28October2025
Im sitting at the kitchen table, the kettle barely whistling, and I cant shake the strangeness of the past few weeks. It all began on a rainy Tuesday at the supermarket on Oxford Street. The cashier, a bored-looking woman behind the till, slapped a plastic bag onto the conveyor and, without looking up, said, Do you need a bag? Your daughters going to die soon! Anything on special today?
My wife, Mary, dropped her purse in shock. What? What did you just say? she asked, eyes wide. Do you need a bag? Anything on special?
The woman repeated the phrase mechanically, as if she were reciting a script. Mary left the shop, exhaled a long, weary sigh and rang our daughter, Ellen.
Mum, Im going to the cinema with the girls after school, alright? Ill be at the canteen then. My turns coming up.
Mary trudged home, her steps heavy. For months now, strangers have been repeating the same ominous line: Your daughters going to die soon. It feels as if theyre speaking without hearing themselves. The cashiers words lingered in my mind, a chilling warning that seemed to hang over the whole house.
At the front door Mary fumbled with her keys. Just then, our neighbour Ivy, evercheerful, called out from across the hallway, Hey, Mary! Remember that remedy you suggested for?
Mary turned, tears dampening her cheeks, and whispered, Ivy, everythings gone wrong. She told Ivy the whole story, wiping her eyes, breathing heavily. It turns out the two of us have become close friends over the past ten years, our families moving into the block almost together, our children and husbands getting along like old mates.
This is the third time this week Ive heard, Your daughters going to die soon. Is it a warning? What does it mean? Mary asked, pulling a stray lock of hair from her forehead.
Just then the door to the flat above creaked open and an elderly woman peeked out onto the landing. You need a good witch, Mary, dear. Shell sort it out!
A witch? Ivy scoffed, her freckled, upturned nose crinkling. Mary, you remember how youve run from every clairvoyant, every charlatan? You tried to find your kin and no one helped!
Mary lowered her gaze. It was trueshe had once chased after relatives, hoping some familiar face would explain the madness.
Stop panicking, Mary. Come over tonight and well talk it through, Ivy said, slipping back inside. The old woman shuffled over, extended a folded card and said, Heres a number. A topnotch specialist. I recommend him.
After a night of restless thinking, Mary finally dialed the number. A few days later I found her sitting in our modest kitchen, surrounded by none of the usual trappings of a witchs lairno crystal ball, no black cat, no skulls, no candles. The absence of such theatrics gave me a sliver of hope that she wasnt a fraud.
Can I see a photo of Ellen? the woman asked, pulling a delicate crystal pendant from a thin chain. She swung the pendant over the picture, then glared at Mary. Are you joking? What kind of stunt is this? You bring me a photo of a dead child? Look at how the pendulum moves. Are you trying to test me?
Mary burst into tears. The woman leapt from her chair and fled the flat, hysterical. Desperate, Mary grabbed her phone and called Ellen.
Hello, Mum Ellens voice was bright, as usual, Im home already. Ill go for a walk at five. Will you be back before then? Oh, and the tutor moved the lesson to tomorrow
Honey, are you alright? Stay inside! Ill be there in an hour! Mary whispered, clutching a bench in the hallway, her heart pounding.
That evening Ivy arrived, eyes wide with concern. Mary, how can this be? Dont tell me youre making it up.
Making it up! Ivy snapped, pulling her unruly hair into a tight knot. Dont meddle where you dont belong. Your daughters fine. Shell be fine.
Why deny whats happening? Somethings wrong Mary felt the world tilt. She didnt know where to turn; even her dearest friend refused to believe the coincidences.
The next day the witch, whose name was Agnes, called back, sounding reluctant. Hello, Mary. First, Im sorry. I acted unprofessionally; too many people want to test my gift. Second, yes, your daughter is alive and well. When you left, I doublechecked everything. Someone has hidden Ellen from death. Theres a powerful spell on her. The pendulum showed her as dead because the death cannot claim a child who has been shielded.
My head hurts. What spell? Who did it? Why? Mary stammered.
Agnes sighed. Up there, the higher powers have their own rules. They can bargain with special peoplepeople like me. They may spare one life by taking another. Your Ellen was promised to death. Anyone could have arranged that, even your greatgreatgreatgrandmother. Time means nothing to them. They promised to claim a child born or conceived on a certain date, across generations. The contract cant be broken, but you can try to outwit it. Someone covered Ellen with a veil of darkness, declared her dead to the Grim Reaper, but the Reaper still prowls, asking why she keeps hearing your daughter will die soon.
Mary stayed silent, the phone pressed to her ear, overwhelmed by questions. Who performed the ritual? Is it in my family?
Agnes hesitated. I dont know. I barely understand my own lineage; I only recall the past thirteen years.
Come back, well look again, the witch suggested.
In that moment Mary realised she didnt want to dig any deeper. It wasnt fear; it was a quiet certainty that some things should stay untouched.
No! I wont go. The darkness is there, Ellen will be fine. I need nothing more.
The line went dead. I watched Marys shoulders slump. Thirteen years ago she had awoken at a railway station, no ID, no money, no memory of her life before. She rebuilt herself, met me in the hospital, and we forged a family. Perhaps chasing the past was futile.
She later logged onto the internet, scouring forums for any trace of kin. A call from Ivy interrupted her.
All good, Mary. Im done hunting for relatives. Ellens fine.
Great! Im fighting my hair again Ill trim it soon, Ivy laughed, Come over for a new haircut.
No! Theyre beautiful now! Im deleting every search for family. Maybe thats what I should do.
Mary felt the urge to disappear, to hide from something she could no longer name. She didnt remember that, years ago, she had performed a ritual herself, under the name Rita.
In a flashback, a voice echoed, Sister, smile! Well get through this. Were magicians, we shape our fate. You wont die.
The time is up. Even magic cant guarantee a long life, Rita had whispered weakly.
The magic works! Youll be fine! the other insisted.
Rita had fled a hospital ward, already planning the next move. A dangerous rite was being performed on a deserted field, a bright fire illuminating a desperate witchs face. Suddenly a shadow fell, and Death itself appeared.
My sister must stay alive. I want a bargain. Release her, Rita said, voice steady.
Give something in return! a whisper hissed.
Take whatever you want! All I have are my kin, and she stays with me.
Its only her now, but your future child will be the price. In thirteen years Ill return and take it. Remember.
A black veil swallowed Rita. The words of Death lingered long after.
A week later Ritas sister walked out of the hospital, doctors flabbergasted.
Its a miracle! Shes completely recovered.
When Rita told her sister everything, rage erupted.
You should never have made that pact! What did you promise? Who?
My future child. I have no plans for children, Im not marrying.
You shouldnt have sacrificed your future life! There will be punishmentand salvation!
Ivy, now appearing in the memory, frowned, her freckled nose crinkling. She brushed an imagined strand of hair from her forehead.
Blast, Ive gone bald now. The stray hair wont grow back soon, she murmured, Youll forget everythingme, yourself. But youll have a chance, and your child will have one too. Ill shield you both.
She embraced Rita, whispered a few strange words, then Rita screamed as she lost consciousness.
Ill find you later. You wont remember. You must not.
Ivy smiled, thanked the darkness, and prepared a complex rite: to weave an invisible blanket of words, covering the child who must appear years from now, to draw every memory from Rita, to let go so she could later be found again, perhaps to meet her own daughterthe child promised to Death.
Looking back, I realise the chase for answers only tangled us deeper. Sometimes the safest path is to trust the people who stand beside you, to let the mysteries remain unsolved, and to cherish the ordinary moments we have.
Lesson learned: when the world whispers doom, hold fast to love and let life unfold without trying to untangle every shadow.
