Come hither, to listen to my tale, where no one survives, my ill nightmare.
It begins with a dare, on Samhain night, under no moon’s light. My
“friend” badgered me into a visit with a psychic. A “woman of the
sight”. A “lady of the night”. A “seer”. At least, that’s what the
sign said.
We drove an hour, and entered her trailer. Walked through her bead
door, and sat at her table. Why she had a crystal ball, we’ll never
know. She sat across from us, and rested her palms on her crystal. And
asked us what we wished to know, of our future.
My idiotic friend asked her, “How would we die?”. She answered that we
would live many decades. But mine would be a terrible dream, and my
friends would be filled with pain. She said that for a ten, she could
bright our future.
My friend paid, but I refused. The woman gave her a bracelet of
leather, and affixed it to her wrist, telling her that it’d shorten
her pain. Smirking at how easily my friend was duped, we left in a
hurry, and got into her car. She drove a little too quickly, but I’m
not complaining. I was just as scared, and wanted to leave here, even
more than a bat does hell. Then she accelerated even faster, and from
nowhere, the gypsy woman, in a huge SUV, flew directly into us. My
friend died on impact, but I survived. Comatose for the rest of my
life. Three decades later, I write this to you, from beyond the grave.
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