#SpookyShowcase: Saturn’s Ring by Lindz McLeod
Welcome to the 9th annual #SpookyShowcase, a Halloween artist and author showcase. A full schedule of submissions can be found here so you don’t miss a single entry for THESE DEADLY CURSES. Now, on to today’s submission!
Saturn’s Ring by Lindz McLeod
Small towns tend to have the same kinds of stores—grocery, hardware, dry cleaner, library, and at least one curio shop. Some sell antiques, some are simply fronts for money laundering. Mine, however, sells cursed objects.
It’s not a secret. For years, I scraped by, relying on popular occasions to sell my products. Spurned by a lover on Valentine’s Day? Cursed necklace. Boss promoting everyone but you? Haunted golf clubs. Cougar neighbor keeps cornering your teenager under the mistletoe? Gift her a possessed yoga mat.
Revenge is timeless, but my bills weren’t. So when I read about Huntsville—a small town with higher-than-average crimes rates, teen misbehavior, and general malaise—I figured there was nowhere better to open up shop.
The bell jangles. A teen girl strides in; I know the type only too well, all denim jorts and gold earrings so big I bet I could fit my whole fist through them. Her eyebrows are thin, scrawled signatures. She’s holding her phone in front of her face and speaking into it like a Kardashian, and I fight the urge to ask her if she understands the difference between a telephone and a microphone.
“Yeah, well, I don’t care,” the girl spits, “She crossed a line, Danny. If she was really my friend—”
I put down my newspaper and pick up my Occult Newsletter. Always pays to look the part. The girl hasn’t noticed. She’s still snapping into the phone, which emits soothing mmhmm noises. Smoke from a lavender incense cone curls in her direction and she bats the wisp away with impatient flaps.
“No, I don’t need to calm down. I need—I need like, to expose her deepest, darkest secret or something. I don’t know. I’ll figure it out. See you at Jimmy’s later.” She hangs up, and without preamble barks. “What’s your worst thing?”
I blink. “When I was younger I used to pee in pools.”
“Ew. That’s not what I meant.”
“Oh.” I gesture at the mahogany cabinet next to the counter. “You might find something interesting in there.”
She reads the first couple of product descriptions out loud. “Cursed necklace, makes the wearer’s genitals turn green and mouldy. Gross. Haunted diamond, infused with the spirits of all those who died to procure it. Are these legit?”
“Of course. Extremely legit.”
I clear my throat pointedly; the diamond rattles a little in the small wire holder. After a moment, there’s a half-hearted woooo. The girl hesitates, rage draining from her eyes.“Isn’t that kind of dangerous?”
I sense I’m losing a customer. “That’s the point. This isn’t a candy store, kid. You came in here for a cursed object, right? Somebody did you wrong?”
She rallies, suddenly blazing again. “Yeah, they did. Boyfriend-stealing—” She bites her lip. “So I’ll take…” her hand hovers over the necklace but finally settles on a silver ring, studded with tiny sapphires. “This one.”
“Saturn’s ring. Good choice.” The boyfriend-stealer is about to have more company than she planned; the ghost attached to the ring has a real flair for the dramatic. Lots of blood-on-the-walls, threats-written-on-the-mirror kind of stuff. Not much of a physical presence, but he can slip into dreams easily. Plenty to rile a teenager up. “Don’t worry, you can touch it. The curse doesn’t actually start until the giftee uses it for the first time.”
“How does it know?”
“It’s really complicated magic.” It’s not, but she doesn’t need to know that.
“Oh.” She drops the ring on the counter and dips in her pocket. Her purse is pink and glittery, with a Billie Eilish sticker on the corner. “Don’t you have, like, an age limit for this stuff?”
“Nope.” I ring the transaction through on my till and slide the the ring into a tiny gift bag.
“You sell anything to anyone?” She looks even less certain about this.
“Yup.” I pop the p, hand a few coins back, and smile. “Gotta make a living. Anything else?”
She backs away. “No. Thanks.”
“Hey, girlie?”
She turns, one hand on the door. I point to the stenciled sign above my head. “No refunds, okay?”
Her jaw sets. “Won’t need one.”
The bell clangs. When the door clicks back into place, I lift my cup to my lips and murmur, “That’s what they all say.”
The girl bursts through the door three days later, the scent of woodsmoke on her like a shawl. Her eyes are wide and panicked. “Stephanie’s in hospital!”
“Good.”
“Good?” she shrieks. “What’s good about that? She completely freaked!”
“It’s good that I sold you a quality product which performs as intended.” I flip a page of my book.
“Don’t you care? A girl had a mental breakdown! She was my friend! I didn’t mean to, like—” she wheezes. Through the open door, a few orange leaves flutter against the pavement but there isn’t enough wind to make them fly. “Oh god, I’m in so much trouble if they find out I had anythi—”
“Gosh. Mmm. Sounds bad.” I flip another page.
She presses her hands flat against the counter, breathing coming in short bursts, like a horse that’s been ridden too far, too fast. “You need to undo it.”
“Nope.”
“But—”
“I told you, kid. No refunds.”
“Please!” she begs. “I’ll pay anything. I was so stupid. I didn’t even love him and I—please, you gotta help her. I made a mistake, okay? I’m sorry.”
I sigh. “Okay, look. You got the necklace?” She shakes her head, tears spilling down her cheeks. “Go steal it back from your friend. Bring it here. I’ll undo the curse on her and give you something to… iron out the effects.”
She reappears an hour later with the ring, lip still wobbling, mascara streaks on her cheeks and on the back of her hands. “So,” I put my elbows on the counter and lean forward. “Have you learned your lesson?”
“Yes.” She nods fervently.
“No more cursing people?”
“No. Never—I swear.”
“And what will you do instead?” I prompt.
She thinks about this for a moment, fingers twisting one of those massive gold hoops. “Communicate?” I raise an eyebrow. “Communicate healthily? Using my words?”
“Good kid. Here you go.”
She babbles a thanks and bolts without a backwards glance. I pick up my book again. Kids these days are just like kids in any decade. One mistake at a young age—one really good scare—can sort them out for life if it’s carefully managed.
The chief of police stops in on his way home, the shoulders of his wool overcoat beaded with raindrops. “Ms Hooper.”
“Gary! It’s been a while. Want some tea?”
He tips his hat respectfully. “No ma’am. Heard some reports about the Michaelson girl. Was that your doing?”
“Oh yes. Everything okay?”
“Nothing we can’t handle.” His grin fades as his eyes flicker over the laden shelves. “You still got that old watch?”
“Sure do. It’s been out a few times, but it always comes back.”
He rubs the back of his neck. “Not my proudest moment.”
“Gary, look around. This place is full of those moments. Those moments are what made this town the decent, emotionally-healthy, law-abiding place it is.” I smile. I have to admit, I never expected to be the cause of massive social change, but now that it’s happened, I do feel proud of my achievement; glossing over the fact that it was entirely unintentional, at least to begin with. “Everybody makes mistakes. It’s what we do afterwards that counts.”
“Sure. I know.” Still, he makes a polite excuse and leaves. The wind breathes heavily through the cracks in the glass, whistling a tuneless song. It’s a shame—no one likes to linger in my store, but at least I never get any repeat customers.
END
About the Author
Lindz McLeod is a queer, working-class, Scottish writer who dabbles in the surreal. Her prose has been published by/is forthcoming in Hobart, Flash Fiction Online, the New Guard, Cossmass Infinities, and more. She is a member of the SFWA and is represented by Headwater Literary Management.
Website: www.lindzmcleod.co.uk
Twitter: @lindzmcleod