"I'm so glad to have helped you, Mrs. Spate."
You smiled softly as you snuffed out the remaining smolder of the tea light candle, sliding the metal lid over it. The steady stream of smoke danced as you disturbed it, the scent of rosemary and patchouli lingering in the air. Rosalie had come again to ensure the child growing inside her, round and stubborn beneath her ribs, would stay that way. The life you'd helped conjure. Truth be told, you put in more work than Mr. Spate. The man was older than dirt and half as fertile. It took herbs, rituals, and more than one session bathed in candlelight and prayer to pull that baby from the other side. Each visit a little darker than the last. That's why she comes weekly now. To make sure it stuck.
"Oh, honey, you don't understand how grateful I am," Rosalie murmured, tears brimming in her eyes as her hands cradled her belly.
You followed her out to the porch, your bare feet creaking against the old wood, and took her hand in yours.
"Of course I do, Mrs. Spate. You tell me every time," you chuckled, helping guide her down the steps toward her waiting wagon.
"But if you really want to show me how grateful you are," you added, tightening your grip just slightly, "you keep showing up. No skipping, no second-guessing. You hear?"
"Of course," she said quickly, like it had already been settled in her spirit. "I'd never risk missing a session."
She hoisted herself up into the seat; too high for her liking, not low enough to keep her from doing it anyway. You steadied her with both hands, making sure her weight settled evenly before she could tip.
"Now you tell that man of yours to get a proper car. Something a pregnant woman can climb into without needing a damn ladder, we know he can afford it. And next time, knock three times like I said. Nearly gave me a heart attack."
Rosalie laughed, giving you a tired wave as the horses started down the dusty road.
"Will do," she called out, her voice fading with the distance.
You stood at the edge of the porch, watching the wagon disappear down the winding path. The wind carried the scent of wet pine and kicked up a bit of dust...but that wasn't what made you stiffen.
There it was again. That feeling.
That tingle at the back of your neck, like the air had eyes.
You turned slowly, gaze scanning the tree line beside your house. Just shadows and hush.
"Probably an animal," you muttered. But something inside you twisted all the same.
No birds. No bugs. No breeze now. Just silence. And something watching.
Your hand drifted down to your waist, to the place where your mojo bag always sat, tucked tight beneath your clothes like a second skin.
*
Your eyes shut as you release a deep sigh, the hot water easing the stiffness in your body after a long day of what your husband likes to call "sitting around the house." Unbeknownst to him, you'd been on your feet since sunrise; visiting the markets, tending to your herb garden, dressing candles, and sewing mojo bags.
"Silly little crafts," he calls them. But those so-called crafts are the reason there's food on the table and the tin roof doesn't leak when the storms come.
He makes good money working nights on the railroad. But he can't seem to keep it in his pockets long enough to do anything responsible with it. He thinks you're clueless about how he's been spending his wages. All he knows is his wife can't work. That would be a dishonor. A shame to his name.
But work is all you do. Days are spent tending to the house and your husband. And when he leaves for the night shift, you go to work too. Stitching bags, steeping teas, dressing candles with herbs. Rootwork, they'd call it—devil work, because according to everyone around here, if it wasn't of God, it had to be evil.. But nobody speaks of it, because to speak of it would mean you know.
And no one wants to admit that.
You'd just sent out your last customer and drawn a much-needed bath. The steam curled against your skin, easing your aches like the kiss of an angel. You'd almost let yourself relax.
Then—
Knock. Knock. Knock.
You heard it clear as day.
Soft... but strange.
Not like the ones you've heard before. Not urgent, not desperate.
Calm. Measured.
Like whoever was out there didn't mind waiting.
No one comes here unless they're coming in secret.
You stood quickly, water dripping from your body as you stepped out of the clawfoot tub. You pulled a white slip over your skin, the dampness making it cling to every curve. The chill hit you a moment later, but it wasn't just from the breeze.
It was from the knock.
As you opened the door, you were startled by the sight...a man.
No one ever came to you unless they needed something: fertility, health, luck, or love. But never a man. Not once.
So the sight of him standing there, clean, dressed in pressed slacks and a white button-up, suspenders hanging neatly from his shoulders, caught you off guard.
He looked like he didn't belong here.
"Can I help you?" you asked, your face betraying your confusion.
"Yes, uh- I've come seeking a bit of aid," he replied, polite, unsure.
His accent caught you off guard, confirming your suspicions from a moment ago, he doesn't belong here. It wasn't local; you couldn't place it if you tried. Sounded older. Wiser. The kind that stuck to the walls and made you shiver when it settled.
"Me- my wife and I... we've run into some financial troubles. We're gonna lose everything."
His tone held the weight of shame and desperation...like just saying it out loud bruised him.
"So instead of going to the breadline or hittin' the railroad like everyone else, you came to a rootworker?" you asked, folding your arms.
"You know folks only come to me when they've run out of options, right?"
"I know, ma'am," he said, eyes soft. "But I'm a man. And it takes a lot of pride to go asking for help with something like this."
"Figured since your work's a bit more... secret, I'd come to you first."
You raised a brow.
"And where's the logic in that?"
He smiled...small. Knowing.
Didn't blink.
"Exactly, ma'am. A man as desperate as I am don't live by logic," he said.
You exhaled through your nose, shaking your head just slightly.
"That's probably why you got yourself in a financial bind to begin with," you muttered.
Irresponsible. Reminded you of your husband.
"Well, unfortunately, sir, I've closed for the night," you said, gesturing to your clothing. "As you can see, I'm a bit indecent. If you come back another time, maybe I can help you."
You motioned to the white slip clinging to your damp skin, the cold night air making your nipples pebble beneath the thin fabric.
But the man didn't budge.
"Ma'am, I came a long way," he said, tone pleading. "I really need this. It took me weeks to find someone with your services. I'll pay you extra; whatever it takes, and I'll be on my way, I promise."
His hands were clasped together and pressed to his chest as he pleaded.
You'd never seen anyone, man or woman, so desperate for your services. Even offered to pay extra as if he weren't already in financial ruin.
But something about him sat wrong.
Not loud. Not obvious.
Just... off.
You couldn't place it. Couldn't name it.
But it crawled beneath your skin like a splinter of instinct.
Your mama used to tell you,
"One day, your soft heart gon' lead you into a place you can't pray your way out of."
And still...against your better judgment...your lips parted.
"...Come on in," you said softly.
And the man smiled.
***
You held his hands-firm, too firm-as you asked for permission to read him.
He agreed, too eagerly.
There was no hesitation in his voice. No nerves in his grip.
That alone had you on edge.
A man like him should've been trembling, walking this far out near the treeline just before sundown. No neighbors in earshot. No help if something went sideways. And now that you were thinking on it...
You hadn't heard a car pull up. Or even seen a wagon.
Still, you sat across from him and pulled your deck from its pouch, steadying your breath.
"Remmick has given me permission to tap into his energy," you murmured as you began to shuffle.
A card flew out before you could finish your first pass.
Wheel of Fortune, Reversed.
Your brow lifted. You kept your eyes on the card, speaking as it spoke through you.
"You showed up like a stray dog... sniffin' around my porch. Tail tucked, eyes sharp.
You say you just stumbled here from word of mouth, but I'm havin' a hard time believing that. The wheel don't spin unless someone puts their hand on it.
And you..."
You finally looked up at him.
"You been lookin' long before you came knockin'."
You didn't like the sound of your own voice just then.
You shuffled again, rougher this time, herbs rattling in their jars nearby. Something inside you stirred. Your nerves were talking.
He'd been watching.
He'd been here.
Before he ever let himself be seen.
The second card flew.
The Star, reversed.
You paused.
Closed your eyes, but still felt his gaze on you.
"Hope lost. A flame gone dim," you whispered.
"Like you're... burned out."
Your eyes opened again, meeting his.
Still, he hadn't looked away once.
"You ain't here to be healed," you said, barely louder than a breath.
"You lost somethin'. And you lookin' at me like I got it."
Your voice wavered.
And now you were angry about that.
You started shuffling again. Harder. Quicker.
Every flick of the deck felt heavier than the last.
Remmick leaned back, smug like he knew exactly what the third card would be.
"Last card," you muttered.
It flew as the candle flame burst upward—flickering like it wanted to run.
Death, Reversed.
"Now, see, most folks don't like this one," you said, trying to steady your voice.
"They think it's bad. Think it means an ending.
But sometimes... death is a beginning. A rebirth."
You lifted your gaze slowly.
His expression didn't shift much. But his eyes... they darkened.
"But in your case? It means rot."
You tilted your head, the words coming slower now.
"Somethin's been lingerin' too long. Whatever it is... it's run its course. Just refuses to die."
A pause. You swallowed hard.
"It also says you bring endings.
So now I'm askin'...what exactly did you come to end?"
You glanced away, suddenly cold.
Your eyes found the mirror hanging on the wall. The candlelight flickered in its frame, catching only one reflection.
Yours.
Where the well-groomed white man sat just moments before, the mirror showed nothing.
Your heart stuttered. You whipped your head back toward him-
And his eyes were glowing. Auburn. Burning.
His stare was hungry.
"You're right," he said, rising from his seat.
"I've had my eye on you for quite some time."
You stood too fast, defensive, already reaching for your bag.
The one that wasn't there...
The one you'd left in the bathroom, because you were rushing to see who knocked.
"I like your gift," he said. "I could use you."
You backed up a step, voice trembling.
"You one of them cursed folk my granny warned me about..."
Your heart pounded so hard, you were sure he could hear it.
And he stared...right at your chest, like he could see it.
Drool dribbled from the corner of his mouth, slow and feral.
"What gifts?" you stammered.
"I don't got anything you need."
You meant it, every word. There weren't no powers; just years of passed-down knowledge. Tradition.
"I don't mean powers," he said, stepping forward.
"That brain of yours. That heart. It calls to me.
I knew it the moment I saw you."
Remmick moved in closer, and you shrank back until the wall caught you.
"Please," you whispered.
"I don't want no trouble. I just help folks that need it."
"Helping others..." he sneered, "and you can't even help yourself."
He looked around your space.
"Truth be told, I thought it was gonna take a lot more to get into this little place you call a home."
He smirked.
"Hard head makes a soft bottom," he said,
because you both knew–you knew better than to make careless mistakes like this.
The red in his eyes flared
"I'm not gonna take anything from you tonight," he said, tone low, almost tender.
"I just couldn't keep watchin' from a distance no more. Had to get a closer look."
His hands moved, long fingers now curled into sharp, inhuman points.
When he reached for you, you yelped like a hit dog.
"Shhh," he murmured. "I just wanna touch you again."
He cupped your head, fingers sliding into your hair.
Pulled you gently forward, chest to chest.
He angled your head to the side, slow.
And leaned in.
He smelt of pine, like he'd walked straight from the woodline.
You felt his breath, warm and harsh, against your neck.
His nose skimmed your skin. Then his lips.
A line of something wet, saliva, maybe...trickled down to your collarbone.
You whimpered.
He groaned.
"I ain't gonna hurt ya," he cooed, lips brushing your skin.
Something sharp dragged across your throat.
Then his tongue followed, drawing lazy, dizzying lines that made your legs go weak.
"Please," you whimpered. You didn't even know what you were begging for...mercy, maybe? You weren't sure.
Things like him were supposed to be stories. Tales your parents told so you'd know to play it smart when strangers came knockin' or to be home before dusk swept across the sky. If only you'd listened. Just like you always listened to everything else.
He pulled back from your neck, only slightly. Close enough that you could feel the smirk on his lips. His voice came out raspy, strained, like it took everything in him not to sink his teeth in right then and there.
"Please what, birdie?" he murmured. "Take a bite?"
He chuckled, breath hot against your skin.
"Say the word, and I promise I'll do it."
"Please... go."
Your voice barely came out. But it worked. His grip loosened.
He turned your face toward his, eyes gleaming like lit coals in the dim room.
"Go?" he echoed, amused. "But I was just gettin' comfortable."
"My—my husband will be home soon," you blurted, shivering as you spoke. You were grasping at straws. A monster like him could take this whole damn town if he wanted to.
"Right. Your husband," he said, drawing out the word like it tasted bitter.
He smirked like the devil himself, lost in thought.
"Maybe I oughta go pay him a visit too... right?"
"Please don't," you begged, your voice breaking.
And then
The creak of a wagon outside.
Hooves striking the dirt road.
Both of your eyes turned to the closed front door.
You panicked, glancing at the table; candles still burning, tarot cards splayed out like a confession. If your husband walked in and saw this? You'd never hear the end of it. He'd throw a fit.
"Please," you said again, breath shaky.
"You're causin' nothin' but trouble. Just go."
His eyes, still smoldering, held yours. The flame dimmed, but the danger hadn't gone anywhere.
He stepped back, finally.
"I'll go," he said, his voice velvet-smooth.
"But I will be back, my little bird."
Without another word, he turned with a satisfied grin plastered on his lips. Slipping into the narrow hallway leading to the back of your house, you watched as the bathroom door closed and heard a window open and snap shut.
You stood frozen for a second, then scrambled. You blew out the candle without a thought, shaking hands, shuffling the cards, scooping them into your pouch. Just as you reached for the last one...
A card slipped from your grasp.
It fluttered to the floor and landed face-up at your feet.
The Tower. Reversed.
And that's when it hit you.
You weren't reading his fate.
You were reading your own.
Everything was going to fall apart.
And he would be at the center of it all.
Chapter two coming in the near future.
Last Updated 9/5/2025.