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!

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Soulmates by Jena Brown

I wait in the alley, tucked in the shadows. My stomach roils as rotting vegetables and decomposing cardboard wrap me in their stench. But I stay, choking down the bile crawling up my throat, swallowing the nausea churning in my guts, eyes stinging with hope that you got my note and will come.

The cubicle next to mine sat empty for months. Temps came and went, no one noticing me as I worked quietly in the corner of the office. Not until you. Your bright smile and contagious laugh infecting my space, disrupting my life.

It wasn’t just that you said good morning at the start of every day. You were friendly to everyone. I’ve learned it’s your nature. But you were observant, thoughtful. The first time you brought coffee for everyone, you brought me tea.

“I noticed you always had tea bags hanging off of your mugs,” you said. Your cheeks flushed crimson and you tucked your head down. But every week after that you always saved me a seat in our team meetings and grabbed my favorite donut before they ran out. It was the most popular one which meant you had to be there early. Had to fight. For me.

You started stopping by my cubicle more and more. 

“I like that sweater,” you said one day. “I don’t think I could pull off that vintage rocker vibe like you do.”

You liked my hair, smiling when I wore it combed back and blushing when I wore it down. Your compliments were never snotty or condescending. You never talked to me the way most girls did.

I knew then that you were the one. That you belonged to me and would be with me and everything, everything would finally be perfect.

But then he came and ruined it all.

Shadows yawn across the alley, stretching like fingers, eager to shroud the concrete in darkness. A light flickers on, the snap of electricity sending a shiver down my spine. It’s an old lamp, hovering next to a long-forgotten door. As the dark creeps in, the light is nothing more than a murky puddle of yellow, floating in the night.

I stay in the shadows, worrying at a loose thread on my sleeve. Maybe you won’t come. Maybe all of this was for nothing. Maybe I did something wrong.

Almost overnight, the bright scent of your lemon verbena shampoo disappeared. A muskier combination of cedar and sandalwood lingered in its place. You still said good morning, but your eyes stopped meeting mine. Seats in meetings were forgotten, the donuts too.

My stomach turned when I met him. His smile oozed charm but I saw what slithered underneath. His eyes barely glanced at me, discarded your introduction, purged my existence from his own. He didn’t deserve you and you had already done better. You were mine, after all.

When I tried to talk to you, tried to tell you we were meant to be, your eyes turned cruel and your words turned sharp. I knew it was because of him. He was poisoning you.

And I knew what I had to do.

I sent you roses. Anonymously, of course. You thanked him and he flew into a jealous rage. I knew he was insecure. Men like him are always petty. Small. If you loved him, you would have thrown them out. Would have distanced yourself from the romantic overture sitting so blatantly on your desk. But you didn’t; and it confirmed the truth I saw, the truth you hid. Deep down, you wanted to be loved. To be wooed. To be seen. To be claimed through overtures and whispers and secrets meant for two. 

Every day you touched the soft petals. Wistful. Wanting. And your heart’s desire sank into each one, infusing the flowers while they dried on your desk.

You cried when they disappeared. 

“It must have been the cleaners,” I told you, I let you believe. I smiled at the bright post-it notes scattered on your desk, warning imaginary foes to leave your things alone and only empty your garbage.

Other things you never noticed. Like how the plastic spoons you ate your morning yogurt with never stayed in the trash. Or when one of your mugs vanished from the sink without a trace. And who would ever notice a few golden strands of hair lifted from a comb?

When I missed a deadline and had to stay late, you shot me a sympathetic smile. It was quick. There and gone and never reaching your eyes. Those were glued to your phone. To him. Trying to mend the turbulence my roses had caused.

But I remembered when your smile was for me. I relived those smiles, those moments meant just for me, parading them through my memory as I hid a microphone behind your monitor. Programmed to record your every word.

It took weeks. But I waited then as I wait now. Waited to get everything I needed to get you back.

I entwined your hair with my own, tying the braid around the roses. I pieced apart the recordings, crafting each carefully curated word into sentences that would bind me to you. That would make you mine.

The roses went into the soil with the plastic spoons and the mug with your lipstick still painted on the rim. Your words playing to them, all day, all night, impregnating them with your wishes and my desires.

Under the light of the Blood Moon, I put it all in a pestle. Ground it up with a sliver of mandrake root, the bones of a rat, nightshade, henbane, and drops of my blood. In the morning, a dark powder was all that remained.

It wasn’t easy. Hours spent dusting your mugs. Sneaking into the breakroom to unwrap sandwiches and reseal yogurt once the powder was mixed inside.

When your nose began bleeding, I left the first note. My wishes, your desires, the powder infusing them in the haze of your mind.

Now I wait in the dark. Filled with hope. That I got the ingredients right. That your words were enough, that your hopes were enough. That I will be enough.

There’s nothing but quiet, except even that is a symphony of noise. Crickets play the strings; moths throw their bodies into the bulb rattling the percussion. Rats rustle and cockroaches skitter, and my heartbeat thunders in my ears.

Until your tentative footsteps crush the orchestra and change the tune.

A different kind of quiet settles in the alley. I hold my breath, not daring to believe, not willing to move.

“Hello?” you call, taking two more furtive steps into the gloom.

You pull the note from your pocket, and I feel your anticipation vibrate through the night. Everything you’ve ever wanted to hear. Your hopes. My dreams. You hold them in your hands.

Glancing around, you step closer to the door, drawn to the light. Closer. Closer. One tiny footfall at a time.

I wait until I can hear your shaky breath, until I can smell the subtle rose in your perfume. Another gift from me, the mysterious poet who has seduced you with my words.

You’re so close, I could brush my fingertips across your back, around your neck. If I wanted to. But I step forward, my chest bumping your back.

You inhale sharply as you startle, pulling the dark powder I throw in your face deep into your lungs. My perfect potion in a high concentrated dose.

It’s dark, but I know your pupils dilate. Your mind slows. Your heart hiccups.

“You,” you whisper. 

You stumble, your legs buckling as you fall into my arms. I smile, holding you close as your body melds to mine.

A tear slips down your cheek, and though I know you want to speak, your breathing strains, your body convulses. I brush your tears away, kissing the wet from your cheeks. My lips dance across yours and I breathe you in as your warmth leaks out.

I feel your soul crawl down my throat, riot through my blood. We become one in a ritual more intimate than love, more powerful than vows.

You are mine. Always, forever. Mine.

About the Author

Jena Brown grew up playing make-believe in the Nevada desert, where her love for skeletons and harsh landscapes solidified. A freelance writer, she currently contributes to Kwik Learning, The Nerd Daily, The Portalist, Insider, and Truity. In addition to writing, Jena blogs at www.jenabrownwrites.com and is active on bookstagram as @jenabrownwrites.

When she isn’t imagining deadly worlds, she and her husband are being bossed around the Las Vegas desert by their two chihuahuas. You can find her short story, They Don’t Eat Teeth, in the anthology, What One Wouldn’t Do, out October 2021.

Website: http://www.jenabrownwrites.com

Twitter: @jenabrownwrites

Instagram: @jenabrownwrites