*Diary Entry*
Yesterday, Emily and I returned from her birthday dinnera lively affair with family and colleagues at a posh restaurant in London. She isnt one to argue, my Emily. If I insisted on inviting half the office, shed simply nod. Easier that way, she says. No fuss.
“Emily, love, your keys arent buried too deep in that bag, are they?” I asked as we reached our flat in Chelsea. She rummaged through her handbag, then yelped, dropping it. “Whats wrong?” “Something pricked me.” “With the clutter in there, Im not surprised,” I teased.
She didnt reply, just fished out the keys. By morning, her finger was swollen, angry red. She remembered the jab, dumped her bag upside down, and there it wasa rusty needle. “How on earth?” She tossed it, disinfected the cut, and left for work. By lunch, she was feverish.
I told her to see a doctor. “Dont fret, James. Its just a scratch,” she insisted. But by evening, she could barely stand. A taxi brought her home; she collapsed on the sofa and dreamed of her late grandmother, Margareta frail, bent figure who led her through a field, showing her herbs for a purifying tea. “Someone means you harm,” Margaret whispered. “Stay alive to fight back.”
Emily woke drenched, just as I returned. “Look at yourself!” I gasped. The mirror showed a ghostpale, hollow-eyed. She insisted we drive to her grandmothers village in Cornwall. “This is madness,” I pleaded. “Lets go to hospital!” But she pointed to a field. “There.”
Exhausted, she gathered the herbs from her dream. Back home, I brewed the tea. Sip by sip, colour returned. That night, she dreamed again. Margaret warned: “The needle carried a curse. Buy new ones. Recite: *Spirits of night, hear me, guide me, reveal my foe* Hide one in Jamess briefcase. The guilty will be pricked.”
Next day, Emily refused my help. “Make soup instead. Im famished.” She slipped the enchanted needle into my bag. When I returned, I mentioned how Irene from accountingwhod been at the dinnerhad stabbed herself on it. “Odd woman. Looked ready to kill me.” Emilys eyes darkened. “Whats between you and Irene?” “Nothing! Only you, love.”
That night, Margaret taught Emily how to reverse the curse. Days later, Irene fell gravely illdoctors baffled. Last weekend, we visited Margarets grave. Emily laid flowers, whispering, “Thank you. Ill come more often.” A breeze stirred, like a hand on her shoulder.
*Lesson learned: Some bonds outlast death. And some womens vengeance is sharper than a needle.*
