How the f’ing hell did I get stuck in this bottle?

I’ll tell you how. I was betrayed.

I don’t mean those small betrayals by family or friends that irk you, and you’re really bitter about it, staring in the mirror each morning repeating all the things you ‘should have said,’ or lamenting and ruminating about all the things you ‘should have done.’

But you can move on. You get over it.

Not this kind of betrayal though. Not the kind where you are rightly, deeply, and utterly stabbed in the back.

My bitter tale of woe began when I entered that antique shop.

Sound familiar? Many a tale begins like this, doesn’t it?

I bet it doesn’t end like this one…

I’m a historian by career, and I love antiquing. Mr. Jones is my name; Faculty and researcher. And, history, is my thing.

I loved to dig through ancient relics of humanity in antique shops, imagining how this item or that one was used, and by whom. And thinking on what their lives must have been like in centuries past.

One beautiful fall day, I was driving through New Hampshire on backcountry roads so I could witness the splendid autumn colors. Daffodil, tangerine, and umber leaves burst like fireworks on every tree and flit through the air like beautiful confetti.

On my meandering scenic drive, I passed into a little New England town with all the charm you’d expect from the old colonies. Historic buildings lined the streets, some dating back as early as the 1650s. Naturally, as a historian, I had to stop.

As I walked along Main Street, I noticed a small, tucked away antique shop down a narrow gray-stoned alleyway.

I was immediately excited. What wonderful relics would a town like this have in store for me?

I’m by no means a small man. Broad-shouldered, even built like a football player, with blond hair and brown eyes. I had even played a bit in high school.

So, the alley felt cramped around me as I entered it, almost closing in, and my vision tunneled toward the door. A strange sense of déjà vu washed over me, making the world swim slightly, as if this moment had already happened, or strangely, had always been waiting to happen.

I shook it off and pushed the wood and glass door open, brushing the bell above it.

Bring-bring.

An old woman tottered out from the back room, wearing overalls and thick spectacles beneath a shock of gray hair that made her look like a deranged laboratory scientist.

Her gravelly voice rasped, “Let me know if you have any questions, son.”

I wandered through the rows of shelves crammed with treasures, inspecting each piece.

Then my attention was drawn to a glass case by the counter. A small light shone down on something unique inside.

It was a vase or pot of sea-green ceramic, covered all over in carved blue eyes.

The eyes seemed to watch me as I approached.

The old woman sniffed. “Yeah, that there is a beaut, ain’ she? Found that while travelin’ India. Never seen nothin’ like it anywhere else.”

I nodded, fascinated. “Do you know the history of it?”

She shrugged. “Well, I suppose as much as I could gather, being as I don’t speak no hindi or nothin’. Merchant said it was an ancient urn, and the dust of Gods were in it. Though it’s sealed up real tight, so never seen inside it myself.”

The craftsmanship was exquisite. Unlike anything I’d ever seen. I crouched to examine it more closely through the glass. The eyes seemed to shift as I moved.

Then I heard it. A whisper.

Read me.

I turned sharply. The shopkeeper stood still and silent, watching me.

A chill crept up my spine. “How much are you asking for it?”

She tapped the countertop with one bony finger. “Well, I don’ know. Merchant said it was good luck and all. Never tried sellin’ it.”

I loved bargaining with antique dealers, almost relished it. The thrill often surpassed the object itself. “I’ll offer $500.”

Her eyes widened. “For an ancient relic with God dust? You must be jokin’.”

The urn stared at me.

I stared back.

Read me.

My chest tingled with euphoria. I had to have it. “$1,000.”

She considered. “I might part with it for $2,000.”

“I can do $1,500.”

“Okay, so, I’ll make you a deal, for $1,700,” she said. “But not a penny less, you hear me son?”

“Done.” I pulled out my credit card.

She shook her head. “Oh now, I don’t do me no credit or fancy phone payin’ apps or the sort. Cash only.”

I sighed. “Okay, I’ll be back soon.”

I left, found an ATM, and withdrew the money. I returned, pushing the door open eagerly, almost afraid my new treasure would be gone.

Bring-bring.

She had already removed the urn from the case, polishing it. “Here now, see how nice it looks.”

I handed over the cash.

She set the urn on a small, antique wood table in a back corner of the shop, surrounded by shelves of old bottles. “Go on now, sit with it. I’ll fetch wrapping and a box to keep it all safe.”

She disappeared into the back.

I sat down to marvel at my new treasure, turning it this way and that, and imagined where in my apartment I could display it.

The eyes seemed to shift and watch me as I moved it.

I blinked.

A wind of whispers ran over my skin.

Read me.

I jerked around, but the shopkeeper was nowhere to be seen.

A cold chill crawled its way under my skin, setting the hairs on the back of my neck on end.

I inspected the lid. Upon it was an inscription.

It looked like hindi, though I couldn’t be certain.

Then the letters melted and reformed before my eyes.

I dropped the urn like a hot stone.

It banged on the table with a clang and wobbled until it came to rest, the eyes intent upon me.

Read me.

Unease gripped my chest.

I have to be imagining things.

I hesitantly reached out to pick it back up and looked at the lid. Now I could understand the inscription.

I whispered out-loud as I read it, “By ash and oath, I bid thee let me see.”

The feeling of déjà vu washed over me once more.

My head swam and the world went blurry. Blackness formed at the edges of my vision.

And then I was swept down a black river, flailing and screaming, until the river dropped me into a small room of stone that was rounded on the sides.

Shock and disorientation overwhelmed me as I lay there. Rising, I stumbled, eyes darting around in fear and surprise.

“Hello Sweetling,” trilled a honied voice behind me.

I spun.

Leaning against the stone wall of the room stood a beautiful woman with dark skin and black, glossy hair that hung in curls to her waist, with the cutest little horns peeking out atop her head. Her come-hither glowing eyes captivated me. She wore a sari of shimmering red silk and gold, with many gold rings around her neck and upon her wrists.

It had to be a dream. I’d passed out and this was a vision.

I looked around, but it was only us in the stone room, and no doors or exits or furniture. “Whe…where am I?”

“You are in my home. Don’t you like it?” She smirked.

I blinked, still more confused. “Home?”

She nodded and prowled around me, her glossy black hair swaying. “You are more handsome than the previous visitors.”

I turned with her, uncomfortable under her unwavering observation. “Previous… What? Who are you?”

“I am a jinn, tied to this bottle for millennia, and bonded to do as my master bids.”

I had a sharp intake of breath. “This…that is… is impossible.”

She tilted her head, contemplative. “They all say that.”

My eyes shot back to her. “All?”

She nodded.

I ran a hand down my face and looked around again. But the stone room was completely enclosed. “Don’t… well… in the tales, jinn grant wishes. Do I get three wishes now?”

Her head tilted back, and she laughed. It was like birds and soft chimes and wind all wrapped into one. It bared her beautiful, slender neck encircled with the many gold bands. A desire to kiss that neck overwhelmed me. The desire went straight to my gut and drew me to her.

Suddenly I was before her, and yet I hadn’t moved.

She ran a finger gently down the side of my face. I shivered.

“You are sweet. Sweeter than the others.”

Goose-pimples spread across my arms as I leaned into her touch.

She pouted then, making her even more desirable.

She put a hand on either of my shoulders. And I thought, hoped, she might kiss me.

She leaned in and whispered, “Even I was betrayed.”

Then she shoved me back into the stone wall with a force a woman this tiny and dainty shouldn’t have.

I staggered back into the side of the room, only I didn’t hit stone; with horror, I melted into it.

I screamed and thrashed as the stone of the wall shifted to liquid and crept over my body, enclosing my legs and arms to trap me.

I begged. “Please. Please! I don’t understand. Please!”

The liquid continued its way up my body, now covering my chest.

I thrashed, but the wall held me tight. “Please, please, tell me what is going on?”

She smiled. “My master thanks you for another hundred years of life.”

The liquid was crawling up my neck now, creeping closer and closer to my face.

My eyes darted around wild, my breathing ragged, fear overtaking my senses as I tried to rip free, but couldn’t.

“Please please please.”

The liquid crept up my chin and into my mouth until my sobs and pleas were muffled and fear overtook every thought.

Soon, I was drawn into the stone entirely until only one eye remained uncovered, which popped out on the other side of the urn, now added to the many eyes there.

A golden wisp of smoke rose up from the urn, as if one eye had been released. A sigh of utter relief expelled from the smoke.

The old shopkeeper tottered close and picked the urn up.

She lifted it until she was eye to eye with my one remaining eye. “Mr. Jones. How good of you to come by today.”

She smiled a wicked, wicked smile. And I hated her with my entire being then.

She was becoming younger and younger. Her skin grew less wrinkled by the second, and her hair turned from gray to a beautiful auburn. Her cloudy eyes clarified, becoming a deep, rich brown again.

And soon before me stood a young woman of exquisite beauty. And then I hated her even more.

She set the vase back in its lighted case. “Thank you for more years of youth. Did you like my jinn, Mr. Jones? Isn’t she wonderful?”

Her fake country accent was gone, and now she spoke with the accent of days bygone.

“My story about finding this urn in India was true, though it was many centuries ago now. And no dust of the Gods lay within, but only that wonderful jinn. My last wish to her was that she trap souls in this urn for eternity, giving me their life force. But, alas, it only holds fifty souls. So, once fifty more enter it, your soul will be released from your bondage into the afterlife. So, do be a good little slave, and entice customers in, won’t you?”

And, so it was, whenever the door rang,

Bring-bring…

And a customer looked at the vase,

I, Mr. Jones, said…

“Read me.”

Author Note

This was originally posted by @ctfinney as a writing challenge - to produce a short flash fiction piece 300 words or less that centered on an image. Which I submitted. However, I liked the flash piece and photo too much - and decided to then write something longer.

Be sure to check out @ctfinney’s Substack for many wonderful and fun things:

When a spirit summons you, of course you obey.

So, on a fine October morning in Rhode Island, where leaves of red and orange and yellow flit to the ground like newly fallen snow, a coven of witches of varying age shuffled through the main doors of the oldest church in town, where the stone and box pews had stood since the early 1700s.

The women cast their gazes about with narrowed eyes, a few scoffing at the religious scenes in the many beautiful stained glass windows. Some of the women looked downtrodden, others angry, and others darted bitter glances at each other.

Wooden chairs were arranged in a loose circle in one of the transepts to the side of the main room of pews, near where the statue of the Virgin Mary observed them with silent trepidation. Upon a table lay a tray of various snacks beside flickering candles of golden flame.

A portly woman said, “And to think, many a fool would swear some witches can’t so much as set foot upon holy ground.”

Another woman said, “Fools indeed.”

The eldest among them grumbled, pulling her shawl closed. “Fools for certain, since they might at least light some fires.”

A woman of dark skin and black hair inclined her head and seated herself in one of the wooden chairs in the circle. She wore linen robes of modest cut and gestured to the rest. “Good ladies, please take a seat. I am Sylvia Tory, known to some as the Witch of Ministerial Woods, though I grant I have escaped the persecutions ye have endured. I bid ye a most hearty welcome. Pray, be seated, and take such refreshment as ye will.”

The others sat, facing one another, except one who went straight to the snack table and began eating her way through the refreshments.

Sylvia said in a soft, melodic voice, “I thank ye all for attending this gathering of much persecuted witches. All the torches and pitchforks are most inequitable indeed. A spirit did visit me and charged unto me that I should convene this support circle.”

The woman at the snack table snorted loudly. She wore men’s clothes, with mousy brown hair and glimmering brown eyes in her pale face. “Spirit or none, I came for the free biscuits, is all.” She stuffed another into her mouth.

Sylvia smiled, her voice smooth as chocolate. “Of course, Dolly Cole. Ye are still most welcome here, Foster Witch. Ye may simply listen, should that be the wish. I know well the courage it takes to gather here this day. Now then, who would care to begin?”

Silence followed. Chairs creaked. Bodies shifted. Dolly kept eating.

Sylvia turned her attention to a middle aged woman seated stiffly at the edge of the circle. “Would ye start, Tuggie?”

Tuggie smirked, and then shrugged. She was tall and gaunt as famine, her skin black as night the same as Sylvia’s. Her cheekbones were cut sharp, and her face sat fixed between permanent irritation and fear. A purple turban wrapped her head, with many little ponytails sticking out. She said, “My name be Tuggie Bannock.”

In unison, save for Dolly who was chewing, the group of women all replied, “Hello, Tuggie.”

Next to her was a monstrous great woodchuck that squatted on the floor by her side. The creature’s brown eyes gleamed dark and menacing as he looked sharp about the room, licking one claw slowly, as if in warning. Tuggie stroked the creature with a long, bony hand and yellow nails curling into cruel talons.

“This here moonack,” Tuggie said, jerking her chin toward him, “be my familiar. He done give me a powerful fright one time, come bustin’ in my cottage door like de Debbil hisself on judgment day. But now, Obia, he keep watch over me. Ain’t nobody cross me while Obia stand guard.”

Obia rubbed his head on her leg, and she pet him more.

Her voice turned low. “De trouble on me, it come from de misery here ’bouts. Ain’t no matter how I try, I can’t brew no potion right, nor set no proper hex to working. Dey always go crooked or turn foolish. So dem other witches,” she looked around the circle, “laugh and scorn, and say I ain’t worth a pinch of grave dust.”

Obia leaned on her in comfort, setting his brown, furry face upon her thigh.

She continued, “You reckon how it be, born wit de power in you, but yet cain’t bring it forth proper? Like fire what won’t burn, or knife what won’t cut.” She frowned.

Dolly paused mid chew. “I know you! You tried to hex that tinker, didn’t you? And it went all wrong, it did.”

Tuggie gave a short, bitter snort. “All wrong, you say? Humph. At least me roof still stand and ain’t been put to torch and cinders.”

Dolly’s brown eyes flashed with anger, and a thin curl of smoke rose from her pale skin. “Those vile townsfolk killed my daughter, they did, and all while I was the good witch and healing them. Never did I do no scrap of harm and they called me a vampire or bad witch and burned my home. It aint right!”

Sympathetic nods moved around the circle of witches

Sylvia said, “I thank ye, Dolly. It’s most certainly not fair how we are persecuted. Tuggie?”

Tuggie’s hands jerked as she spoke again, vexed and restless. “Worse than wrong, it was. Dat brew call for a rabbit’s foot, it did, ’mongst other wicked things. But lord, de little creatures are quick as sin. Couldn’t catch one, not for plea nor promise. So I goes down to de trader and buys one of dem colored rabbit feet charms, all dyed up bright, thinkin’ it’d be good enough.”

She spat aside in disgust. “Turned dat entire cauldron brew as blue as the sea. Ruined clean through. Nothin’ left but mockery.”

“That must have been most troubling,” Sylvia murmured.

Heads around the circle all nodded in empathy. A ruined brew was a ruined day.

Tuggie nodded sharply, tugging hard at one of her little pigtails, while Obia bobbed his head as though the woodchuck were agreeing. “Oh, it vexed me sore it did,” she muttered, “Grave dust and other ingredients ain’t just lying around. Took me weeks to collect it all.”

Dolly snorted. “Aye, nearly as vexing as losing your home and child. You poor thing.” She rolled her eyes.

Tuggie snapped, “I was enslaved, madam,” she said, voice rising. “Don’t you set light by me trouble.”

Sylvia tilted her head. “Dolly, we are here to be supportive.”

Dolly glowered and shoved a cookie into her mouth.

A woman with dark, shiny black hair cleared her throat. “I am Mercy Brown.”

“Hello, Mercy,” they all replied.

“At least you actually are witches,” Mercy said quietly pushing black hair from her face. “I’m no such thing. But those idiots branded me a witch no matter, accusing me of draining my brother’s life force.”

“Bunch of fools they be,” said Tuggie, Obia nodding with her.

Dolly spewed crumbs, “Yeah, I mean, why harm one’s kin when persecutors present themselves so freely?”

Mercy nodded. “Just so.”

Sylvia inclined her head, then turned to the elderly woman perched upon a pincushion laid in her chair. “Would ye prefer another seat, dear?”

“I am not a deer,” the old woman snapped. “Though I do turn myself into a chicken.”

“Of course,” Sylvia said. “Ye are the Hopkinton’s Hag, correct?”

The old lady pursed her lips. “I prefer my right name, Granny Mott.”

The group said, “Hello, Granny Mott.”

Granny adjusted her shawl, her skin thin as paper, gray hair drifting loose from her bun. “I am sorely weary of being chased and pelted whilst in chicken form. Can a hen not have a moment’s peace from the fools?”

“That does sound dreadful indeed,” Sylvia said. “How does it sit with ye spirit?”

Granny scowled. “What a foolish question! Of course it leaves me wretched. While I may be wearing feathers sometimes, my patience still runs human. They throw stones, shoot at me, and even shot me with a silver button. A button! Who behaves so?”

Dolly licked crumbs from her fingers. “Townsfolk. A nasty lot, all of them. Sour as old gin. Never you fear. I have a horrible curse in store for them. They’ll pay for killing my daughter.” Her eyes flashed as she stared at each woman in turn, chewing her brownie very slowly.

The others shifted.

Sylvia smiled with strained patience. “I thank ye, Dolly. Would ye care to share more now?”

Dolly popped another biscuit into her mouth. “Told you already. I’m here for the hash, and nothing more.”

Sylvia sighed. “So be it. Anyone else?”

The others glanced about, but none spoke.

After a moment, Sylvia said, “Then we shall conclude our support group for today. I thank all ye lovely witches for coming at the bidden call of a goodly spirit to share. Pray, enjoy the refreshments.” Her arm gestured to the table where Dolly stood reaching for another snack.

Mercy shook black hair over one shoulder. “I brought port-soaked chocolate truffles. You simply must try them.” Her eyes twinkled.

Eyes widened among the gathering witches in anticipation of such a delectable treat.

Sylvia rose and moved with the crowd to the table. “Good heavens. You have outdone yourself, Mercy.” She placed one of the chocolate treats upon her tongue, her eyes half closing in ecstasy.

Everyone else did the same, Granny Mott taking hers back to her seat.

Mercy watched them as they devoured the truffles, sitting demurely in her seat.

She waited.

And waited.

Until Sylvia’s eyes widened and she staggered into the statue of the Virgin Mary before collapsing.

Until Dolly slowed her chewing and fell over the table, saying in a gasping breath, “You are a… a…witch….?”

Until Granny Mott began slipping from her chair, the half eaten truffle falling to the stones as realization dawned across her aged face.

A loud crack sounded. Smoke and ozone drifted out. In Granny’s place stood a large white hen.

The hen squawked in fury at Mercy, and then fled for the door in a flurry of white feathers.

Mercy smiled after it, then stood as all the other witches fell to the floor with gasps of fear and confusion.

Her vampire fangs extended, gleaming in the candle light. “No. Not a witch, though the fools misbranded me as such. I did, however, kill my brother. Drained him of blood though, which, I suppose, is a type of life force.”

She walked through the bodies strewn across the floor. “And, you know what, our neighbors pulled me out of my casket to burn my heart, which they believed contained some evil spirit. As though such a crude act could end a vampire. As you plainly see, I am quite recovered.” Her smile widened, fangs gleaming in the dim light of the church.

Tuggie’s woodchuck stood guard over her poisoned body that was stiff now with paralysis, snarling at Mercy.

Mercy looked at the creature that valiantly guarded the witch. To the woodchuck she said, “All the fools here would swear vampires can’t so much as set foot upon holy ground.” She laughed wickedly.

Obia snarled and began dragging Tuggie’s body toward the church door, to safety.

Mercy watched in silence, unwilling to fight the monstrous vicious familiar. She said, “I shall find you both yet, Granny and Tuggie. Just you see. But I have plenty here for a nice repast as it stands.”

The candle flames flickered as a cold wind swept into the church.

Mercy knelt beside Sylvia, brushing hair from the witch’s face as a mother might soothe a child. “I,” said Mercy Brown, tracing a finger down Sylvia’s throat, “have always preferred my meals to be warm and communal.”

Sylvia’s eyes darted in terror, her body unmoving. The others lay paralyzed but conscious as well; a spider’s prey stung and waiting to be eaten.

“You know, dear lady, a spirit did visit you,” Mercy said softly. “It told you to gather all these wonderful women here.”

Sylvia stared.

“That same spirit also came to me and told me where you all would be. Together, at last.”

The vampire’s gaze lifted to the cross above the Virgin, then slowly lowered, as though peering far into the depths of the burning Earth. “One must take care, you see, to know from where a spirit does come.”

She gave another small, wicked laugh as the church doors slammed shut with a ringing clang.

Author’s Note

I wrote this speculative fiction short story based on the local folklore in Rhode Island, as a response to a ‘call’ for local folklore pieces by Vanessa Perry with the Substack: Mythmount Press.

I based this story specifically around the lore about witches and vampires reported to have lived in southern Rhode Island, between Narragansett and Westerly and nearby areas (Rhode Island isn’t very big). I researched the lore on several websites and in books that had collected the various tales and myths together. References are below.

Then I decided to do a slight twist in the piece and create a speculative urban fantasy story based on the lore of these women.

The first creative license I took was putting them all together, in the same room, though in the lore they spanned nearly 200 years from the early 1700s to the late 1800s. But, it was supposed vampires and witches, and I thought “Well of course they found a way to survive long enough to all sit in one room together.”

Another example of a creative license was that Tuggie had a scary run in with a vicious moonack (woodchuck or groundhog) she called the “Debbil hisself”. I made the woodchuck her familiar.

Because, hey, who doesn’t want an evil woodchuck as a familiar, right?

(I wonder… if we put the evil woodchuck and the honey badger in a fight ring, who would win?)

I did have ‘spirits’ talking to them. Because, they are witches after-all. It’s important to note that in past centuries: if you heard voices, nobody questioned the validity of that. They completely knew you must be hearing real voices. You were not thrown into an insane asylum for that. The only questioned raised, was from who those voices came: God or Satan?

While I did take some creative liberties, such as those, I also wove in as much of the factual lore as I could too, even if adjusted to suit my story plot.

References

CChan Smutko. (2022, October 6). Spooky stories: The legend of Dolly Cole. The Good 5 Cent Cigar. Retrieved from https://rhodycigar.com/2022/10/06/spooky-stories-the-legend-of-dolly-cole/

Depot, M. (2026). An outside perspective: Remembering Sylvia Tory, the Witch of Ministerial Woods. The Independent. Retrieved from https://www.independentri.com/arts_and_living/article_d1afac46-a14f-45ed-8b9a-8f71af5f673a.html

Earle, A. M. (1898). Tuggie Bannock’s Moonack. In In Old Narragansette: Romances and realities. Charles Scribner’s Sons. Retrieved from https://www.mirrorservice.org/sites/ftp.ibiblio.org/pub/docs/books/gutenberg/7/1/8/7/71873/71873/h/71873/h.htm#Page_63

Muise, P. (2013, January). Tuggie Bannock: African magic in Rhode Island. New England Folklore. Retrieved from https://newenglandfolklore.blogspot.com/2013/01/tuggie-bannock-african-magic-in-rhode.html

Reilly McGreen, M. E. (2010). Witches, wenches and wild women of Rhode Island. The History Press.

Rhode Island Historical Preservation Commission. (1970). Historic and architectural resources of South Kingstown, Rhode Island: A preliminary report. Retrieved from https://preservation.ri.gov/sites/g/files/xkgbur406/files/pdfs_zips_downloads/survey_pdfs/south_kingstown.pdf

Knock knock.

“Oh heavens, who’s bothering an old woman at this hour?”

“’Tis I, Death, the Incarnate of Darkness and Shadow, bearer of the soul’s next journey.”

“Well I didn’t order any Door Dash, dear. Off you go now.”

“Nay, good Mistress! I said Death! Death! The Harvester of Souls!”

“Mm‑hmm. Are you one of those scammers? My granddaughter warned me about you people.”

“I be the Immortal Night! The Bearer of the Final Breath! I come to carry the departed unto their purgatory.”

“Does it cost anything?”

“Nay. Death is most assuredly free.”

“Good. Just checking. Last fellow claimed to be a prince from Nairobi and wanted my credit card.”

“I am the All‑Knowing Darkness! Now open thy door!”

“I thought Death could walk through walls.”

“Aye, I can. But not with my scythe or dark steed. ’Tis unwieldy.”

“All right, all right, let me undo these chain locks. I’m old and slow.”

“Pray tell, is any soul within this dwelling close to their earthly end?”

“Shouldn’t you know that? Honestly, this is sounding more like a scam every minute.”

“Alas, I have misplaced my Soul Ledger somewhere over the Atlantic, and my dark steed flatly refuseth to retrace our flight. Surely thou must sense if one beneath this roof stands near their departure. Thou art of advanced years. Art thou feeling poorly?”

“Mm‑hmm. Next thing you’ll want my social security number and bank account access.”

“I crave no mortal riches! Coins and accounts are but ash beneath my cloak. Merely tell me whose hourglass empties tonight.”

“How should I know? You’re the one who lost your silly list.”

“And thou art the one at home! ’Tis appropriate to inquire given my ledger is lost.”

“Well why don’t you check your pockets? You must have all sorts on that fancy robe of yours.”

“I have checked all seventeen pockets. Thoroughly. Twice.”

“Seventeen? Good gracious.”

“Dost thou imagine a host of eternal souls travel light?”

“Fair enough.”

“So then, nameth the soul destined for departure.”

“You truly don’t remember?”

“Mistress, I reap billions. Whole centuries pass like morning mist.”

“Oh goodness, well, I don’t know.”

“Speak, that I may fulfill my duty.”

“Oh, yes. I remember now. It’s Bubbles.”

“Bubbles?”

“The goldfish.”

“In yonder bowl?”

“That’s him, yes.”

“The same creature who hath circled these waters for three and a half years?”

“Persistent little thing, isn’t he?”

“Art thou certain?”

“Very.”

“He doth regard me with suspicion.”

“He does that. Judgmental little thing.”

“And thou sufferest no chest pains? No foreboding chills or ominous portends?”

“Besides Death showing up on my porch, dear? No others that weren’t already caused by taxes.”

“Hm.”

“Take the fish.”

“Very well. ’Tis plausible. Come hither, little soul.”

“Don’t give me that look, Bubbles. I saved our hides.”

“Aye. His tiny spirit passes in peace. Thou hast my thanks, good Mistress.”

“You’re welcome anytime, dear. Here, take a cookie. Oh, and a cube of sugar for your cute little dark steed. Isn’t he a sweetheart. There we are. Out the door you go now.”

“Between us, Mistress, prithee set thy affairs in order.”

“Ah. Okay. I’ll be sure to get another goldfish.”

“Fare thee well!”

(The end).

Author Notes

Image from Midjourney. Getting Midjourney to design death looking at a gold fish was loads of fun.

I put annotated thoughts and comments about this piece at this other post: