Copyright © 2007 by Gerald C. Matics
Published in Dark Distortions I (Scotopia Press, December 2007)
A mystical medium enslaved her boyfriend. Can Marie break the old woman's grip on Brad without becoming enthralled herself — or worse?
"Come on," Brad said. "That's not a word."
"Is too." Marie gave him her best smug look.
"Fine. What's it mean?"
"Go look it up, champ. There's the dictionary." She waved at the desk.
Brad stood and crossed Marie's tiny dorm room, determined for once to beat his girlfriend at Scrabble. He was no dummy — they didn't let those into Strathmere — but when it came to this stupid game she seemed to have a hold over him. If he ever did get a good word, she found some way to add on to it. No wonder she always wanted to play, but he'd be damned if he was going to let her get away with murder in the form of a bogus triple word score. "OK, spell it for me again."
"W-I-C-C-A."
Brad paged through. "Wicca, wicca," he muttered. "Hey, is that like a wicca’ basket?"
"Smartass."
"Well, I don't know." And if you weren't an English major you probably wouldn't, either, he thought, congratulating himself for not saying it out loud. Brad's physics major was as incomprehensible to her as her major was to him; it was a standing joke, but one he’d taken too far in the past.
Marie seemed to sense his thinking anyway; she had an unnerving talent for doing that. "Pick up a book once in awhile instead of a calculator. Maybe you'll learn something." She stretched. "Anyway, I didn't get it from a book, I got it from my crazy Aunt Rita."
"Which one is she, the one that limps?" There it is. Wicca . . .
"No, that's Aunt Pearl. You remember Aunt Rita. The one we visited last May? The medium?"
. . . witchcraft? Funny name for it. "Marie, there's nothing medium about that woman. She's extra large all the way."
"I repeat: smartass. Did you find it?"
"Yeah, and I'm bummed. This is the first time Noah Webster has ever lied to me."
"Maybe someday you'll admit I know everything."
"Right. And you'll admit I'm the Pope." Brad plopped back down with a grunt onto the cushion across from Marie. "What does Aunt Rita know about witchcraft? She a witch?"
"If you ask her. She used to be really into it when she was younger, but now she mainly just does Tarot cards for fun. You know, parties and shit."
"Did she ever tell your fortune?"
"Yes." Marie got up and crawled around to him, her jean shorts and halter top hugging her body. "She told me I was going to meet a rude young man — with, admittedly, a great ass — and this man was going to treat me rotten but I was cursed to fall for him anyway." She reached his lap and sprawled on him; all thoughts of Scrabble fled his mind like birds before winter as he kissed her auburn hair. She smelled wonderful. "But instead I met you," she giggled.
"Hey, come on," he protested. "I've got a pretty nice ass." He caressed her back with a practiced hand, admiring the tautness of her muscles.
"Yes, and nice gray eyes and a pretty smile," she admitted, turning over to look at him. His hand gravitated to her breast. "And you're still a rude bastard. You never take me out. You never cook me dinner. You never bring me flowers anymore," she teased, her tone all nagging wife.
"Tell you what," he said. "I'll take you out to get your fortune retold, find someone who'll get it right."
"Yeah, I can imagine it," she chuckled. "'You will go and live in a far-off land where you will spend at least four years of your life, and you will leave with a worthless scroll of paper in your hand after throwing away many thousands of dollars, and —' Hey!" She leapt up and pounded his chest once.
"Yow!" Brad yelled. "What the hell?"
"Let's do it," she said, her green eyes aglow.
"I was just getting ready to," he said, bending to kiss her again.
"No, you jerk, not that." She pushed him away and sat all the way up. "The fortune thing."
"What?"
"Remember that place — what the hell was the name on the door? We pass it every day going to PolySci. It's a little shop in the Plaza, right on the end of
"Oh, okay, I remember. It's Madam Something. You want to go to her?"
"Yeah! Come on, it'll be fun. You can get it done, too."
"That stuff's a crock, babe. I hate to be the one to break it to you."
"So? It'll still be fun. Besides, they do know some things. You never know."
"You really want to go, huh?" She nodded. "All right, fine. Now?"
Marie straightened up. "Well," she said, flashing a wicked grin and climbing back on top of him, "maybe not right this second."
They took an azalea-lined cobblestone path down to Plumstead. This route had become Marie's favorite in the past two months since she and Brad had entered Strathmere. She loved it for the breathtaking gardens and manicured lawn. It spoke of a quiet serenity, and was one of the things that had made her choose Strathmere in the first place. Sighing, she locked her delicate fingers with Brad's strong ones and was rewarded with a warm smile and a kiss on the head.
They spotted the sign from half a block distant, a hand-lettered marquee outside a bakery that proclaimed "Madam Wanda" in a great, dark, gothic font. Below and only slightly smaller were the words "Seer" and "Mystic." The sign hung next to a dilapidated door that might have been blue once; presumably this led to the shuttered room atop the bakery.
Brad opened the door, which creaked on cue, and Marie giggled as they climbed a steep flight of stairs in semi-gloom; the light at the top was out. They reached a landing and found another door, this with an old-fashioned bell hung by the frame. With a bemused look at Marie, Brad rang it, and they waited several moments. Nothing. Brad rang again. Still nothing.
"Maybe she's closed," Marie speculated.
"Maybe," Brad agreed. "But there should be a sign somewhere one way or the other."
They waited a few moments more in silence. Marie was about to grab Brad's hand to leave when it snaked out and turned the knob, pushing inward. The door inched open, groaning . . . .
