My hands shook as I fastened my violet Stratocaster into its case and zipped it shut. A startling chime from my phone alerted me that a fourth news outlet had picked up my story, slamming me with a wave of dread. This can’t be happening.

Before I could process it, my body leapt into action, and I continued filling the duffel bag in the center of my tiny apartment with clothes, toiletries, and valuables. The police would be at my doorstep any second now, so I had to act fast. 

Texts from friends, colleagues, and even family were pouring in, all with the same message: What the hell is wrong with you? But I ignored them and ran into my closet to finish packing the rest of my clothes. As I squeezed past my shoe rack, I could hear my pounding heart and shallow wheezing echoing off the surrounding walls. I tore clothes off hangers and boxes off shelves so violently that the beat-up orange shoebox sitting all the way at the very back of the top rack slid forward and tumbled to the floor.

Horrified, I sank to my knees to gather up the contents. These were items that belonged to her. I wasn’t supposed to have them or even look at them anymore. But then again, all the rules I’d agreed to were thrown out the window the moment I heard about the deaths attributed to my name. The TV was on in my bedroom, and though the sound of blood roaring in my ears drowned out most of the anchor’s report, I could still hear her clearly declare “suspect Elena Evereaux.” 

That goddamned hippie witch, I thought, gritting my teeth. She’d said the whole country would know my name. It wasn’t supposed to be for this. 

I turned back to the shoebox. Scattered across my closet floor were two paperback novels, a cinnamon-flavored car air freshener, and a beat-up Green Day CD. All of them had once belonged to a woman I was supposed to forget. The crimson scarf she once knitted for me was just barely peeking out of the box. Tears welled up in my eyes as I grabbed the scarf and tried to remember her. Only a glimpse of her choppy copper hair came to mind. From these items, I could guess she liked to knit and occasionally listen to modern rock, but I didn’t really know anything about her. Just that I once loved her. 

Sadly, I couldn’t even remember her name. When I’d first found the box the morning after it happened, I swiftly buried it in my closet and hoped it wouldn’t ruin the outcome of Melinoe’s promise. But over the past month, as sample after sample got overlooked by every agent and label I contacted, I occasionally flirted with the idea of remembering her, calling the brief images and short, passing glimpses of her Whatsername. 

While I don’t remember our specific conversation or the sound of our screams at each other, I know she told me not to move to Los Angeles. She didn’t think I’d be able to find enough gigs and make enough money to afford living here, and I had berated her for not being supportive of my career goals. I left her in Omaha, and she didn’t follow me, claiming she couldn’t bear to watch me drown if I failed. A raw, burning sob escaped my throat. Whoever she was, I should have listened to her. 

My eyes squeezed shut as I tried to remember Whatsername, inhaling the cinnamon to jog my memory. I knew we snuck our own snacks into the theater when we saw movies together, and I knew I loved the way she softly bit my lip when we kissed, but I still couldn’t remember her. Even those small inclinations were beginning to slip away. Angrily, I wiped the tears from my eyes and scooped up her things. Melinoe was going to pay for what she did to me. 

Whatsername’s collection landed in my duffel bag with a thud. Maybe they’d help me locate her if I made it back to Omaha. But I knew I wouldn’t find her without the old hag still out there. I grabbed a handle of vodka on top of my refrigerator and emptied it into a large tumbler, loosening the lid. Then, I slung the duffel bag, guitar case, and Whatsername’s red scarf over my shoulder before bolting out the door. 

As I sped down the street, my hands gripped the steering wheel so tight that my knuckles began to turn white. I didn’t know the exact location of Melinoe’s hermitage, which she disguised as a small oddities consignment shop, but I remembered I was wandering aimlessly in Koreatown when I stumbled into it, so that’s where I headed. 

Since moving to LA, I’d made plenty of regrettably stupid moves to chase success, and at the time, I thought this deal was no different. Walking around those rundown streets had made me think of home and how I’d left things with my parents. With a dark, furrowed brow and flashing gray eyes, I had warned them that I was prepared to do whatever it takes to launch my music career. Somehow, the old woman must have sensed this fervor as she beckoned me into her eerie store decorated with dusty stained glass and wind chimes made of bird bones and clay beads. 

The woman introduced herself as Melinoe and told me that she had helped others like me before. She knew what I was after, and she had the power to give it to me. We talked as friends, and I eventually told her about how I’d left my family, girlfriend, and bandmates behind. Sure I would miss them, but Omaha wasn’t doing my band any favors. If Andre, Joey, and Elijah wanted to keep playing at shitty dive bars with fewer than thirty people, fine. They could stay. But I needed a fresh start if I wanted real success. Melinoe promised she could fulfill my wish for a price — fifty US dollars and the memory of someone I loved. “Gotta charge you the fifty so you know I’m a real businesswoman,” she’d joked. 

Still angry at Whatsername, I took the photo of her out of my wallet and let Melinoe set it ablaze with a beeswax candle. We deleted every picture of her from my phone, erased my contacts from Omaha, and planned to burn everything I had of hers when I got back to my apartment. I remember the heartache I felt from watching her picture char away but not the color that her eyes shone as they turned to ash. 

In the morning, I had forgotten nearly every aspect of her. Just as Melinoe had promised, the CDs arrived in the mail. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d burned anything onto a CD, but she assured me these discs were crucial to her plan. When the time came, I would use them to send my song demos to labels and producers and then watch as I was written into history. For weeks, I heard nothing but rejection, and I began to suspect Melinoe had forgotten about her promise altogether. However, those suspicions began to change on Tuesday when I heard the first of many horrific stories about the last six recipients of my work.

 Melinoe was working her magic alright, but I quickly realized she never planned for me to be known for my singing or songwriting. She had ruined my life for the price of my last good memories. 

As I drove, the road blurring from the tears in my eyes, I gripped the red scarf and tried to imagine our life together back home. Her family didn’t know about me, so we spent every holiday with mine. I had a nickname for her that was the first syllable of her name and an animal. People made fun of me for being so much shorter than her. But I wasn’t even sure if these fragments were real or if my mind had just made them up. My foot pressed harder into the gas pedal, and my palms burned with rage. 

I pulled into the area where I last remembered walking that night and parked between a food court and an old gothic church. Keeping the scarf draped over my shoulder, I grabbed the tumbler and slammed my car door shut. It was cold for a night in California, but even with the stinging sensation in my nose, I could still smell a hint of sage. Like a bloodhound, I tore down the sidewalk, following its scent several blocks past the church. Eventually, I reached a stretch where the road narrowed, and I saw the familiar glint of stained-glass lamps peeking out of one of the shops’ windows. 

Last time I saw Melinoe, her shop had been next to an abandoned restaurant boarded up with cardboard and duct tape. This time it was sandwiched between a spa and an empty storefront. But I knew it was Melinoe. The door was already open, but I pushed it open further, slamming it against the wall. Propped up skeletons, ornate vases, and moldy velvet furniture cluttered the room. Glass ornaments, taxidermied animals, vials of dark liquid, and dried flowers covered the walls.  

Sat in the center of the room on a hand-carved wooden chair was the old woman. Her cheeks were hollow and sunken, and her skin was a shriveled, smoky gray — almost like clay. She had wispy silver hair that reached the middle of her chest and she was wearing a bulky knitted tunic in the same shade of crimson as Whatsername’s scarf. Just seeing her in that color was enough to make my blood boil.

“You!”

Melinoe’s sharp green eyes locked with mine, and for a split second they flashed gold with excitement. “Elena.” Her lips curled upward in a nasty smile, revealing her crooked yellow teeth. “Welcome back. I hope you found my services … satisfactory.”

“What are you doing to me?” I growled. The strong smell of sage and jasmine overwhelmed my senses, and the room began to spin ever so slightly.

“I don’t know what you mean.” She smiled sweetly at me, unfazed at the venomous glare chiseled onto my face. “Our little bargain is working out quite well. I’m rather proud of what I’ve done for you.”

My body trembled in a mixture of anger and fear. “What you’ve done for me?” I screamed at her. “Everyone who touched those discs you gave me suffered for six agonizing hours before they died! Media outlets are saying I poisoned them. Innocent people! Are you fucking insane? My face is all over the goddamn internet, and there’s probably a million squad cars trying to track me down this very minute!”

The amusement in her eyes vanished, replaced by a sinister stare piercing through my soul, but her crooked smile remained. “I fulfilled my end. The whole world finally knows your name.” She clicked her tongue, giving me a smug mother-knows-best stare. “Now I know you wanted to be the next Robert Johnson, if your generation even knows who he is, but I think you’ll find my methods much more efficient.”

“FUCK YOU!” I shouted at her, my voice faltering. “You made me give up her for nothing.” I shook the red scarf at Melinoe. 

“I didn’t make you do anything,” she replied wistfully, her gaze shifting past me. Her lips pursed as if she were reminiscing on a fond memory. “But I thank you for choosing to do business with little-old-me.” Melinoe gave a fake pout before licking her cracked lips. “That girl of yours packed some powerful, delicious emotions.”

Enraged, I lunged at her, gripping the tumbler in one hand and thrusting my other fist forward towards her face.

“GIVE HER BACK!” I cried.

But Melinoe was quick, jumping up from her seat and towering over me. She grabbed my arm with ease, surprising me with her strength, and pulled me close to her. 

I felt her brittle fingernails dig into my skin and her hot breath on my face as she said in a low purr, “I’m afraid that’s not how it works.”

Without thinking, I used my thumb to pop the lid off my tumbler and dumped the liquid on the ground at her feet. Neither of us looked down, our eyes still fixed on each other, as it spread around her on the floor. Then before she could react, I pulled the small lighter out of my back pocket, gave it a flick, and tossed it down. 

“You really think you’re such a clever girl,” she whispered to me as the ground erupted in flames. Suddenly, she pushed me backward, outside the growing ring of fire. I stumbled backward, grabbing onto a statue beside the door for balance. Nearly everything in the store was flammable, just as I remembered, and in less than a minute, the whole room was burning shades of red and orange. She glanced down at her tunic as it caught fire before looking back up at me with a wide, terrifying grin. The putrid smell of burning flesh hit my nose, and I gagged. “Goodbye, Elena,” she called out to me, “I’m sure I’ll see you again soon.”

I didn’t stay around to watch her burn. As soon as I got to my feet, I sprinted out the door and fled down the street toward my car. My hair was whipping me in the face, and my legs were aching, but I kept going at full speed past the shops and the old church without looking back.

Why was she calm? I defeated her — burned her hut just like I’d read in every mythology book. SO THEN WHY WAS SHE SO GODDAMN CALM?

When I reached my car, I threw open the door and jumped into the driver’s seat, taking a moment to catch my breath. The car smelled funny — some pungent odor that stung my nose — but I was too tired and angry to care.

Whatsername’s scarf was still draped over my shoulder. I caressed it gently and prayed that my memories would resurface. To my horror, I could no longer recall the color of her hair, nor could I remember the name of the town where we once lived. Light? Dark? Midwest? East Coast? SON OF A—

My senses went numb, but I could feel the painful screams tearing out of my throat. I tore the scarf down the middle and pounded my fists against the steering wheel. As I heaved defeated sobs, I sank into the car seat and buried my head in my hands, listening to the sounds of police sirens slowly getting closer. 

A gravelly, familiar voice suddenly whispered in my ear, “Why are you running from your destiny, sweet Elena?” 

I bolted upright and screamed, smacking my elbow on the center console. Frantically, I scrambled for the door, but as I my fingertips touched the metal handle, I noticed a thin layer of runny liquid dripping down the sides of my car and forming a pool underneath me. The car smell — realization slammed into me like an oncoming train. Alcohol. 

In a panic, I glanced around the rest of the car. My keys were already in the ignition. Or they’d never been taken out in the first place. 

“We made a deal, Elena. I’m a part of you now,” Melinoe cooed deep within my inner ear. “Let us face our destiny together.” 

I heard a spark from my lighter that wasresting on the passenger’s seat — was it not in my pocket? — and felt waves of heat dance across my skin. Though I could hear agonizing shrieks escaping my mouth, my mind began to wander, already surrendering to this losing battle. 

At some point, the car radio began playing a series of G and D chords. My fingers weakly plucked at imaginary guitar strings. As a burning sensation spread across my skin and the flashing red and blue lights in my windshield grew brighter, I squeezed my eyes shut and thought only of Whatsername. 

[Mia Sisul is an avid reader and writer of all things supernatural and science fiction. Though she holds a degree in engineering, she has been heavily involved in creative writing organizations throughout her high school and college careers. Her short stories have appeared in online horror podcasts as well as local literary magazines for Kansas writers. When she’s not writing, she also enjoys making jewelry and attending punk rock concerts.]