Cursed

My daily routine included new steps now: stepping carefully across my bedroom as if I would find unexpected land-mines; eating cereal because I could not trust myself with a knife to cut fruit or heat to toast bread; walking to work after my insurance refused to cover the third car crash and I had been banned from Trainline. Even with all these steps, it was unusual that I made it to work unscathed. That morning, it had been iced coffee over both me and the pavement. No one hurt, thankfully, but my outfit ruined and £6 at the gentrified coffee shop wasted. I had a change of clothes in my locker at work, by now expecting anything.

But something had to change.

I idly wondered as I waited five whole minutes for the green light to show at the zebra crossing, if I had been cursed. It made sense in theory - no one is this unlucky. But who would do that? And what sort of lame curse was it?

A real curse would have been a proper accident, or a debilitating heartbreak, a loss of someone I cared about. Not this half-hearted string of bad luck. It was cruel, sure, and it made me lose my mind with frustration when I did everything right and still got hurt.

Besides, I hadn’t done anything to elicit a curse on me. The worst fight I had been in during the last year was with Mary, and I doubt my middle-aged coworker cared enough about me messing up her work with one client to curse me. Were curses even real?

The curse idea didn’t come from nowhere. On my walk to work - the walk I had been forced to take by the said curse - was a billboard advertising a witch shop below it. On the billboard, in comically big purple letters, it read, ‘ARE YOU CURSED? VISIT MADAME HIBISCUS.’ Maybe I wasn’t, and I had just let advertising get to me, like when you see a billboard for Cadbury and immediately start craving chocolate.

Still, I wondered if there was any harm in visiting the witch. I would do anything to have my normal life back. I was sick of having to overthink every move I made, to plan each journey in advance looking at each detail and how it could hurt me. I didn’t like the fear that the next thing I did was going to hurt me irreversibly and having to choose minor inconveniences like spilled coffee as the better option.

For a few weeks, this Madame Hibiscus had been on my mind. I had even googled the name to see what it meant, but that didn’t help me to understand who she was (plus, I started getting adverts for Hibiscus tea, which I didn’t drink).

I decided, in that moment, covered in coffee, still waiting for the green man to walk across the LED screen, that I needed to visit her. 

I could go on my way back from work - I lived alone, no one would know. That was one of the perks of being an adult. I could disappear off to visit some dodgy woman claiming to be a witch, and no one could tell me that it was a bad idea. Equally, though, if I disappeared tonight, no one would know. As much as the possibility of my life turning into an infamous missing person case scared me, the idea that the rest of my days would be spent in avoidance scared me even more.

-

At work, I had got in another fight with Mary after the printer broke while I was using it. I watched her carefully as she struggled to keep her voice down, and wondered if she could really have put a curse on me for that nonsense back in September. She was in her fifties, hair halfway between brown and grey, with these glasses on a gold chain that made her eyes look even bigger as she looked at me with disapproval. It was disapproval, though - I wouldn’t even go as far as to say she was mad, she was just frustrated, and frustrated women don’t curse their co-workers.

The walk between work and the witch-shop seemed longer than normal, as if the universe was trying to drag the journey out, like something bad would happen when I stepped into the shop.

I think I was prepared for anything: walking through the doorway into a dusky cave of spiders, a medieval dungeon, a fantasy land of dragons. I was surprised by the normality of the room, the familiar shelves of a corner shop arranged in rows. It wasn’t until I looked closer and noticed what exactly was on those shelves that I started to feel uneasy. Not that I was judging anyone who came in there looking for preserved bats or amethyst crystals mined under a full moon, but it just all felt a little too performative. It was like the ingredients of the witches’ brew in Macbeth, or the list of ‘fairy altar’ supplements in my big book for girls I had read at age ten. It wasn’t real magic - it was for the benefit of those fascinated by it, but without any real power.

There was a woman in the corner, restocking little vials of liquid mercury. She was - to me - beautiful in a way I couldn’t put my finger on. She was beautiful in the way that stained glass is beautiful, somehow telling a story, transporting you. She wasn’t young but I couldn’t place her age and she wasn’t white, but I couldn’t have told you more than that either. I knew, instinctively, that this was the Madame Hibiscus from the billboard.

“Good afternoon, honey.” She spoke without looking at me. “I knew you would come.”

If anyone else had claimed to see me in their future like that, I would have instantly dismissed them. I had no belief in prophecies. But, somehow, I believed her.

“I think I’m cursed,” I admitted.

“You are.”

“What can I do about it?”

“Not much, unfortunately. But - ” She stopped herself. “No, that would be too much work.”

“I’ll do anything.”

She finally turned around, looked at me with her eyes that had seen more than I would ever see, and smiled. “Will you?”

“Yes.”

She handed me a list from her pocket. To me, it looked like a shopping list.

It read:

Cinnamon

Frankincense

Lemongrass

3 candles (one blue, one violet and one grey)

A photograph of a woman from the wallet of the man who owns the train museum

A lock of hair from that same wallet

“I can do this,” I told her. 

The list wasn’t long. It seemed weird to me that she would send me out for candles and incense when she owned a shop that I’d have assumed sold all of the above. Momentarily, I was concerned about the stealing, but I rationalized it. I wouldn’t take any money, and my life had been so filled with inconveniences that I had no sympathy left for the man.

And I was right: it was easy enough. I found the candles and incense in the local supermarket, costing me no more than £50, and through some stroke of luck or divine intervention, the train museum announced that the owner would be doing a Q and A on Saturday, with everyone welcome to attend.

The plan was to bump into him. He was old, and I’d use just enough force to topple him without him actually getting hurt. I was surprisingly confident in my pickpocketing abilities - it seemed like a basic skill to be able to slip the brown leather wallet from his corduroys.

I was banking on the fact that the photo and hair would be easily found. I trusted Madame Hibiscus’ instructions. I couldn’t believe that she would send me on any wild goose chase. In fact, my luck seemed to be turning just enough that I thought I could pull this off. Even the owner’s availability seemed like someone was looking out for me.

-

Saturday was rainy. That didn’t bother me - the museum was inside, and all I needed was an empty hallway or unused stairwell. I had my best neutral outfit on, hoping that my jeans and jumper would allow me to blend seamlessly with the crowd, even though most of them were a good few years older than me.

I tried my best to not obviously trail him. I stayed close, asked questions that I’d gotten off the FAQ page on Google. I learned that he had founded the museum 60 years ago alongside his wife, that it was built on the site of old army barracks, and the only way to get there was on the train (evidently something he did on purpose), and the most expensive thing in the museum was a painting by Turner which hung in the entrance lobby. For a thief, that didn’t interest me much.

When he left to use the bathroom, I followed. He wasn’t important enough to have a security detail, leaving him and me alone in the paneled hallway, his footsteps echoing on the hardwood floor. It wasn’t quite wide enough for us both to walk through, and, like a gentleman, he stopped and let me past.

That’s when I struck, walking by him with such force that he had to step back and lose his balance. His wallet fell from his breast pocket.

Immediately, I was apologizing. With one hand I helped him up, and with the other, I opened the wallet. He was struggling, distracted, and I could have taken it, but I recognized the photo. It was her - Madame Hibiscus.

At once, we both realized that I was robbing him. He frowned, reaching for it and I pulled back.

“It’s not a smart move to steal from me,” he told me.

“I just want the photo.”

“Oh… Harriet sent you?”

“I don’t - Madame Hibiscus sent me.”

He nodded. “She’s trying to get out.”

“Get out from where?”

“Listen, kid, it’s not worth it.”

“I think I’m cursed.” I was aware that I was spilling all my secrets to this man, but it seemed like I had to give him something in return.

“She said she could help me.”

“She probably can,” he admitted. “But it’s still not worth it.”

I looked from the wallet to him and back again. I could see the hair in a clear plastic bag in the other pocket.

“I’m sorry,” I said, and I ran.

-

Madame Hibiscus’ shop was closed on Sundays, but I couldn’t imagine just waiting patiently in my apartment when right now I had all the ingredients needed to reverse this ‘curse’ that followed me.

So, although the establishment was shut, the door locked, and all the lights off, I knocked and knocked until she came down. To be fair to her, it took her no more than ten minutes to let me in, despite the fact that I was just some customer demanding to be let in or her day off.

I walked in and slammed my bag down onto the counter. “I have them all - the candles, the incense. I stole that photo from the old man at the train museum, along with what I assume is your hair.”

“Yes, it’s mine.” She took them from me.

“Why did you need me to get them?” I asked. “If it’s your hair then you must have some already? This shop is meant to sell candles and incense, right? Or, if it doesn’t, you must have a supplier? This is just from the supermarket.”

“Because I cannot leave this shop.”

“Why not?” My frustration was building up again, “I don’t get it.”

“OK.” She sat down in one of the antique chairs at the back of the room, and I followed suit. “Put it this way: I have been tricked into staying in this shop forever, and these - ” She gestured at the things I had brought her. “- are going to get me out of here.”

“But is it going to cure my curse?”

“Oh, sweetie…” There was this sickly sweet tone to her voice.“I was the one who put the curse on you, and I’ll take it off when you help me.”

“Why me?” I asked, desperately, as she stood up and took the candles from my bag.

She sighed. “It wasn’t personal, darling, you just happened to be right at the bus stop as I came up with the plan.”

“So all this time- all the stuff that kept happening to me… it was j- just random?” I could feel my tongue tripping over my words. My stutter always came back out a little when I was upset.

“You should have come in sooner. I mean, I knew you would come in eventually, that was part of it, but you waited weeks - weeks that could have been avoided.” She lit the three colors, placing them in a triangle between us.

“I should have come in sooner!?” If I was going through the stages of grief, I was in anger. “You’re blaming me?”

“I’m just trying to help.” Next, the incense, lighting them off the candles and placing them in three pre-prepared holders.

“No. You- you’re manipulating me for your own gain. And I’m prob-probably doing a terrible thing for the universe by letting you- by getting you out. What even are you? Some kind of ghost-thing?”

“Not quite a ghost, honey. Just a witch trapped in a shop.”

Her pendulum on a tarnished silver chain swung between us, and I was aware of my heartbeat going the exact same speed. The photo and hair were in the middle of the triangle, a memorial of a living woman. As the walls between us thinned, she appeared to flicker in the candlelight as if she were some trick of the light, an apparition.

I didn’t actually have to do anything. I just sat there as she dragged herself back into my reality. I was a little in awe of her power, fascinated by her knowledge of things I couldn’t even begin to understand, but I was still angry. I was taken advantage of, and she just didn’t care.

At once, all three of the candles went out. By the time my eyes had adjusted to the dark, I became aware that she was looking at me and smiling, her skin glowing with the life she didn’t previously have.

She blew me a kiss. “There. Curse over.”