Talent, Right on Time
“You think you can win on talent alone? You don’t have enough talent to win on talent alone.” – Kurt Russell, “Miracle” * * * “WHERE’S MY STORY?” “I don’t have it yet. Sorry. I’ll send it soon.” “Have you even started?” “Yeah. I’ll get right on it.” “You’d better.” My nemesis glares at me. “You know I hate to be kept waiting.” “Uh-huh. And the Halloween issue of our magazine can’t wait, either.” “Correct. You’re the headliner. You’d better give me something fantastic. Any less and you’re back to polishing others’ works.” “Understood.” Jeanette Kahn, creator and editor of Mundi Macabre, turns and stalks down the hallway of our claustrophobic office. I’m left alone with my computer screen, my keyboard, and a cursor flashing patiently after the sentence I managed to write: ‘Halloween, more than any other time of year, holds the promise of the unknown.’ Not bad, but not great. It doesn’t pop, make you sit up and pay attention. It doesn’t have the creepy factor. Not unless I use it as the start of a Lovecraftian tale. Nah. One of my fellow writers is taking a shot at that. He’s calling his story “The Innsmouth Look.” I mentally picture Jeanette with a Deep One’s face. *Get to work.* Right. After deleting the sentence, I stare at the cursor. Sometimes words flow like blood through my veins. Other times, like now, I have a clot. Maybe YouTube will help. I search for “If I Were a Rich Man,” from ‘Fiddler on the Roof,’ and its corollary “Rich Girl” by Gwen Stefani. Both focus on the dream of becoming wealthy. While Tevye would rather spend money on his family and his God, Gwen would rather “clean out Vivienne Westwood” in her “Galliano gown.” I wouldn’t do either. Instead, I’d buy Jeanette out and take charge of this horror rag. I’d make it famous. Right now it’s a respectable mid-lister, found online and at the brick-and-mortar bookstores that still exist in larger cities. Large cities. Maybe that’s where I should start. ‘Chicago on Halloween was full of more tricks than treats.’ Hmm. That’s clearer and more concise, but I don’t know what tricks the Windy City holds on October 31st. Razor blades in apples? Poisoned candy? That’s been done before. Maybe a severed head in some unfortunate kid’s pumpkin-shaped treat bucket? It might hit too close to home for some folks. Maybe I’ll ask the reader what Halloween means to them in a roundabout way: ‘What does Halloween hide?’ Perfect. ‘What lies beneath the surface of the masks and the color of the costumes? Perhaps the innocent smile of a child. Then again…” Gah. Evil kids creep me out, and that subgenre’s overdone. I let the cursor gobble up those last two sentences like peace offerings. I’m hoping they’ll be accepted. My stomach growls. “Lunchtime,” I mumble to no one in particular, then leave the computer having finished two lousy sentences. Writer’s block is a bitch. Time for a break. This, of course, means having to sneak past the Deep One on my way out. “Tenet!” My heart leaps into my throat. “Yes, Jeanette?” “You have twelve hours to send me your masterpiece. Otherwise…You’re the only writer on our staff who cares what an Oxford comma is. I’m thinking that copy editing is where your talents truly lie.” “No!” The word falls out of my mouth before I can take it back. “I mean, you have a deal.” Jeanette smirks and returns to her laptop. I flee the building for some fresh air. Late October greets me, crisp and cool. My birthday is this week on the 22nd. What do I want? A night out – dinner and a movie at the theater. What’s playing? I ask my phone. Several horror films and a rom-com pop up in my local listings. I want to see “Heretic,” but according to Google, that comes out on November 15th. By then I’ll either be a superstar or a slave at Mundi Macabre, aiming to rest from Halloween and all that it entails. Entails, entrails. My stomach’s grumbling again. I opt for the Chinese place across the street. Then something else catches my eye. A new store has opened up nearby, one with a hanging wooden sign: “Cinderella’s Curios.” Below this elegant text is a cutout of a silver slipper. I’m immediately curious. What would Cinderella collect?A silver bell chimes as I open the heavy glass door. It slides shut on its own. “Whoa…” Collectibles of all sorts greet me. Porcelain, crystal, coins, various ceramics. An actual glass slipper, courtesy of Swarovski, is the first thing I focus on. The price tag? $259. I’m immediately reminded of a little rhyme: “A wonder to look at, delightful to hold, but if you break it, consider it sold.” A store like this would ordinarily be a nightmare – I’m a klutz – but I’m so transfixed I can barely move. “Come on in,” says a soft and tinkling voice. “I won’t charge you for an accident.” *We’ll see about that.* “Remarkable place you’ve got here.” “Isn’t it?” A smiling older woman with round wire-rimmed glasses heads toward me, not bumping into a thing. Not even brushing her precious possessions. “Right out of a fairy tale. It’s been a dream come true to open this shop.” I grin. “So, you’re Cinderella?” The woman’s laugh is as delightful as the ringing of the silver bell. “I’m afraid I’m too old for that role. Call me the fairy godmother.” Something gnaws at the back of my mind, but I shove it aside and chuckle back. “Are you after something special?” “Not really.” “How about a treasure for your birthday? Even if yours has already passed, every day is a birthday of sorts. A chance to try once more, to reinvent oneself anew.” “Good point.” “Splendid. I have an item in mind that I think you’ll like.” “One thing…” *Please don’t let it be too expensive.* “Don’t let it be too fragile.” “Don’t worry.” The woman turns to go. “Feel free to sit down if you need to.” I find a chair nearly concealed by shelves of porcelain dolls. I take her up on her offer. After a while, I start to think she’s forgotten about me, and I should head for the Chinese restaurant after all. I’m due back at the office in a half hour, and I need to eat. I’m getting lightheaded. “Here we are.” She comes back carrying the most beautiful watch I’ve ever seen. The face is transparent, so I can see all the minute gears churning inside. The vinyl band is clear too. One thing is peculiar, though: it only has an hour hand. “Lovely, isn’t it? I’ll even give you a discount. One hundred dollars.” “Too rich for my blood, and – I don’t know. It’s not what I’m looking for.” “What are you looking for? What do you want more than anything right now?” *Lunch.* “Talent.” Again, the word escapes me before I can stop it coming out of my mouth. “I write for a horror magazine, and the Halloween issue’s coming up. My boss is expecting a miracle in twelve hours. I don’t have it in me.” “Don’t you?” The woman’s eyes twinkle. “You’d be surprised what you can get done in that amount of time if you’re willing to apply yourself.” “I’m not talking about work ethic. I’m talking pure, unadulterated talent. The kind that leaves you speechless after reading certain passages, that makes you go ‘Wow!’ and makes you wish you could write like that. GOAT talent.” “Isn’t that a tad too ambitious for what you’re trying to accomplish?” “I don’t care. No one ever said Shakespeare is the only GOAT. Edgar Allan Poe is one, too. In my humble opinion, so is Stephen King. I’d give anything to write something that sends shivers down our readers’ spines, and more importantly, makes them gape in wonder once it’s done. You believe in that, don’t you?” “Indeed I do.” I reach my hand out to take the watch, but she gently withdraws it. “Now, then. We know what you want. What are you willing to trade for it?” “I don’t have much dough. Besides, talent isn’t something money can buy. I’ll tell you what. Ordinarily, I have scads of time, but now I’m on a deadline. If I could trade time for talent in a twelve-hour stretch, I’d certainly do so.” “But that isn’t possible, is it?” I sigh. “No. Not even for you.” “I wouldn’t say that.” She stretches out her hand. “I offer you this watch for the low, low price of fifty dollars. Consider it a birthday present.” “Are you serious?” “As serious as my merchandise. I don’t deal in fakes or trash.” “Obviously not.” I stroke the watch’s face. “If you really mean it’s fifty dollars, I’ll take it. Do you take credit cards?” The woman shakes her head. “Darn. That’s all the cash I have.” I think of getting up and leaving, but my eyes are glued to the gorgeous gift. “Ah, what the hey.” I take the money out of my purse and hand it over. “Pleasure doing business with you.” “Wait. Three things.” She traces her finger over a button on the clear vinyl band. “First, when you wish to activate it, push this while you have the watch on your wrist. Second, don’t push it before you’re ready. Third and most importantly…” She leans in. “Whatever you start, you must finish.” Goosebumps break out on my arms. “This trade is final, as are all sales from my establishment.” “I understand.” “Do you? I’d hate for you to be disappointed with your purchase.” “Trust me, it’s – magnificent. There’s no other word for it.” “I’m glad.” The shop owner beams. “Also, remember to keep your wrist clean before activating the watch. A dab of rubbing alcohol will do.” “Is that so my skin oils won’t damage the metal?” “No. It’s for something far more important. Another critical exchange.” Before I can ask what it is, the silver bell rings again. “Oh! I do apologize, but duty calls. Farewell, dear. Make wise use of your time.” She turns away and walks toward the front door. I slip my new watch into my purse and follow her. She greets the next customer. I venture outside and across the street at last.At the Golden Dragon, I receive a fortune cookie with my meal: “Great wealth lies within you.” Huh. Maybe it refers to inner qualities like honesty and caring, but maybe it also refers to what I seek. I entertain this latter possibility with a secret smile. Once I finish lunch and leave the restaurant, I debate whether or not to go back to the office. I can write my story in a much less nerve-racking environment than my cubicle. On the other hand, I don’t want Jeanette to think I’m taking the rest of the day off. Her deadline looms, and it won’t brook interruptions. I text her that I’ll be working from home. My laptop awaits me there, along with its patiently blinking cursor. I take my new watch out of my purse. What had the owner of Cinderella’s Curios said? To clean my wrist with rubbing alcohol before I put it on and pushed the button on the band. Strange directions, but I obey. She also said to push it once I wanted to start, but not before I was ready. I’m ready now. I stretch, take a drink of my Mountain Dew Code Red, and try the button. A sharp pain makes me cry out and swear. A needle on the underside of the watch face has plunged itself into my wrist and is drawing blood into it, drenching the gears. The hour hand, which hasn’t heretofore moved, floats above the droplets and inches forward ever so slightly. Terror ripples through me. I now understand what the lady was really trying to tell me about the watch. Time traded for talent; blood traded for time. I unfasten the band, but the needle’s stuck fast in my wrist, and I don’t want to try removing it. I refasten it. The watch will stay on until my work is complete. What have I done? Its clock is ticking. What happens if I don’t finish before it strikes twelve? I lay my fingers on my keyboard and start typing furiously, not wanting to find out. * * * HOUR ONE * * * What does Halloween hide? What lurks behind the surface of the masks and the color of the costumes? More than any other holiday, it holds the promise of the unknown. Sophie Tafus loved to collect. From her very first assortment of love-worn stuffed animals to her doll lineup to her carefully-studied rocks and minerals from the periodic table, her collections were worth far more than money. They represented years of searching and finding, winnowing and selecting, preparing and displaying. They were her heart and soul. Yet, as always, something was missing. On Halloween of her junior year in high school, Sophie and her friends decided to go to the crossroads on the outskirts of town. It had been a teen hangout since time immemorial. Not even the cops could run them off completely. The best they could do was cruise by every once in a while, which wasn’t enough to stop the sneakiest and most determined partiers. Besides, Sophie’s social circle came from good families – “good” meaning “rich.” Even if they got caught, they were sure they’d be let off with a warning. Speaking of which, rumors warned that here was where people went to make a certain kind of deal. Not in dollars and cents but in much more expensive commodities. Was Sophie a believer? In a nominal sense, but she wouldn’t let her peers know what or how much she held to. October 31st fell wintry-cold, with a sky full of stars and teenage hearts full of yearning. They all had something they wanted, but what were they willing to give in return? Brett and Ashley were atheists, here for the extralegal fun and not the paranormal aspects of Halloween. Miranda, however, was a different story. If you were to ask her if she was still scared of the boogeyman, she’d tell you no, but she wouldn’t reveal that she kept a close eye on her closet every night. When they reached the crossroads, Sophie and company passed around a flask of vodka and talked about what they’d heard. Brett said that his cousin’s friend came here, made a pact with the Devil for blues guitar mastery, and then killed himself when his upgraded skills weren’t up to the task. Scoffing, Ashley countered that the scariest thing that had happened so far was a hit-and-run. No more, no less. Miranda asked if the ghosts of the victims haunted the premises. Ashley and Brett snickered, but Sophie stayed quiet, unsure. She thought she felt a weight in the air, a curious presence that gave her more goosebumps than the temperature. Ashley and Brett made out. Miranda and Sophie stared at the sky silently, wondering why they were out here if nothing weird was going to happen. Finally, Miranda asked, “Soph? Do you think there’s a heaven?” “Yeah.” “What about hell?” “Also, yeah.” Sophie figured these admissions were safe. Lots of people believed the same. “What do you think hell is like?” Sophie paused. “I think it’s different for each person. Not some generic lake of fire where everyone goes. If we deserve punishment, it’ll be tailor-made for us.” After a few minutes, Miranda spoke again. “What would your punishment be?” “I don’t know. I’d like to think I haven’t been all that bad. I don’t cheat, steal, or kill, although I lie from time to time. Maybe my version of hell would be having to tell the truth all the time, no matter how harmful or ugly, to everyone.” “Yikes. My version would be having to get on a scale minute after minute, hour after hour so everyone could see how much I weighed, then laugh at me.” Sophie’s heart sank. She knew how much Miranda struggled with food issues. “Seriously, though. What if our worst fears come true in hell? There’d be no one around to save us but ourselves, and we couldn’t, no matter how hard we tried.” “Hey! That sounds like school!” said Brett. The four friends snorted with laughter. “Don’t worry about it. Hell’s not real.” Sophie remained uncertain. “Brett? I’m freezing. Do you actually want to stay out here until midnight?” “Nah, man. I just came so I could neck with you.” Ashley gave him a playful punch on the arm. “Hey. If you’re not going to be cool about this, get in your car and leave.” “Cool about what, Soph? It’s been a lousy Halloween. C’mon, Ash. Let’s go.” Ashley and Brett headed for Brett’s beat-up Ford. Miranda stayed put. “If there are any ghosts or spirits, any strange manifestations, I’m going to be the first one to see them.” She grinned playfully at her best friend. “Sorry, girl.” “Sorry, yourself. I’m looking for something in particular – or, rather, someone.” * * * I reread everything I’ve written, after second-guessing myself a thousand times and making countless little edits. I consider my draft above average, but it’s nowhere near what I’m aiming for. It has potential. Just not GOAT potential. *Be patient. You’ve introduced the main character and set the stage. Your new skills will manifest themselves in time.* *Main character? Don’t you mean the main characters?* Silence in my mind. I’m talking to myself again. *And how much time? I’ve been at this for two hours, considering the relatively little amount of text I’ve typed, and I only have ten hours left.* *Patience, I said.* Is that Jeanette I hear inside my head, or the voice of my fairy godmother? *Keep at it. You haven’t a moment to lose, my dear Tenet.* Definitely Jeanette. The Deep One has a hold on me even at home. With my blood coursing through my new watch, I keep writing. * * * HOUR THREE * * * Miranda couldn’t quite believe it. Here she was, the most credulous person in their little group, wondering if Sophie had lost her mind. Not even she, Miranda, could brave the glacial air for the sake of nothing. Sophie wore a stylish parka, but Miranda only had a tank top and shorts on. She wrapped her arms around herself and rubbed as fast as she could, hoping the friction would warm her. “Are you cold?” asked Sophie. “Duh.” “Want to borrow my coat?” “That’s okay. Hey, Soph? Would you mind if I left?” “Why?” Miranda gestured all around her. “There’s no one else here but us.” “It’s not midnight yet.” “Would you like to come over to my house and crash? We can eat lots of candy.” “Nah. Besides, I don’t want to waste this opportunity.” “For what?” “To make a deal.” Sophie smiled. “Here I thought you were the superstitious one.” “Hey, no fair.” “Stay with me. I’m going to need some company if this all goes wrong.” “Who do you think will show up?” “Someone who gives you exactly what you want, exactly when you want it.” “The Devil?” “Yeah, but more powerful and not evil. Someone beyond space and time.” “What? You’re crazy.” “Maybe, but tonight I can afford to be a little nuts. So can you.” “Uh-uh. I’m going home.” “Suit yourself.” Sophie put her hood up and turned away from her friend, toward the crossroads, an icy wind coursing around them and through their flimsy defenses. Sophie was better prepared, however. She didn’t regret seeing the bright red taillights of Miranda’s Chevy vanish into the distance. This night and this chance were for her and her alone. She stood in the middle of the intersection and waited. “Greetings.” Sophie whirled around. Someone else was indeed there: an impossibly tall man in a fedora and trench coat. She couldn’t see his face, but his slitted eyes glowed bluish-white, as if they were lit by an inner star. “Who are you?” Sophie cried. “Where did you come from all of a sudden?” “Some call me the Stranger. Others, the Collector. I prefer the Curator.” “What’s that?” “The manager of a museum and its exhibits. The word comes from the Latin ‘cura,’ meaning ‘to care.’ I care deeply for everything IN my care, my young friend. As for where I come from, you answered that question: beyond space and time.” “You’re kidding.” Sophie blinked. “You’re the one I want to see?” “Of course.” “Then let’s make a deal.” Unbeknownst to Sophie, the Curator’s formless mouth curved into a smirk. “I don’t think you comprehend what’s involved.” “So, tell me.” “First, I don’t trade in souls, but in spirits. The difference is that your soul is the universal part of you that loves its creator – God, if you will – and seeks to unite with him/her/it. Your spirit is unique – the “you” that you identify with. Your self. I care for all of the individual selves that have dealt with me. What do you wish to bargain for? Money? Love? The well-being of your friends and loved ones?” “All those things are great, but I can’t explain what I’m really after.” “Do try.” “Uh…I’m a collector just like you. I love all the things I’ve bought and found over the years, but I can never have enough. Every time I look at one of my collections, I’m proud, but I also wonder what else I can acquire. I don’t want to be greedy, but how come I always want more? It’s an obsession.” “In short,” said the Curator, “you want to be me.” Sophie pointed her index finger in the air. “Yeah!” “Again, I don’t think you comprehend what that involves.” “Again, tell me.” “I didn’t finish the first time.” “Oh, jeez. Sorry!” “The second thing you should know is that I give each of the ones I curate a task to perform. Not in the afterlife, but in the here and now. This special service is a binding contract and must be fulfilled on time. Otherwise, the deal’s off, and I also extract a penalty. It could be monetary; it could be personal. I don’t do this out of malice, but to teach that in all things, there must be balance and justice. Fear not. I won’t ask you to do something against your conscience.” “Then what do you want from me?” “I’d like to meet your friend Miranda. She’s afraid of what she cannot see, and even what she can – her own body. I want to show her she has nothing to fear. I can show her vistas and experiences far beyond this world, each with a lesson to put into practice on good old Planet Earth. One month from now, I want you to bring her here to this crossroads. Introduce me, and your debt shall be paid.” “And what do I get out of it?” “I’ll show you how to curate spirits. To influence others much more than you do now. Your social circle is wealthy, but it’s not wide. You’ll learn people’s strengths, weaknesses, true motivations, and all the secrets they hide.” Sophie gaped. “I – I’m not sure I want that.” “It’s hard to admit, but you do. You want to collect friends.” After a moment, she sighed sadly. “Yeah. You’re right. Is that so bad?” “Not as long as you care for them and they care for you. Do we have a deal?” “Wait. What’s the third thing?” “Ah. I almost forgot. While I’m here in your world, my physical form is fragile. I require three drops of your blood to help retain it. Would you lend them to me?” “Ugh! I hate bleeding.” “It will only take a prick of your palm.” “Okay. If you say so.” Sophie turned her hand palm-upward and allowed the stranger to dig one of his long nails into her flesh. It hurt for a fraction of a second. Then he grasped her hand in his own, which was even more frigid. Sophie felt herself weaken. She wobbled in place, then caught her balance. He pressed her palm to his wrist, to nourish a transparent watch whose gears ran on blood. Unbeknownst to Sophie, the Curator lived on borrowed time. “Voila. Our bargain is made. On November 30th, I expect to see Miranda.” He left the crossroads. With her cold-cauterized hand, Sophie waved goodbye. * * * I can’t believe it. I’m wearing the Curator’s watch and am bound to him by the blood I’m shedding. Time traded for talent. Blood traded for time. This story I’m writing isn’t fiction. I’m feeling drained. I need a nap… * * * I’ve slept three hours. Three! I forgot to take my watch off, but I still lost track of time, and – *Tenet? How’s everything coming along?* Shut up, Jeanette. I have a far worse taskmaster than you breathing down my neck. Yet he’s remained silent. You won’t shut the hell up! Get out of my head! *I will when you’re finished. Get back to work.* *Don’t be afraid,* my fairy godmother chimes in. *You’ve got time.* I sure hope so. * * * HOUR SIX * * * Throughout November, Sophie tried to prepare Miranda for what would be coming next. The two girls discussed far more than they ever had on the subject of the supernatural. Sophie talked further about heaven and hell, and Miranda disclosed her fear of everything from the number 666 to the boogeyman. Neither of them laughed at what the other had to say. They both sensed this subject matter was no laughing matter. As for Ashley and Brett? They were too busy with each other to care about Sophie and Miranda’s existential dilemmas. The afterlife was all well and good, but in this life, the couple had some serious necking to do. As the Curator had promised, Sophie began to widen her social milieu. People who had ignored her now asked to sit with her at lunch, collaborate on homework, and party after hours. They asked her advice at every turn, from which of the latest fashion trends were worth following to which colleges to visit. Even though she didn’t have all the answers, Sophie acted like she did. Therein lay the secret. She dared not admit her other secrets: She could read minds. Surface thoughts only, but they were enough. She could also discern when anyone lied to her. They did – a lot. “Fake it till you make it” was the unofficial motto of high school and, she suspected, of life. Most alarmingly, she learned hidden truths about people whenever she touched them. Even brushing up against them in the hallway, she could tell which girls had anorexia or bulimia, which athletes were using steroids, and which teachers were at the end of their rope due to students’ misbehavior. This constant onslaught of knowledge was dizzying. She learned to tune most of it out like she tuned out boring lectures. Still, this thrilled her as much as basking in others’ attention. Her new friends gave her a sense of importance that her old ones never had – except Miranda. Even though she now played second fiddle to Sophie’s new cadre, she remained loyal and told the truth when it needed telling. Hence Sophie’s misgivings about the end of the month. What did the Curator want with Miranda? To steal her spirit? To take her away? No. That would be evil, and Sophie swore she hadn’t called upon an evil being. He had mentioned experiences and vistas far beyond this world. What kind? What lessons would her best friend learn to help her on good old Planet Earth? The more Sophie thought about it, the more disturbed she became. For the first time in her life, she ignored her priceless collections, even her new friends, and focused entirely on the problem of her old one. What could Miranda offer the Curator that Sophie couldn’t give him? Belief and blind trust, but that was all. Sophie could help him with what she’d learned. Wasn’t that what knowledge was for? Why not put it to practical use? What Sophie now knew eclipsed what Miranda knew by an order of magnitude. Ridiculous, it was. Ridiculous that the mysterious stranger Sophie had contacted favored Miranda instead. Well, Sophie would show him. She’d prove her worth. When November 30th came, Sophie went to the rendezvous alone. She waited and waited. By the light of the full moon, she could see the crossroads stretching into the distance, discarded trash blowing across its fairway. She did not see the Curator. At long last, a thick strip of paper with three words in blood blew across her path: I WARNED YOU. Hot fear filled Sophie’s heart. What kind of penalty would the Curator impose? As he had specified, the deal was off. As he had also suggested, the penalty was both monetary and personal. Her retinue ignored her like yesterday’s news once they realized how shallow Sophie was.Once she’d gone home after meeting no one at the crossroads, she’d smashed most of her collectibles. What had once cost her a fortune lay on her bedroom floor in hundreds of pieces. All she could do was clean up the mess and cry. “Damn you, Miranda,” Sophie wept. “I hope I never see your big fat face again.” At 3 AM, she got the call. Her best friend since forever had committed suicide. * * * Oh, dear. That escalated quickly. *It did not. It progressed in its time, and we both barely paid attention.* We? Who is ‘we,’ and who are you? Jeanette? You don’t sound like her. *I don’t know who Jeanette is, but it’s time you learned who I am – the owner of Cinderella’s Curios, and the subject of your tale.* A horrible realization dawns on me. “You’re Sophie,” I say aloud. “Sophie Tafus.” “Yes. Rearrange the letters of my last name and you’ll understand me.” Tafus. Faust. The man who sold his soul to the Devil for knowledge. Sophie had done the same. *The Curator is not Satan, but he demands prompt payment for his boons.* “Payment. You didn’t bring Miranda to the crossroads, because you were jealous. The Curator wanted to help her, but you didn’t. You wanted her to stay the same, in second place behind your new acquaintances. You bitch.” *Hear me out. I’ve spent the rest of my life trying to atone for what I did to her. I dedicated myself to granting others’ wishes. In terms of my collections, I built one to share instead of hoard. Ergo, my little shop. Everything I have is for sale to others or to be given away. That watch was my gift to you.* “You mean the Curator’s watch? The one that’s drawing my blood right now? That’s a gift? More like a curse. I can’t even risk taking it off. I’m in too deep.” “Indeed you are. Now that you know whose story you’re telling and what you’ve exchanged for talent, our mutual benefactor won’t let you go until you finish.” “IF I finish.” “You must. If the clock strikes twelve and you have not, then you belong to him.” “Oh, yeah?” “Miranda does. She’s at peace. He has a soft spot for the innocent.” “Then he’ll let me go.” “Are you willing to let your newfound talent go?” Touche. I continue. * * * HOUR NINE * * * Sophie felt numb from her head to her toes. Miranda couldn’t be dead. She just couldn’t. True, Sophie had done her a bad turn, but had that been enough to – “No.” She shivered all over. “It can’t be. Miranda is – was – tougher than that.” Had she been? On balance, the answer was no. Miranda’s strength wasn’t her strength, but her heart. Now that Miranda’s heart was stilled forever… “I have no one,” Sophie said. “No one and nothing.” Thus, the Curator’s penalty proved absolute. Sophie fell into despair. Her grades slipped, and she no longer cared about activities she used to enjoy. All except buying new things. If this desire had obsessed her before, now it consumed her outright. She spent all the money she made working at her after-school job on expensive curios: crystal, coins, porcelain dolls, china figurines, each lovelier than the last. Her new collection was so stunning that even her parents found themselves standing and staring at it, hypnotized by its beauty. As it grew, it took up more and more space, spreading from Sophie’s bedroom to the guest bedroom, then the living room. Her house began to resemble a museum more than a home. She had to tell her parents to be careful not to break any of its exhibits. What she didn’t tell her parents was the nature of the driving force that made her acquire them. The objects spoke to her. Not out loud, but inside her mind. An insistence that she purchase them and bring them home. Once she laid eyes on a shiny knickknack, she simply had to have it – not for her own sake, but ITS sake. It needed to be in the sun or under a light so that rainbows could emerge from its glittering facets or smooth glass surface. It needed a place to be displayed, to realize its full potential. She spent hours dusting and polishing each acquisition to a mirror shine. She cared for them as lovingly as if they were flesh-and-blood friends.Yet just like human friends, these objects took an emotional and physical toll. Sophie found it increasingly hard to get up in the morning and muster any kind of interest in school. No matter where she was – homeroom, the gym, the cafeteria – she wished she were at home tending to her new collection. Her best collection. Little did she know what it was for until the Winter Solstice came. December 21st was the shortest and darkest day of the year. Instead of spending time with her family before Christmas, she put on her parka and made her way to the crossroads a third time. A full moon shone once again upon its intersection. “Greetings.” Sophie was neither surprised nor afraid. She knew whom she’d come to meet. “Hello, Curator.” After a brief pause, he stepped – or rather hovered – toward her. “What do you require of me?” “Another bargain. I have a new collection that I’m willing to trade.” She swallowed hard, and she could see puffs of her breath in the air. “Bring Miranda back.” “I cannot.” “Yes, you can. I know who you are. If you can’t restore her to her body, could you please let me speak to her soul? Er, spirit? My valuables are all I have. They’re almost all I love. Take them and let me talk to my best friend one more time.” “Such trifles mean nothing to me. However, since they mean so much to you, I’ll consider them acceptable collateral. You must promise me three things as well.” “Anything!” “First: You must dedicate your life to serving others. That includes selling your collectibles at discount prices or giving them away as gifts. You will keep collecting and granting others’ wishes until you fulfill my other two requirements. “Second: You must find someone else to tell your story as a cautionary tale. Forewarned is forearmed, as the old saying goes. “Third: You must take my watch as a sealing token of our pact. Wear it until the bearer of your tale comes along. Someone as ambitious and proud as you are. Keep it active until you meet that person, then present my most prized possession to them. I aim to leave this world behind and venture to further dimensions.” “Before I agree, I’d like to know: How much time do I have to accomplish all this?” The Curator’s eyes narrowed to slits. “Fifty years from the date you first sought me out: Halloween. If you have not finished these tasks by then, I’ll take you with me, body, soul, and spirit, to places where no living mortal has a right to be. You won’t find solace there until you’ve learned the lessons that you should have long ago.” “What if I find a substitute? If I can convince someone else to go with you instead, will you consider our pact fulfilled?” After an eternity he replied, “Yes. In full.” “Okay, then. How do I talk to Miranda? Do you need any more of my blood?” “Yes. Three more drops.” Sophie gave them as she had before. “Now, then. When I step back from these crossroads, you’ll see her and can say what you will. You’ll only have one minute before her shade returns to where I am. Agreed?” Sophie swallowed hard. “Agreed.” The Curator stepped back, allowing winter moonlight to shine full upon Sophie. She stared and blinked. The form of her best friend shimmered in the frosty air. “M-Miranda? Is that you?” Sophie knelt. “I’m sorry I threw you over for those other so-called friends of mine. They aren’t anymore. I was selfish and took you for granted. I never realized how much you meant to me until…” Until Miranda died? The dark thought flashed across Sophie’s mind, then vanished. “Until now. I wanted to see you one last time so I could tell you how much I love you. I miss you so much. I know I can’t have you back for all time, but I’m glad to have you for one more minute. Christmas is coming. There’s only one thing I want. Not another knickknack or piece of art. Your forgiveness. Will you please grant it to me?” Sophie felt a warm presence wrap itself around her. A barely audible voice: “Yes. I love you too. Merry Christmas, and I beg of you: Fulfill your terms.” “I will. Thank you.” Flakes of snow began to fall through Miranda and to the ground. She disappeared. So did the Curator. Sophie returned home to find that her valuables’ voices had fallen still. The first thing she did was wrap up an angel figurine to give her mother. On Christmas morning, Sophie’s mom was surprised and pleased. She’d never seen her daughter give away any of her precious things before, whether physical or intangible. Was Sophie turning over a new leaf? Only time would tell. After she graduated high school, Sophie opened up a series of collectible and antique shops in the city. They made her a tidy profit, which she donated to cancer research centers and homeless shelters. She also delivered meals to homebound people and hired those with disabilities to assist her in her stores. Sophie may not have been Citizen of the Year in the forty-nine years she spent helping others, but she was darn close. Only one part of her bargain remained: the cruel final terms. Who would tell Sophie’s story and forewarn others of the dangers of selfishness, greed, and obsession? Who would wear the Curator’s watch, given as a gift? Most importantly, who would go with the Curator to other worlds in Sophie’s place? * * * That’s where I came in. That’s where I still come in. There’s one hour till midnight. One hour to polish this story and send it to Jeanette. Can I finish in time? I’m so weak… * * * HOUR ELEVEN * * * Sophie lay wide awake on a late October evening. It wasn’t Halloween, but the fateful deadline was close enough. She dared not leave any more to chance. She’d taken enough of a risk giving the Curator’s watch to a writer with the pseudonym of Tenet. Thanks to that particular timepiece, the best copy editor at Mundi Macabre could have her big break. Pure, unadulterated talent would flow like blood through her veins, and there would be no clots. No longer would she slave away proofreading others’ works. Tenet would write an epic tale that would headline the magazine’s annual Halloween issue and catapult her straight to the top. All it would cost her? Fifty dollars and blood drawn on the hour, every hour, for twelve hours straight. The pact with the Curator would thus be sealed. The thing was, Tenet hadn’t known about the Curator – or Sophie either. She’d thought the owner of Cinderella’s Curios was a kind and gentle older woman with round wire-rimmed glasses. That much was true. She’d never suspected that the gift giver had ulterior motives. However, what if she had? Would she have entered into the bargain anyway? Humbly, Tenet realized the answer was yes.She believed in herself, so much so that she believed she could outwit Death. She only had thirty minutes left. In Goethe’s “Faust,” the protagonist repented and ended up being saved. In Christopher Marlowe’s “Doctor Faustus,” the main character was damned. The difference was one of lessons learned: pride versus humility, ambition versus acceptance, hope versus despair. Sophie had learned these lessons well over the past fifty years, but what about Tenet? Which option would she choose – the one that would save her life or the one that would save her spirit? One more dilemma awaited her. Miranda had forgiven Sophie for forsaking her in her hour of need. Would Tenet do the same for leading her on and not telling her about the Curator? There was a lot to be said for absolution, but also for balance and justice. Two values that the Curator himself prized. “Why should I forgive you?” Tenet asked out loud. “Give me one good reason.” Within her mind, Sophie answered, *Because we’re too much alike.* “Good point.” *If you pardon me, you pardon yourself as well, and the Curator will be defeated.* “Aren’t you forgetting who he is?” *Like I said, he has a soft spot for the innocent. Like Miranda. Like you.* “What if he decides to ignore it in my case, because I was willing to give anything for raw talent? Because I aimed too high, like Faust – and like you?” *If he does,* said Sophie, *you must be prepared to fulfill the terms of your deal.* “To travel with him to other planes of existence and leave Earth behind?” *I’m afraid so.* “Then,” announced Tenet, “I forgive you. I won’t be afraid. I’ll go where he wants me to go and learn what he wants me to learn. What will you do, Sophie Tafus?” *I’ll continue to operate Cinderella’s Curios as a normal shop, with no hidden fees or pacts. My business with the Curator will be concluded.* Tenet smiled. “It’s a deal.” Sophie’s voice faded from her mind, and the two women could rest at last. What does Halloween hide? The arrival of Death: the only known in a world full of unknowns. That, and hope that springs eternal. THE END * * * I’m finished. I’m finally finished. I open Gmail and send this story to Jeanette with five minutes to spare. Whether or not she thinks it’s fantastic is her business. She could keep me in my current place as the servant of all at Mundi Macabre, but I’ve since discovered there are worse fates. Fates that exist beyond space, time, and horror magazines. The blood drains miraculously from the Curator’s watch when the hour hand reaches twelve. Time for bed. New stories await, but they can wait. My work is done. Tomorrow I’ll get up, get ready, push the watch button, and *humbly* try again. Credit: Tenet Copyright Statement: Unless explicitly stated, all stories published on Creepypasta.com are the property of (and under copyright to) their respective authors, and may not be narrated or performed under any circumstance.