Emily and her husband, James, were walking home after a lovely anniversary dinner at their favourite restaurant. The evening had gone splendidlyplenty of family, friends, and even a few of James colleagues had turned up. Some of them Emily hadnt met before, but if James had invited them, she trusted his judgment. She wasnt one to argue with him; avoiding conflict was simpler than standing her ground.
“Emily, your keys arent buried too deep in that bag of yours, are they?” James asked. “Mind grabbing them?”
She rummaged through her handbag, fingers brushing against loose items, when a sharp pain made her flinch. The bag tumbled to the ground.
“What was that?” James frowned.
“Something pricked me.”
“With all the junk in there, Im not surprised.”
Emily didnt reply. She picked up the bag, carefully retrieved the keys, and soon forgot about the incident. Exhausted, her legs aching, she only wanted a hot shower before bed. But the next morning, her hand throbbedher finger swollen, red. She remembered the prick, dumped her bag upside down, and there it was: a long, rusted needle buried at the bottom.
“What on earth?” She couldnt fathom how it had got there. Shaking, she tossed it in the bin and bandaged her finger. By lunchtime, fever weighed her down. She called James.
“I think Ive got an infection. Fever, headacheI feel awful. That rusty needle pricked me last night.”
“See a doctor, love. It could be serious.”
“Ill be fine. I cleaned it.”
But she wasnt fine. By evening, she barely made it home, collapsing onto the sofa. In her dreams, her late grandmother, Margaretgone since Emily was smallappeared. Frail, bent, yet kind, she led Emily through a field, showing her which herbs to brew into tea. “Someone means you harm,” Margaret warned. “Stay alive to fight back.”
Emily woke drenched in sweat. Only minutes had passed. James arrived home, took one look at her, and gasped. “Good Godlook at yourself!”
The mirror showed a stranger: dull hair, grey skin, hollow eyes. Panicked, she told him of the dream. “Gran said doctors cant help.”
“Emily, were going to the hospital.”
“No! She told me what to do.”
They foughtproperly, for the first time. James threatened to drag her there; she stumbled, hit her head. He stormed out, furious. Too weak for work, Emily messaged her boss: *Sick. Need days off.*
James returned late, apologetic. All she said was, “Take me to Grans village tomorrow.”
At dawn, she looked ghostly. James begged, “Stop this madness. I cant lose you.” But they drove. She slept until the village loomed, then pointed. “There.”
Weak, she collapsed in the field but found the herbs Margaret had shown her. Back home, James brewed the tea. Sip by sip, strength returned. Later, black urine proved the poison was leaving her.
That night, Margaret returned in dreams. “A curse was cast through that needle. My remedy helps, but you must strike back. Buy needles. Enchant the largest, slip it into James bag. Whoever cursed you will prick themselveswell know.”
Emily obeyed. When James came home, he mentioned Irene from accounts”She got pricked rifling through my bag. Looked at me like she wanted me dead.”
Emily froze. “Whats between you and Irene?”
“Nothing! Only you, love.”
But Irene had been at the dinner. The rusted needle made sense now.
Margarets next dream revealed the truth: Irene had tried to magic Emily away to take her place. “Send the curse back.”
Days later, James said Irene was gravely illdoctors baffled.
The following weekend, Emily visited Margarets grave for the first time since the funeral. She cleaned it, laid flowers, whispered, “Im sorry I stayed away. You saved me.”
A breeze brushed her shoulderlike a hand. She turned. No one. Just the wind.
