The Friend Who Made Me Sick: A Tale of Friendship That Terrifies
I’ve always been a solitary soul, preferring quiet to crowds. After marrying James, I felt I’d found all the warmth and understanding I’d ever need. Our little cocoon of two was enough. Friendships were rare but deep—two close mates, Emily in Bristol and Charlotte in York, who’d call or message now and then. It was the right kind of bond: infrequent but real. That sufficed.
Then there was her. Margaret.
How she slipped into my life, I can’t say. We met by chance, chatted, swapped numbers. At first, it was harmless: birthday wishes, small favors, misplaced kindness. Margaret wove herself into my days, but the threads couldn’t be pulled loose—it all seemed so sweet. Until I realized: we weren’t the same. Her crassness around my friends and colleagues made me cringe. Her “jokes” left silence thick as fog, which I’d rush to fill with forced laughter or excuses. “Margaret’s got a big heart,” I’d say. “Don’t judge her by her manners.”
She had a sixth sense for guests. Would turn up uninvited, always clutching cheap sparkling wine, even if the room held teetotalers. And the toasts—long, pompous speeches where I was somehow a saint among mortals: “Though we’re not sisters by blood, Annie and I are cut from the same cloth…” Humiliating.
James loathed her. Said I was too soft to see the strings she pulled. He’d counter her drivel with exaggerated praise, then vanish, leaving me stranded in her absurd theatre. We fought about Margaret often. I called him a snob; he called me blind.
Twelve years she lingered. Nothing outright monstrous—until it began.
For my birthday, she gifted me lace lingerie. By evening, my skin was a map of rashes. The doctor’s verdict: synthetic allergy. Cotton only, henceforth. I never thought to blame Margaret.
Months later, my wavy hair curled tight as a poodle’s, matting into nests, falling in clumps. I suffered until I trashed the comb—another gift from her. Slowly, it grew back.
Then money vanished from my purse—the hideous one she’d given me for Mother’s Day. James muttered, “Who else would pick such a ghastly thing?”
Our daughter Lily fell ill after every visit. Nausea, fever, vomiting. James joked, “Lily’s sick of Margaret.” I laughed. A mistake.
Our cat, Whiskers, gentle as a shadow, lived with us seven years. Once, we left town for two days. Margaret offered to care for him. When we returned, he attacked me, claws raking my arm. After that, he was a different beast. And always, the unspoken phrase: “…since he stayed with Margaret…”
I still didn’t see it. Until the night I did.
Seeing her out, I absentmindedly grabbed the TV remote and flicked to the hidden hallway cam. No one knew it was there but us.
Onscreen, Margaret crouched by our door… scrubbing the mat. Then she stood on tiptoe, fiddling above the frame. Left.
Numb, I ran my hand along the door’s top edge—and pricked my finger. Three rusted needles jutted out. Beneath the mat, grains arranged in odd patterns. The cleaner would’ve missed them.
I wrapped the needles and grains in paper, waited for James.
He called me a fool—first time in fifteen years. Deserved it. He gathered every gift, every trinket she’d ever given, and drove them to the moors. Dumped them in a bog. “So no one finds them.”
I called Margaret. Said only: “You know what you’ve done. Keep away. For your sake.”
Then, the vicar. Had the flat blessed. And like that—she was gone.
The strangeness left with her: Lily stopped falling ill. Whiskers softened. But synthetic fabric still burns my skin. A warning: beware Greeks bearing gifts.
I never believed in curses. Now… I’m not so sure.
