Nicole had always been interested in the future — cartomancy, astrology, tarot, runes, psychics, anything that would make her forget about the dread of free will, even for just a moment. Her fascination began at fourteen, when she developed a crush so intense it confirmed the very meaning of the word. After school, she would run to the computer and learn all the tricks of the occult to see wether he was the one, or rather, to make him so. One night, she cast a love spell and almost burned down the house. As she stomped out the disappointed embers of the pink post-it card on which was written ‘I attract love through this burning fire’, she wondered whether the sudden, irascible flame that burst out in the air was a sign from above. Perhaps casting love spells was the wrong way to go. Or perhaps none of this was real anyway.
Ten years later, her love life is equally desperate. On February 14th, under the dim lights of an overcrowded restaurant, she’s expecting a shiny object to pop out of a velvet box any time now. Instead, she hears him say ‘it’s over’. Without a second thought, she rushes out and follows two wet beams of light for two hours until she gets to a driveway hidden by four huge pines and oddly planted bushels.
She opens the door. The house is dark, the murmur of the TV resonates down the staircase. She shakes the snow off her boots and leaves her dripping coat on the crowded hanger. The storm tries to get in through the door, ajar, but she slams it shut and all her rage with it. Nicole walks through the smell of freshly mopped pine. ‘I’m here!’, she shouts up the empty hall. Her dog squeaks, running in circles around her bare feet. ‘Nicole?’ She hears her father’s voice overpower the TV. Every time she visits he seems to have aged another ten years. She goes to the kitchen and hugs her mother, focused on pouring sauce into a big plastic container, and she begins to cry. ‘Oh darling, why aren’t you with Lucas?’
Her belly now full, Nicole is receptive to her mother’s wisdom: ‘You should be grateful it happened now and not with two kids and a mortgage. He did you a favor: you won’t have to spend your life with an ugly asshole!’ She takes another sip of Malbec — Argentinian and only twenty bucks, she got it at Costco, isn’t it tasty? Nicole nods and takes the potion. ‘I’m sorry to break it to you honey, but he’s probably seeing someone else.’
‘You think so?’
‘Well, he was definitely not behaving like someone who was committed to you.’
‘It’s true that there was something off with him. He was always so secretive.’ Nicole starts sobbing again, making the awful grimace she had mastered through the years. ‘Stop that. You wanna get wrinkles for a cheating, stinking clown?’
A defeated giggle comes out of her as she banishes the tears. Then, after a prolonged silence, her eyes focus back and notice her mother’s paralyzed gaze, directed towards the empty hallway.
‘What are you looking at?’
‘I think I just saw a ghost.’
‘What?’ Hyperventilation, palpitations, sweat, the unwelcome trio enters her body.
‘Didn’t you feel a presence?’
‘No! What the hell? Are you joking?’
‘Calm down, Nicole. It’s not the first time.’
‘What do you mean, it’s not the first time?’
‘I’ve seen many spirits in my life. It’s a gift some people have. Don’t be afraid. I don’t think he was an evil one. He was covered in black feathers; it might be Pomperaug. He’s just coming to see if everything’s OK. This is a good sign.’ She smiles and speaks plainly as Nicole turns white as the ghost she imagines. Pomperaug was an Indigenous chief whose burial site was supposed to be right behind Nicole’s bedroom.
‘I’ll never be able to sleep here again. Why would you do this to me, today of all days?’ She storms up to her room — the same as it was back in her witching days, purple and pink with a zoo of stuffed animals in her bed. Her mother looks at her leave with an air of embarrassment — no wonder that guy left her. She shakes her head and sips on the Malbec.
Nicole’s cheeks are stinging. She breathes shakily through her swollen mouth as she holds one of her furry friends, its polyester fur hardened by accumulated dust. She coughs and throws it onto the floor capriciously. She picks up her phone, an instant pacifier, and dims the brightness, typing psychic-crystal-ball.com — one of the oracles that got her through high-school. She would never admit that she still uses it to this day to make mundane decisions — what film to watch, which friend was fake, which job was right. Too lazy to type in her questions into the jurassic box circled by incessant ads, she keeps them in her mind, speaking to her phone telepathically. Then, she clicks on the pixelated crystal ball at the center of the page:
Did Lucas cheat on me?
Yes
Is my name Nicole?
Yes
Did my mother see a ghost tonight?
Yes
Her eyes begin to water again, her heart to thump. She isn’t sure what’s worse, knowing that her boyfriend cheated on her, that the ghost of an ancient chief is roaming around her house or that the Oracle is telling the truth.
Does Lucas love me?
No
Nicole wipes her eyes.
Are you a ghost?
Yes
She takes a deep breath, stifling a sob.
Are you… the ghost of Pomperaug?
…loading…
No
A sigh of relief.
Are we mentally connected like that woman on YouTube with the dowsing rods?
Yes
Are you dangerous?
No
Will Lucas and I get back together?
No
…
Will I ever meet my soulmate?
Yes
Nicole relaxes a bit and her mind jumps to the familiar fantasies she spent her life building. For a calm moment, she loses focus from the bright blue light shining on her flustered face. And then:
Will there be any great tragedies in my life?
Yes
She likes the harsh truths, it makes her believe in the crystal ball even more, because, after all, she wasn’t stupid. So she keeps spelling the questions out in her mind, talking to that unknown metaphysical being — one of the seven demons of Wifi, or perhaps tuning in to an angelic radio wave, or the Akashic records.
Do we have free will?
Ask again later
As time increases, so does her mindless clicking. The Oracle obeys, answering every question, in perfect silence, lest a few sniffles here and there. Click, yes, click no. It’s not chance, not an algorithm, it’s the way of the world, and it soothes her to know that when she is not alone, there is nothing to fear.
Should I keep asking you questions?
No
But she goes on, until her eyelids fall shut and her screen goes black. Not the snow thrashing against her window, nor the wind howling at the moon can disturb the spiritless void that surrounds her. She is utterly alone, victim to the infinite. In the darkness of sleep, that mysterious territory with no gravity, no screen to protect her, she encounters the Questions. They appear in strange alien forms, picking at her, gashing out her exposed self, her organs falling out, her mind defenseless, and there are no answers, none at all.
She wakes up shaking. Through the old blinds, a warm light shyly makes its entrance. Outside reigns a peaceful quiet; organisms silently carrying on their nocturnal endeavors, wrapping up their shifts, leaving way for the early risers to take over. Suddenly, Nicole’s heart decides to perform a funeral march. She puts her fingers to her neck and feels its glum rhythm as she struggles to open her eyes, weighed by invisible lead tears. Finally, she sits up and feels her fluffy pajamas stick to her legs, completely moist.
She pissed herself, what the heck? How is that even possible?
She slowly gets out of bed. What a fucking loser, she sobs, as she starts removing the stinking sheets. The mattress, uncovered, is sodden with an bestial amount of piss. The stench stares at her, snarking, laughing, until a great BAM!
Something crashes behind her. She immediately turns around and sees between the slats a huge black bird sheepishly flapping its wings back up and away. Nicole watches as it disappears into the horizon of snow-covered trees. She opens the window frantically, her heart is worrying her with all its jumps and false starts. She throws her head out and watches that bird, up in the sky, slicing the air up into a huge semi-circle and back towards her house. The sky surrounding him is turning from grey to a dark orange. He is alone soaring through the glacial air that penetrates Nicole’s open room.
The sound of a car passing by startles Nicole, hypnotized. She expects the black bird to smoothly glide back into the void all birds come from, but it seems to be coming closer. Closer until she can discern its wrinkly red head. Shefeels her wet pajamas start to freeze against her skin. The bird approaches, she could almost touch the flaps of its hanging skin. It’s aiming at her. She’s going to die. As soon as she thinks it, the bird folds its wings and propels itself straight to her window. She slams it down. Panting, afraid of the blood on her hands, or rather, on her windowsill, she wincingly opens her eyes but there’s nothing there.
She looks around and all she sees are the ruins of her bed, the sheets all on the floor and the stench pulsating from them. She takes her pants off and throws it in the pile, taking it downstairs half-naked.
Surely, it was all just a dream.
Thank you for reading! If you enjoyed this short story, consider subscribing for more (it’s free!) :