacting with others.
It was the only way to keep people safe.
Or so I thought.
I lived my hermit lifestyle in blissful ignorance for eight months. Sure, I was lonely. Okay, I was climbing the walls, desperate for human interaction but terrified that it would be a death sentence to anyone who associated with me. I didn’t even play online games. One day, curiosity overcame me, and I reinstated my social media accounts to check on the remaining people I knew and cared about.
Travis, my best friend from college—dead.
Gail, my former pickleball enthusiast neighbor—dead.
The Commandos I played tabletop games with—all three dead.
The remaining team members from work—every one of them dead.
I also discovered several random cousins I hadn’t seen since I was a teenager had died, wiping out the remainder of my somewhat immediate family. Even the woman who sold my parents’ house was deceased. It seemed the curse continued to do its evil work even while I was locked away in my self-imposed prison.
It terrified me to click on Lauren’s page, afraid of what I would find, but relief spread through me when I saw she had posted something three hours earlier.
Rain pelted my window like a rapid heartbeat.
I returned to the settings to deactivate the account again when a message popped on screen. From Lauren.
Wes? Where the hell are you?
I didn’t want to respond. No, that’s a lie. I did want to respond, but fear overwhelmed me. She had made it this long—maybe the curse would spare her. I didn’t want to tempt it by chatting with her.
Thunder rumbled, shaking the apartment.
Another message dinged. You disappeared. No one knew how to find you.
My finger hovered over the keyboard.
What happened?
I folded my hands together. Sweat dampened my palms.
I was so worried about you.
My teeth clenched together.
I care about you.
My breathing quickened.
I miss you.
Fist clenched. Fingernails dug into soft flesh.
I love you.
My resolve broke. We had never spoken those words to each other.
Thunder cracked outside, and a moment later a flash of lightning strobed through the window.
I typed: Stop. Please. Don’t ever contact me again. I’m begging you.
Lauren: Just tell me where you are. I’ll get you help.
Me: I don’t want you to die too.
Lauren: Nothing is going to happen to me.
The lights inside my apartment flickered. Another loud boom and a flash, accompanied by the acrid smell of ozone.
I tore away from my computer and paced the room. Uncertainty fought with terror inside me. I desperately wanted to keep Lauren safe, and with every keystroke, she was in more danger. However, I longed to see her again, to smell her hair, to caress her face, to kiss her lips. We hadn’t been intimate in ages, but I needed it now. Regardless, it would be a death sentence for her.
I dashed back to the computer and dropped into my gaming chair. The clamor of the storm grew fainter as it rolled across the city.
The arrow of the mouse hovered over the DEACTIVATE button. I nearly clicked it, but saw three more messages.
Are you okay?
I’m really concerned.
Please talk to me.
I had to respond and not leave her hanging. I was certain she’d been worried sick about me over the last several months, and I had to alleviate her pain.
My message: I’m fine. Really. But I’m deactivating my account again. I love you. Goodbye.
The thunder was very distant now, a mere low, barely perceptible rumble. The rain had all but stopped outside my apartment.
Three dots appeared in the chat window, indicating Lauren was typing. I couldn’t shut down the account until I saw what she was writing. Maybe it was a simple “goodbye”. Or maybe she would continue persuading me to allow her access to my life. Part of me craved that, and the temptation was overwhelming.
One final faraway boom indicated the storm was finished with my side of the city.
Those three dots remained in the chat box. That was a long message.
After several minutes, no text appeared. The three dots stared at me like cold insect eyes, accusing me.
I typed: Lauren?
Nothing but dots.
In a panic, I called her. For whatever reason, I neglected to delete the contacts from my phone.
After several rings, her chipper voice came on the line. “Hi! This is Lauren. I can’t answer right now. Leave a message if it’s important.”
I sprinted out of the house and raced my car across town, my stomach lining dissolving with ulcer-inducing acid.
Street lights illuminated the smoke rising from her apartment building blocks away, and soon the flashing red lights of the firetrucks filled my field of view. The blaze had been extinguished, leaving Lauren’s apartment a charred nightmare. As I approached the disaster scene, EMTs carried out a body bag, the shape of which indicated it ferried grisly cargo.
Lightning had ignited her apartment, striking her through a window while she was typing her last message to me. This knowledge was impossible for me to have, yet in my heart I knew it to be true.
I had nothing left. Why was I still alive? Maybe killing myself would salvage those last few stragglers the curse had not yet murdered. However, an aggravating instinct for self-preservation prevented me from taking the ultimate measure.
I was desperate to find the answer. After that, I didn’t care if I died.
Upon searching the Internet, I discovered a metaphysical store in a sketchy part of town. It didn’t bother me to travel there because I didn’t care about my safety. The outside of the building was as I imagined—garish psychedelic colors, an amateurish painting of an eye in a triangle reminiscent of the engraving on the back of the dollar bill, and an open palm that seemed like it was saying, “STOP!”
The store’s interior assaulted the senses. An overpowering mixture of sage, incense, and other scents I couldn’t identify made me sneeze as soon as the door shut behind me, still jingling the strip of bells tacked to its top. Every wall was filled with floor-to-ceiling shelves, and moveable displays were crammed into every available space at awkward angles, leaving aisles barely wide enough for an individual person to squeeze through. Feathery objects hung from the ceiling. Products being sold consisted of every conceivable thing associated with spiritualism, voodoo, Wicca, Native American lore, and mysticism—herbs, crystals, ceramic skulls, amulets, dreamcatchers, cards, books, and many objects I was unable to identify.
“Hello, my friend!” a voice boomed out in a thick New York accent. A smallish middle-aged guy with a mane of salt-and-pepper hair wearing a loud short-sleeved button-down shirt emerged from the labyrinth with his arms spread open as if to hug me. “What can I help you with today?”
“I…” Stating my problem outright now seemed silly, despite what I knew to be true. Even in this environment that embraced the bizarre, I struggled to voice my situation. “I need to talk to someone about a problem.”
“You need a reading? Spiritual guidance? Love potion?” He cocked his head to the side with his tongue poking through the crook of his mouth in what he probably thought was an expression of sly understanding. Instead, it made him look like a cartoon mutt.
“More like an expert on…curses.”
He dropped his head and glared through his furrowed brow at me. “Ohhhh. Want to put a curse on someone? Your boss maybe? An ex’s new lover?”
“No. Removing a curse.”
“Ah. You’re in luck. Mister Sebastian is in the back. He’ll take care of ya. There’s no one better at dealing with curses than Mister Sebastian. Go on back there—door on the left.” The owner pointed toward the rear of the store, then scurried behind the cluttered counter as if he wanted nothing more to do with me. I suppose he wanted to avoid any negative effects of my curse, for which I didn’t blame him a bit.
I navigated through the maze of oddities and located an open doorway at the far end of the building. I poked my head in and knocked.
An ambiance different from the rest of the store blanketed this room. The walls were painted powder blue, and soft purple fabric draped from the ceiling. Small shelves adorned with wooden and black velvet boxes lined the back wall. In the center of the tiny room stood a table covered in a cloth with embroidered astrological symbols. Two cushioned chairs resided on my side of the table, presumably for customers. An enormous, dark-complexioned man from an ethnicity I couldn’t discern sat behind the table shuffling a deck of Tarot cards.
“Hi. Mister Sebastian?”
Face impassive and still, his eyes rolled up to peer at me, then grew large in fear. “Do not come in here!”
I stumbled backward a couple of steps, a chill sprinting down my spine. An urge to bolt from the store overcame me, but I was also frozen in place.
“I-I’m sorry. Did I disturb you?”
Mister Sebastian pointed a thick finger at me. “Don’t move.”
I remained planted where I was.
He hoisted his heft out of his chair, then rummaged through the boxes on the shelves. Producing a container of salt, he proceeded to pour it in an arc on the floor from one edge of the door frame, circling the guest chairs, to the other edge. He then sprinkled leafy herbs on all surfaces in the room, lit a stalk of sage that he waved around to fill the room with its aromatic smoke, placed several chunks of crystal on the table, and then lit four candles next to them before returning to his chair with a groan. His eyes closed and his lips moved, muttering a silent prayer or incantation.
His eyes opened, and his stare pierced me. “What is your name?”
“Wes. Wesley Morris.”
“Wesley Morris, you may enter. You and you alone.”
I glanced around to see if someone else had crept up behind me without my realizing it. No one was in sight. Following his instructions, I stepped into the room. It was probably psychological, but passing through the doorway was like walking into a warm, comforting embrace. My body relaxed, allowing the tenseness I didn’t realize existed to flow from my muscles, and I breathed easier than I had in a profoundly long time. The serenity of the room surrounded me like being submerged in lukewarm bathwater.
“Sit.”
I did.
Mister Sebastian glowered at me without saying another word for a long, uncomfortable duration. Finally, I spoke. “I was wondering if you could help me. I…I think I’m cursed.”
“You have no curse.”
Instead of being reassured, the definitive way he said that angered me. He had no clue what I’d been through. All the people I lost. I opened my mouth to tell him exactly that, but he cut me off.
“There is a dark presence about you. One that is very strong.”
“What? Like an evil spirit?”
“This is no spirit. It’s not from this earthly plane, but is ancient. It’s attached itself to you and has caused great harm.”
“Why me?”
Mister Sebastian’s eyes penetrated my soul. “You are an empty vessel.”
“What do you mean?”
“You exist, but don’t live. You fill space, but serve no purpose.”
“Now wait a minute—”
“You have willingly allowed it access to yourself, and thereby harm others.”
“I’ve never hurt a soul in my life.”
“Causing no harm is not the same as fostering health and harmony. You don’t create. You don’t contribute positivity to the world. You are neutral. Beige. Unsculpted clay that sits in a heap waiting for someone to mold it, but unable to form itself into anything more than a blob.”
I wanted to say, Look who’s the blob, but despite the anger bubbling inside me, his words hit true.
“You work a job for a paycheck,” he continued, “not because you have a higher calling where you are passionate about your career. Your personal life is designed for you to exist and nothing more. Those who care about you force you to interact with them. You drift through life, inviting exploitation by dark forces.”
His words rattled me, as if he had grabbed me by the shoulders and given me a violent shake.
The man’s demeanor softened, and he lowered his voice to speak in a kindly tone. “Life is more than just going to work and vegetating at home. We’re meant to grow, to learn, and most importantly, to give of ourselves to others. You…” His arms widened as if presenting a grand vista. “…fill space.”
I opened my mouth to counter that statement, but had no argument. What did I do with my life? I wasn’t invested in my job. I played games, watched videos, scrolled social media. My outside activities involved others prying me out of the house to participate—otherwise, I wouldn’t have made the effort. I had no hobbies, created nothing for the joy of creating, and took part in no community service. I couldn’t even commit to a girlfriend because it was too much effort, not to mention it would require giving of myself to another.
He was right—I was an empty vessel, adrift at sea, aimlessly floating until someone or something pushed me in any direction.
“So…how do I get rid of it?”
Mister Sebastian smiled. I wish he hadn’t. “You wanted a solitary existence, and you were given it.”
“I don’t want anyone else to die.”
“Then you need to start living.”
Before I left the store, Mister Sebastian packaged a bunch of odds and ends—crystals, herbs, candles, you name it—and gave me instructions on how to use them in my home. It wouldn’t drive away the dark presence, but it would insulate me from its power, at least to a limited degree. The cynical part of me assumed he threw random stuff together to make a large sale, but if that was the case, he was very convincing. Like Fox Mulder used to say, I wanted to believe.
He also crafted a small cloth figure that he stuffed full of herbs and anointed with oils. He snipped a lock of my hair and inserted the strands inside the doll before sewing it up. He said with a grin, “If you prefer, I could take drops of your blood instead. But your hair will do.” He gave me the ugly figure and explained that in the Hoodoo tradition, the rootwork doll was not for inflicting pain on others, but rather for your own personal healing and safety. “This is a powerful ally. What energy you give it, it will reflect back to you a hundredfold.”
Mister Sebastian placed an amulet hanging from a leather cord around my neck. “Wear this at all times. It’s an extra layer of protection.”
“But what if I want to protect everyone except me?”
“Take care of yourself. The rest will happen naturally.”
After returning home, I proceeded to lay out all the items I purchased according to the instructions. Peanut whimpered in confusion. I followed the rituals to the letter for weeks, spreading herbs, lighting candles, and reciting incantations. I even talked to my ugly little rootwork doll, which I named Prudence, after the Beatles song. My conversations with Prudence were deep and heartfelt, and she listened silently without judgment. Peanut, on the other hand, regarded me with his head cocked sideways like I had lost my mind. Perhaps I had.
The time I dreaded finally arrived. I needed to return to the world of the living, which scared me to death. I searched the web for local groups needing volunteers, and narrowed it down to three: a service that served meals to the homeless, a nonprofit that repaired homes of elderly people for free, and a residence for terminally ill children that needed assistance with food prep, cleaning, and general maintenance. I was completely unqualified across the board, but it was time to learn.
What terrified me most was the idea that I would bring the spectre of death with me—not necessarily to those in need, but to the ones helping them. I wore my amulet and brought Prudence along, though she remained in the car when I nervously went in to talk to the people in charge of those organizations. Before each meeting, I said an incantation—I wasn’t quite comfortable calling it a prayer because I wasn’t sure what I believed regarding a higher power. If ancient evils existed, there could very well be a God. I was pleased that none of the people who interviewed me dropped dead in my presence.
All three groups welcomed me with open arms. I wondered if they would’ve felt the same if they knew what loomed over me. Since I wasn’t employed, I split my time among them—a few hours here, a full day there. Weeks went by, and none of the staff or volunteers I worked with perished. Hope blossomed.
Prudence was my ever-present companion, which I carried in my backpack everywhere I went. She was my guardian and protector.
After a while, I grew to enjoy what I considered my jobs. I didn’t receive a paycheck, only the gratification I was contributing to society and helping people in need. I discovered fulfillment in this.
However, something nagged me. Sure, I was doing this because it helped others, but it was still selfish—it was to relieve myself of guilt, to remove the stain of blood from my hands.
I discussed this with Prudence, asking what I should do. She had no answer.
The words Mister Sebastian said to me echoed in my mind, that I was unsculpted clay waiting to be molded. And that I needed to create.
The next day, I signed up for lessons on how to sculpt clay.
I was horrible at it. I loved it. My creations were awful, yet joyous. I had faith I’d get better over time—and if I didn’t, who cares? It was the act of creating that mattered, not the end results. My prized creation was of a woman dancing. Its proportions were wrong; it lacked elegance; and you could really only tell what it was by squinting at it. However my imagination conceived it, my hands molded it, and I was proud of it. It contained my own magic. I placed the sculpture on my nightstand, where it held a special place next to Prudence. Months passed, and no one in my direct acquaintance fell victim to my deadly consort.
One day, I was on my shift in the kitchen at the Amber House, where children with terminal diseases spent their final days in comfort surrounded by love. Prudence sat on the counter watching me make sandwiches.
“I’m going to learn how to play guitar,” I told her. “I always made fun of those guys in school who thought they were so cool because they were guitarists. But it might be nice to play for the kids. I think they’d like it.”
“Who are you talking to?” a small voice said. I spun around to find a seven-year-old girl staring up at me. I became acquainted with all the residents since only a dozen kids populated the Amber House. This girl’s name was Mia, and she had advanced leukemia. This was obviously one of her good days, since she was out and about.
“Oh, hi Mia. I was talking to my friend, Prudence.” I motioned to the doll.
“You have a doll for a friend?”
“Sure. Don’t you?”
Mia giggled. “Yeah, but I’m a girl.”
I dropped down on a knee to be approximately at eye level with her. “Well, I don’t tell many people about Prudence. Can you keep her a secret?”
“Sure.”
Besides Mister Sebastian and the metaphysical store’s owner, Mia was the first person to learn about Prudence. I removed the doll from its perch and showed it to the girl, who looked at it with interest.
“She’s not very pretty.”
“Not on the outside. But it’s the inside that matters.”
Mia’s eyes twinkled in wonder. “She’s magic, isn’t she?”
I swallowed. “Yes.”
“Can I hold her?”
My initial instinct was to say no and yank Prudence from Mia’s hands, then hide the doll to keep her all to myself. After all, she was my protection.
Except she wasn’t. She was the protection for everyone else but me.
I’m not sure what overcame me, but it was the right thing to do. Maybe Prudence gave permission. I handed the doll to Mia. “Here you go.”
Mia took Prudence with gentle caring, then hugged it to her thin chest.
My breathing hitched as I said, “You can keep her.”
“Really?”
“Yep. She wants to go with you. She’s helped me all she can, so maybe she can help you now.”
Tears filled Mia’s eyes, and she hugged Prudence tighter. I wiped the wetness that had fallen on my own cheeks.
“Thank you. I’ll take great care of her.” Mia dashed out of the kitchen, presumably to return to her room so she could play with Prudence.
The leukemia went into remission. The doctors were confounded. Mia’s parents were overjoyed. The girl was discharged from the Amber House and went home with Prudence. The last I heard, she was healthy and happy.
That night I lay in bed in that partially awake state of near sleep where you’re not sure if your senses are picking up reality or nonsense projected from your subconscious. A darkness crept into the room like ink oozing through a pool of water. Peanut slept at the foot of the bed and whined without waking. Intense dread weighed on my heart, and coldness shrouded my body.
My head throbbed, a pain that came from the deepest part of my mind rather than my flesh. I winced and endured.
You are no longer protected. It was neither a voice nor a thought, but a vibration reverberating through my entire body. I understood without the benefit of hearing it. You think you can defeat me, but I am more powerful than you can ever imagine.
My eyes snapped open. I was fully awake yet still in that trance-like condition. My body lay on the bed, but my spirit wafted through an ethereal plane where the laws of physics didn’t apply. I grasped the dancing woman figurine on my nightstand, sat up, and extended my arm holding the sculpture I had created. I spoke to the entity that blocked out the remaining light seeping in through the window. “You are not welcome here. You will not harm me or anyone in my life ever again.”
Its laughter drilled through me like jagged shards of glass rendering my soul.
“I am no longer an empty vessel for you to ride. You have no power here.”
The laughter continued, but not as confidently.
I spoke the incantation—the prayer.
The ancient being went silent. The darkness remained.
I stood on the bed. Peanut roused, looked at me, then growled at the dark.
I’m not sure what made me do this, but I removed the amulet I had worn since Mister Sebastian placed it around my neck. A satisfied sigh blew through me, as if the presence rejoiced in victory, but it extinguished as I affixed the amulet to the dancing woman. I thrust the sculpture into the air.
“You! Are! Not! Welcome! Here!”
The darkness dissipated, like in a TV commercial about dish soap cutting through grease.
Faintness overcame me and I plopped down on the bed. Peanut jumped on me and licked my face. I no longer sensed the presence and wondered if I had vanquished it for good or if it just went into hiding.
A large part of me wanted to yield to fear and resign from my volunteer jobs, quit my sculpting class, dismiss my plans to learn to play guitar, and retreat back into my hovel. However, a tiny part inside me insisted I was stronger than that. I listened.
Turns out, I was a decent guitar player. My singing, however, left a lot to be desired. Not that it mattered, though—regardless of how out of tune my voice was, the kids enjoyed me performing for them. They responded to the love I spread.
I knew the entity wasn’t gone for good, but it showed waning interest in me as I grew as a person and the more I did for others. This I knew because it wanted an empty vessel, and I was filling up.
A young woman named Nadia started working the same shift as me at the food kitchen for the homeless. She and I hit it off, and I dredged up the nerve to ask her out. We’ve now been dating for nearly a year—and you know what? We might be falling in love. At the very least, I’ve been making plans for the future that includes her.
To be on the safe side, I asked Mister Sebastian to craft another rootwork doll I named Phineas and gave it to Nadia. She said it looked hideous, but placed him on her dresser where he continues to watch over her for protection.
END
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About
Stephen Wise (he/him) is an award-winning screenwriter and filmmaker whose films were screened in over a dozen countries. He co-wrote the acclaimed screenplay Batman: DarKnight for Warner Bros and two collections of short stories, Portals of the Mind and The Signpost Up Ahead. A Michigan native with a BA in film production from the University of Central Florida, he currently resides in Northwest Florida where he works as a video producer.
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