In retrospect the only real mistake stemmed from not listening to the gypsy. Sure, her act involved certain melodramatic clichés, however, that didn’t make what she foretold any less accurate. Surrounded by candelabra coated in melted wax, her eyes shimmered thanks to flickering flames as she peered into a crystal ball. The orb seemed to be filled with swirling smoke, an impressive illusion except for the obvious electrical cord running from the base of the ball to a nearby outlet. Still, the gimmicks are sometimes all too necessary. Her fingers danced bringing shadows to life. Far too intricate to be merely the product of her hands, but the internet abounds with ways to mimic such phantasms; most any real supernatural act can be faked. So those gathered continued to think of the prophetess as a farce.
After all, they came for a laugh. None of them expected even a grain of truth. And when she spoke, several did their best not to laugh… they failed.
The gypsy said, “At my ear I hear the whisper of a dead prince. He ruled Bohemia from the shadows for decades before being swallowed by the dark abyss. Such is the way with those who delve too deeply into the occult.”
Snickering.
Hissing friendly reproach, “Shut up, it’s gettin’ good.”
She continues, “He has come to offer a warning. It is an act of penance. If he can help you he might still save his soul. So, please, heed his words.”
With excessive seriousness, “Oh we will.”
The gypsy relates what she’s told, “‘Before this night is over you four will find yourselves sitting by a bonfire along the coast of the fjord. The musical howls of werewolves will chill the air, but as soon as they fade you’ll think yourselves safe. It won’t dawn until it’s too late those howls meant, “Run!”
“‘So you’ll sit, immortal in your youth, drinking bottles, and smoking herbs, until reality seems to bend, though it tragically is merely reaching a point of truth you have never known. Arrogant in your ignorance, the quartet shall venture into the very mouth of hell, for it is a drifting portal, wandering the Earth in search of those foolish enough to summon it, unwittingly and otherwise. And it will seem such a funhouse joke until the blood and screams.
“‘Lizard monks praying in hisses, brand you with Latin inscriptions: “Per aspera ad astra.” A knight in broken rusted armor, winged like a crow, will force you onto an altar. There tiny children like statues of smoldering coal gather under your throats. Slitting them open they cool their burning in your showering blood. In wanders the mad queen. Naked save for a tarnished brass crown, she carries a hatchet made of bone. She hacks off your limbs, and makes you eat yourself. Voices cry out of the shadows making accusations all too true, exposing your most grievous and trivial sins until friends become enemies, helping with the torture. It isn’t long before the demons are watching you gleefully destroy one another.’”
The gypsy shudders. Her shiver breaks the connection. The ghost is gone. Of course more remained to be said, but she can only share the words not the visions. She watched it all happening, saw innards spilling onto the ground; felt the hot steaming bowels on her bare feet.
“Is that it?” asked with obvious indignance.
The gypsy’s voice quivers, “Yes.”
“Well, that was kind of creepy, more weird than scary, but fuck it, man. Let’s get to getting outta here.”
And the quartet leaves. The gypsy says nothing. She learned a long time ago not to plead. She offers the future. It isn’t up to her what is done with that knowledge. So instead of rushing after them she waits for the bell above the front door. It chimes, signaling their departure. She locks up, turns off the neon sign in the front window, and gets a glass of brandy. Such visions are not common, though that isn’t to say they’re wholly uncommon – stiff drinks afterward are always necessary. The creatures in hell can see her watching them, and it seems to fuel their cruelty like invigorated performers with a captive audience. It’s their chance to show off.
The gypsy glances over an appointment calendar. Tomorrow a young man named Ryan is coming by. He’s looking for a woman, his dream girl. He hopes the gypsy can guide him to her. He’s going to die alone. She never tells him that. But she wonders if she should, though then she might have to tell him about the clients who just left – putting things in perspective. Dying alone may seem like a kind of hell, but it isn’t Hell proper that’s for sure. However, who is she to rob someone of the hope in maybe?
Hours later she goes to bed, making sure to turn on an ambient noise machine. The gentle sounds of a soft, steady rain falling in the woods. The soothing noise drowns out whispering ghosts as well as screams carried on ethereal winds from the fjord. Oddly enough, she takes pride in her accuracy, even grim outcomes such as this. She did warn them after all. So she goes to sleep with a smile on her face. She did her job, and she did it well.
After all, they came for a laugh. None of them expected even a grain of truth. And when she spoke, several did their best not to laugh… they failed.
The gypsy said, “At my ear I hear the whisper of a dead prince. He ruled Bohemia from the shadows for decades before being swallowed by the dark abyss. Such is the way with those who delve too deeply into the occult.”
Snickering.
Hissing friendly reproach, “Shut up, it’s gettin’ good.”
She continues, “He has come to offer a warning. It is an act of penance. If he can help you he might still save his soul. So, please, heed his words.”
With excessive seriousness, “Oh we will.”
The gypsy relates what she’s told, “‘Before this night is over you four will find yourselves sitting by a bonfire along the coast of the fjord. The musical howls of werewolves will chill the air, but as soon as they fade you’ll think yourselves safe. It won’t dawn until it’s too late those howls meant, “Run!”
“‘So you’ll sit, immortal in your youth, drinking bottles, and smoking herbs, until reality seems to bend, though it tragically is merely reaching a point of truth you have never known. Arrogant in your ignorance, the quartet shall venture into the very mouth of hell, for it is a drifting portal, wandering the Earth in search of those foolish enough to summon it, unwittingly and otherwise. And it will seem such a funhouse joke until the blood and screams.
“‘Lizard monks praying in hisses, brand you with Latin inscriptions: “Per aspera ad astra.” A knight in broken rusted armor, winged like a crow, will force you onto an altar. There tiny children like statues of smoldering coal gather under your throats. Slitting them open they cool their burning in your showering blood. In wanders the mad queen. Naked save for a tarnished brass crown, she carries a hatchet made of bone. She hacks off your limbs, and makes you eat yourself. Voices cry out of the shadows making accusations all too true, exposing your most grievous and trivial sins until friends become enemies, helping with the torture. It isn’t long before the demons are watching you gleefully destroy one another.’”
The gypsy shudders. Her shiver breaks the connection. The ghost is gone. Of course more remained to be said, but she can only share the words not the visions. She watched it all happening, saw innards spilling onto the ground; felt the hot steaming bowels on her bare feet.
“Is that it?” asked with obvious indignance.
The gypsy’s voice quivers, “Yes.”
“Well, that was kind of creepy, more weird than scary, but fuck it, man. Let’s get to getting outta here.”
And the quartet leaves. The gypsy says nothing. She learned a long time ago not to plead. She offers the future. It isn’t up to her what is done with that knowledge. So instead of rushing after them she waits for the bell above the front door. It chimes, signaling their departure. She locks up, turns off the neon sign in the front window, and gets a glass of brandy. Such visions are not common, though that isn’t to say they’re wholly uncommon – stiff drinks afterward are always necessary. The creatures in hell can see her watching them, and it seems to fuel their cruelty like invigorated performers with a captive audience. It’s their chance to show off.
The gypsy glances over an appointment calendar. Tomorrow a young man named Ryan is coming by. He’s looking for a woman, his dream girl. He hopes the gypsy can guide him to her. He’s going to die alone. She never tells him that. But she wonders if she should, though then she might have to tell him about the clients who just left – putting things in perspective. Dying alone may seem like a kind of hell, but it isn’t Hell proper that’s for sure. However, who is she to rob someone of the hope in maybe?
Hours later she goes to bed, making sure to turn on an ambient noise machine. The gentle sounds of a soft, steady rain falling in the woods. The soothing noise drowns out whispering ghosts as well as screams carried on ethereal winds from the fjord. Oddly enough, she takes pride in her accuracy, even grim outcomes such as this. She did warn them after all. So she goes to sleep with a smile on her face. She did her job, and she did it well.
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