The Cursed Is Her(e) by social outcast

social outcast

karma can be expected
“How long has she been like this?” asked the aged seer. His weathered face was one not easily read nor one that the husband wanted to take much time looking straight into.

The husband breathes a long haggard draw of air, “She has been having fitful sleep for four months. It started with her waking from nightmares. Then she started needing rest during the day, which not too long afterwards also brought her into nightmare states. She is sleep deprived although her waking moments are few and far between.”

The seer sits with eyes nearly closed listening and with an intently furrowed brow. “I can only surmise that she has been haunted by an unknown entity. A curse has befallen her.”

“Curse?” the husband's words trail off as if to mouth the word would summon whatever unknown evil had already been beckoned into this world. “How?”

The seer clasps his hands and slowly rubs them together, “I will need some time to give you some better clarity to this calamity that has befell your wife. I will also need to cut a lock from her hair, I will allow you to do so if you wish.” And he hands the husband a scissors with strange engravings on it.

His wife is sitting upright in a chair although she is hunched to the side and clearly not in a cognitive state. She is but a shell of what she once was. Only a haggard representation of her once radiant persona. Her hair is no longer thick with health but wispy and stringy. It takes three or four fingerfuls to get what constitutes a lock and the husband cuts it up near her scalp. She doesn’t respond in any way and it is evident that she is defenseless to any prodding done to herself.

“What will you do with this hair I give to you?” asks the husband but is quickly taken aback by the stern gaze the seer offers for explanation.

Ignoring the question the old man opines, “She may not survive another night. She may take her last breath at any given minute. I will start immediately the arduous task of deciphering her condition and her fate. Return by tomorrow’s nightfall and an conclusion you will receive. Be it fair or ill-begotten news, an answer will be waiting.”

Sensing the husband’s downtrodden demeanor at hearing this, the seer offers in assurance, “Know that she is not in any pain, for where she is exists not here. But returning her to her earthly body is my prime objective. I will not falter no matter the adversity met. Go now and care as best you can for your wife, I implore of you, take heed these words of the ancients, ‘Nearer death giveth a ride than our own hands bringeth life.’”

With those ominous last words the seer ushers the husband and his companion that helped him carry his frail wife that is garbed in only a white robe whose wisps now flutter in the wind of the opened door leading outside.
And they load her into the wagon cart and set course back to their homestead miles away amidst briar thickets and willow lined creeks. The trek takes two and a half hours but it is easily traversed by the husband lost in sorrow steering the horses that have given five honorable years of service.

She begins to softly moan as they near the clearing that begins the property of their residence. It first starts as a whimper but soon becomes an audible sign of distress. He gives the reigns several hard whips and the cart speeds hurriedly home.

With a hard yank the horses are brought to an abrupt stop. Dust first clouds up then settles and the two men in haste gather up the wife despite her mournful wailing. Quickly entering the house they make way towards the bedroom and lie her down. She settles in a heap and is now able to go back to bed in a fetal position, her sad murmurs now fading.

The sun nears the horizon and the two friends discuss the day's events in low serious tones. “The seer will prove to be a most divine choice indeed. Hadn’t it been for him, I would have been lost in a sea of madness. Allowing my wife to get to this condition is going to be my last dying burden. I will be forever in its clutches.”

“My dear friend, do not torture yourself in this way. You are but a victim as well to this witchery. The end’s in sight. Hold on, if not for your sanity, for your wife's well being that she has no control of, the poor woman,” the friend offers as solace to the husband awash in despair and self-pity.

As the husband clears the table of the small meager meal they partook of, he says, “My dear friend, what we are facing is not known. And that is an evil that is not of this world. I fear not only for her, mine and your safety, but insidiously enough, I also fear for the worlds safety, too. A foreboding vail has covered all that I knew as real. I look upon everything, as of late, through a lens murky with uncertainty and weariness. Will we find truth in all this mystery? Will the seer prevail?”

“Friend! Not only prevail will the seer but be victorious in the evil that begat your wife will he! You must keep faith in the ancient craft of divination. From the abysmal cosmos we were molded and once harnessed, those same realms offer power not of this world nor thereafter. For it has been scribed, so mote it be.”

With these fortitude’s laid about the room, the two friends of yore ready themselves for slumber, albeit for a full night or an hour. The rest is much needed and their judgment is only compromised by staying awake any longer...

All at once the front door flings open, knocking against hard into the display shelf against the wall behind it! The trinkets sitting atop are now haphazardly strewn about the floor as the two friends awake in startled fright. The cold night air rushes in and it's not known how long it's been since they succumbed to rest but now in the entrance is the seer and his horse wagon out front with the driver draped in heavy cloak, shielded from a brisk breeze.

“Awaken thyselves, we begin preparations for ousting of foul spirits here and now, tonight!” the seer exclaims. He is garbed in ritualistic attire, black cloak, not to ally with evil but to envelope the bleak infinities of soulless outer space. Around his neck is an necklace woven of ivy and orchids. He carries an oak staff in his right and bronze decanter filled with pitch from the cedar tree in his left. It smokes and its smell although acrid gives heightened awareness to the ritual that is already in full motion.

“Adorn each with these braided wreaths,” says the seer, handing them both the same type of necklace worn by him. They oblige with no protest and await more demands, dutifully ready to obey.

“Come near, fearful lads. We have much to discuss.” The two friends give each other a look, maybe even a slight shudder, a chill from this almost revolting intrusion to a night meant for solace.

The seer gathers them both near him and motions for them to sit at his feet. He kneels down close to them and begins:
“I gazed into an amethyst crystal that has been embedded with a blood tear from unknown beast. From aeons this tool has been passed down to my kind and was only bestowed on me after much sacrifice and toil; learning, re-learning, unlearning and re-creating in my minds eye the craft we seers can only mention in the catacombs we have sworn oaths to the ever beyond in. I am thousands of years old and it is from nether regions I received the information that had me ride out with the utmost urgency.”

The husband and friend, take deep breaths and can only offer bewildered faces back to the old man. “What I am to say to you,” at which point he grasps the husband’s right shoulder, “will appall you. You will recoil in disbelief, but heed my words. There is no other truth.”

The husband now stands up, in defense of what is to come from the seer. “Fear not me, fear not my insight, for with it also holds the key to dismantling the darkness’ grasp. The cursed is here...” the seer now sneering says and with a swift, calculated wave of his staff the door to his wife’s bedroom is flung open and at the exact moment they see the wife now floating in a macabre scene above the bed, he finishes proclaiming, “The cursed is her!”

“No, not my wife! Not my wife!” repeats the husband. “You,” he turns with seething rage and even now drooling, “You are the demon. The cursed one. Not my wife. But you!!”

The seer, still keeping a watchful eye on the wretchedly afflicted wife aloft in sorcery, beckons the hapless husband to stand by his side. “No, my dear sir, the voices have spoken. And they assure a resounding creed. The evil that befell your wife was created, manifested in her. She is the creator to what now must be utterly destroyed. Her appearance belies the true nature of her gloom. She is death incarnate and feeds on life, yours the next to succumb. Her type will never be satiated. There is only one destiny for those fueled by blood; she must be gotten rid of.”

“You my foolish, absurd, sorry excuse for a seer. You cannot prove the accusations you so wrongfully charge my dear wife of. If so, then prove it, here and now!” And that’s all the seer needed to hear and with no gesture, no chant, the seer willfully levitates the husband and deftly he is brought to the seer’s side. The seer puts a hand on the husband's head and instantly the two are in a netherworld.

“Do you see those crows flying? No one knows where the crows nest, their roosts are a mystery. Yet, there are those who have that secret knowledge. They are the blood hungry and once they know of such miserable abodes, they soon take shelter there as well. It is there I saw your wife hunkering down and at sunrise she emerged, in full ethereal blasphemy, she was adorned in crows wings, carried aloft by her new found clan, she at that point was forever dead.”

They get transported back to the house the husband and wife not so very long ago found solace in but now are imprisoned in. “Do you take that truth and hold it dear to you, sir?” the seer inquires.

“I shall prove to you that she is not who you say she is” chides the husband. “No, you imbecile, do not step another foot in her direction. If its proof you want, you’ve had it for a number of years. The scars on her back. What are they from? Whatever excuse she gave, she played you for a fool. Those scars are where her feathers grow from. She is born of crow and human blood is her only lifeline.”

“Then, explain to me,” the husband enters the bedroom and resolutely strides up to his ghastly wife in white robe, floating above the bed from unknown power, “how I am unharmed by this ghoul, that is my wife?” And as soon as the last syllable leaves the husbands mouth, she reaches down to him, places her distended skeletonized fingers around his head and picks him up. Before he can utter a plea or cry she squeezes her hands into a fist and his skull is mashed in between her fingers. His brain matter oozes out between each digit and spills to to the floor and lands with sickly plops. His legs convulsed but now are still, limp with lifelessness.

She drops the sad heap like such rubbish and in one fell swoop lifts the ceiling and roof of the bedroom up and it is shattered into millions of pieces. She is allowed to float out above the house and although the seer came to do battle he now just steps forward into the bedroom and watches as she ascends. Encircling her are countless crows and its as if she is in the middle of an ebony tornado. They are going further up until this dismal spectacle is finally vanished. Gone? The look on the seers face ventures not. And the scowl blazoned on his face verifies any skepticism to the naysayers or balkers. She is gone but is still here in this world. The seer has yet to extinguish those who yearn for where the crows nest...

the end
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