Capricorn Cursed

by Sèphera Girón

  With Boston and other towns not that far away, the Hermana textiles factory didn’t fare well. It may also have had something to do with the local citizens not being terribly excited about a big, black-smoke-belching factory smack-dab in the middle of their little scenic town.

  It could also have been the witches.

  There had been a series of unfortunate events, which included missed shipments and faulty machinery. There had even been that horrible day when the nasty, old foreman fell into some spinning thing and was sliced and diced beyond recognition.

  No matter, the factory was abandoned within years of being built. It was eventually converted into large, beautiful lofts for artists and other eccentrics.

  Although her living room and dining room area were combined, there was lots of room for any number of guests that a single lady might expect to have over. There was her bedroom, which was lovely, but her other room was her total pride and joy—the room where her angry soul found peace. In it, she could lose herself for hours from the sheer exhaustion of living; she could be single and alone, with no family and no destination.

  The room called to her—sometimes invading her dreams, sometimes niggling at her when she was out with friends. She had spent countless hours saging the room, ridding it of the angry workers and the wailing foreman who were drawn to her.

  It was the only room where she was able to somewhat hide from the spirits, but even then, it was seldom for long.

  She turned the large goat’s head handle and pushed the door open.

  She flicked one of the many switches, and several huge wrought-iron chandeliers with electric candles burst into life. The room was covered with thick red carpet, not only across the floor but also along the walls and across the ceiling. There was another door leading to the back staircase, which was covered in black carpet so it was easy to locate.

  The room had giant speakers, an area with a drum kit and several microphone stands. There was another area with one music stand and a ceiling-high bookcase stuffed full of music books and papers. Recording equipment, wires, microphones and boxes of CDs were on the shelves. To Natasha, there was nothing more important in life than vibrating with music. It didn’t matter if it was booming from speakers at a club or quivering beneath her fingers on her violin strings.

  There were several instrument cases, and Natasha went over to one of the violins. She opened up the case and pulled out a bow. She examined it for warps as she tightened it and then slid rosin along it. She lifted out the violin and fastened the shoulder rest. As she put it to her shoulder, she picked up her bow again. She trembled with excitement as the bow easily slid along the strings. A warm, rich sound enveloped the room as she played, fingers dancing easily along the fingerboard.

  An hour passed before she remembered her coffee. She put away her violin and snapped off the lights. With a sigh, she shut the music room door behind her and returned to reality.

  After sipping several cups of coffee and checking her email, she began to feel like herself, almost. There was still that gnawing, unending hunger in her belly, but she pushed it aside. It wasn’t time yet. She had to wait to quell her appetite.

  It was part of her Capricorn self-discipline. Waiting. Self-restraint, patience and anticipation of the perfect moment.

  She was going to meet Ellie and Maggie for drinks at Intuition, and she still had to bathe and apply her face.

  Around her, the room swelled with the nudging of impatient spirits, but she told them to leave her alone as she entered the bathroom.

  The steam from the shower filled her with a sense of longing. For a moment, she caught a glimpse of herself under a waterfall in South America with Paolo, a coffee bean farmer. He had been darkly tanned, muscular and rather tall. His thick accent and strong worker hands had attracted her to him. During her time in his village, they had spent many hours together enjoying each other’s bodies.

  The afternoon in the waterfall was a memory she would cherish forever. She had written it down and revisited it regularly so she wouldn’t forget it.

  His lips had searched hers out so eagerly as she pressed into him. She was still young then, still able to handle the sun when she kept her eyes squinted shut. His hands had eagerly cupped her breasts as she arched into him with a moan.

  His body had pressed tightly against hers, and she felt the firm swell of his cock against her stomach.

  “I want to make love to you,” he had whispered hotly into her ear.

  She nuzzled into him. “Yes, yes.”

  He slid into her, his body tight and strong as he held her under the soothing, steady stream of the waterfall. She knew he could do whatever he wanted to her and she could never get sick or pregnant. Not her kind.

  He held her, pushing into her urgently, grabbing fistfuls of her long, dark hair.

  “I want to try something else,” he said as he pulled out. They waded to the rocky wall of the cave, and he moved her so she stood facing it, her hands clutching the damp rocks for support as he slipped into her again. His cock was rigid and parted her flesh easily. She gasped as the different angle activated new sensations. His hands pulled her hips back to push against him as he thrust into her. The wall was slippery, and her hands slid along it as she tried to balance. The delicious prodding of his urgency melted with her own, and she threw her head back.

  Their feet slipped on the rocks, and the rushing water threw them off balance, so he took her by the hand to the grassy shore to finish.

  She lay on her back on the soft grass as he pushed her legs over her shoulders. Again, he entered her, and she gasped as he seemed even bigger than before. She held onto his broad shoulders as his breath panted hot against her neck. She let pleasure course through her, as he whispered Spanish words into her ears.

  In the shower, Natasha’s soapy fingers worked her clit as she imagined Paolo fucking her that day. As she closed her eyes, fingers stroked her along her shoulders and back. Warm, soapy caresses warmed her round bottom. Her own hand found her breast, and she toyed with the nipple as she tingled and moaned. Another hand fondled her hair, and she squeezed her eyes tighter, not wanting to see the apparitions who were touching her.

  At last, she came, just as the hot water was running low. She opened her eyes as the shower curtain fluttered, then stilled. The door to the bathroom clicked shut, and she shook her head.

  Who are they kidding?

  She rinsed off the soap and stepped out of the tub, feeling less tense and more ready to face her friends. She returned to her bedroom with one large, white bath towel firmly wrapped around her body while another donned her head turban-style. The warm steam from the bathroom wafted in, and it was welcome in the chilly room.

  She caught a glimpse at herself in the mirror. Contrary to legend, she could see her reflection quite fine. She could see all sorts of things in mirrors. She was paid well for her skill.

  Tonight, there was only her face staring back. A very young face, stern and cold, but a pretty face nonetheless.

  It wasn’t a trick.

  Back when she had first heard about it, she didn’t believe it. However, in her decades of living, she was proud she had followed the advice, as despicable as it seemed. When she looked in the mirror, she saw a woman in her 30’s. Tall, slender, and pale. Just like the others that had turned her.

  Marianne had told her the secret.

  Marianne.

  She remembered Marianne because she had painstakingly handwritten her story in one of the leather-bound journals on the bookcases in her living room. She read the journal often to remind herself who she really was and how to continue on. In fact, she stopped her preparations to go into the library to retrieve the journal.

  She had to keep rereading her past, and since she was thinking about Marianne, she thought she’d better read about her quickly.

  There was a whole thick journal dedicated to Marianne. Natasha opened the book and relived their first encounter.

  Chapter Two

  Whe
n two souls collide, listen.

  Marianne

  When Marianne first appeared to her, it was as if in a dream. Natasha was having a pint of beer at one of the pubs on a dreary New England night.

  That was nearly two hundred years ago, when Hermana was still a child turning adolescent. Unescorted women were frowned upon in pubs in regular towns, but not in this town. Women were treated the same, if not better, than men. Natasha was still new to the area, but she had grown rather attached to a pub called The Kettle. Centuries later, during the New Age 90’s, the name was changed to Intuition.

  That night, though, the pub was still The Kettle and Natasha sat nursing a pint of dark beer, staring morosely at the world around her. The bar wasn’t very crowded, and most of the regulars were watching a blue-eyed young man playing a recorder at the far end of the room.

  Natasha could tell by sly glances and the movement of lips that a few people were whispering about her. They could have been gossiping about any number of things. Natasha didn’t care. A great melancholy had seized her, and she hoped to drown it in beer.

  The clock chimed midnight, and the door blew open. A tiny, blonde woman burst into the room with a gust of wind and leaves, her shawl wrapped tightly around her. The lady scurried in, soaked to the bone. She headed for the bar and plunked herself down on a high wooden stool.

  Natasha watched as the woman ordered a beer, and then she looked quickly around the bar before pulling out a dog-eared, rain-soaked, leather-bound book. The woman shivered as she drank her beer, frozen fingers trying to flip the pages of the little book that had a big pentacle on the front.

  The woman was startled as Natasha stood beside her.

  “You’re all wet,” Natasha said. Her attraction to the woman mystified even herself. She didn’t know why she was standing beside her, nor did she know why she was so curious about that little leather-bound book.

  “Pretty bad out there.”

  “Here, take off that shawl and put this one on for now. Better yet, come join me at my table.”

  A buzzing sensation raced through Natasha’s fingers as she helped the stranger off with her shawl and wrapped her in Natasha’s own. This woman was something more than she seemed. Tiny, frail, pale, but strong. A sickness formed in the pit of Natasha’s stomach. The smell. She was death.

  She’s like me.

  “Thank you,” the woman said as she tossed her golden curls. Her dark brown eyes were like patches of coal. Natasha’s own dark eyes burned into the woman’s as she held out her hand.

  “Natasha,” she said. “Marianne.”

  They stared each other, sisters of the skin but afraid to say it aloud. Their observations were broken by the bartender.

  “Pretty bad out still, huh?” the bartender asked.

  Marianne nodded.

  “It’s coming down hard. But it’s not that cold. Really.” Marianne shivered, rubbing her hands along her faded blue blouse. Natasha noted with interest that as old as the blouse may have been, the handiwork on it was remarkable. Marianne gave the bartender a few coins.

  “Thank you,” the server said. “Keep warm. Stay as long as you like, Marianne. You know that.”

  “Yes, I do, Elsie.” Elsie returned to her station at the bar. Natasha and Marianne stared into their beer.

  “Where did you get that blouse?” Natasha finally asked, looking up at Marianne. “England. I brought it with me when I came over. I used to have all kinds of fine clothes. But I have no one to send me anything anymore.” She sighed.

  “Oh, that’s a shame. It’s very fine work.” Natasha touched the stitching on the hem. The sewing was very neat and very strong.

  “I had a tailor, once upon a time,” Marianne said. She nervously fingered her book. Natasha looked at it.

  “What are you reading?” Natasha asked.

  “This is a collection. Of spells.”

  “Whose?”

  “A collection.” Marianne sighed. “Some are mine. Some I’ve gathered from others over the years.”

  “What kind of spells?”

  “All sorts. It’s really quite fascinating.”

  “Do any of them work?”

  Marianne smiled.

  Natasha nodded and looked around. They were getting stares. The whispering was ongoing, and the shushing noises were getting on Natasha’s nerves.

  “Do you want to go somewhere else?” Natasha asked. Marianne nodded as she finished her beer.

  “Definitely.”

  The rain was still coming down full force. Natasha took Marianne’s hand and pulled her along the cobblestone sidewalk.

  “Come with me. I’m not far.”

  They made their way up to the loft Natasha lived in at the time. That place had long been bulldozed and renovated into a library in the 50’s.

  Natasha showed Marianne the washing-up room and gave her a night robe. As Natasha sat at her vanity and brushed her long, dark hair, she stared with worry at her own face. Deep crevices were forming around her eyes and mouth. She frowned, the lines growing deeper.

  Marianne returned, a vision of loveliness in white cotton, her long, curly, blond hair framing her pale, cherubic face. Again, the nausea returned to Natasha as she stared at the beautiful creature before her.

  “What’s wrong?” Marianne asked.

  “I’m sorry. You’re so beautiful,” Natasha said. “Thank you.” Marianne giggled. “I have a secret. “Eternal youth?” Natasha laughed.

  “No, silly girl. I came here to share it with you.”

  Marianna leaned over to kiss Natasha, who pushed her back.

  “Don’t.”

  Marianne stared at Natasha, her lower lip pushed out in a pout.

  “Don’t you like me? I know you do. I can see it in your beautiful, dark eyes.”

  “It’s not that. It’s…what you are.”

  “I am what you are.”

  “I…know. Why are you here? Who sent you?”

  Marianna sighed. She flounced onto the bed and looked up at Natasha. “If you must know, it was your Aunt Lydia. She’s worried that you’re going to age too fast. She’s busy with some work, so she sent me to show you.”

  Natasha stared at the creature on the bed. She stood up and walked slowly toward her. “How do you know Aunt Lydia?”

  “Does it really matter? We go way back.”

  “No, I don’t suppose it does. So show me.” Natasha sat beside her.

  “In due time. We have to wait for tomorrow, when the stars are in perfect alignment. Then I’ll show you what to do.”

  Marianne touched Natasha’s cheek with her soft, long fingers. “In the meantime, you are very beautiful.”

  Marianne leaned forward to kiss her. Her mouth breathed forth a foul odor reminiscent of moldy leaves, damp moss, and stale beer rotting in the bottom of a mug for a week. Natasha tried to ignore the smell as she pursed her lips. As Marianne drew closer, Natasha turned away once more.

  “We will wait for tomorrow. I want to know this secret,” Natasha said as she stood and went over to her dresser. She sprayed a small dash of cologne onto a handkerchief and held it to her nose. She breathed in the fresh rose-water scent, and the nausea passed.

  “Tomorrow, then.”

  Natasha left Marianne to the bed and sprawled across her chaise lounge. She didn’t sleep a wink all night, and she didn’t think Marianne did either.

  The next evening, after they awoke and nibbled on bread and cheese, they left the loft. The rain had stopped at some point during the day, and the muggy New England heat created patches of fog along the cobblestone roads.

  There were many half-finished houses along the roads as building was ongoing. Many of the roads were, in fact, still cow paths and horse trails, winding through the growing city.

  The streets were busy with people returning home from work or heading out for a night at one of the pubs. Hermana back then was a town comprised of many types of outcasts. The sisters who had founded it decades earlier were believed to be wi
tches, but with the new witch town came tricksters and magicians of all kinds. Natasha had come because of her curse and her love of music. She had taken to playing many types of instruments over the years and had heard Hermana allowed women to play in public.

  Natasha had become known for her mournful violin tones. Whether she was standing on the street corner or in a garden, many people had given her money to serenade them. She had played at weddings and at other celebrations. Her musical reputation had followed her from Boston. Her other reputation was still a secret only known to a few, such as Marianne.

  Marianne led her from the main cobblestone streets toward the large, white, wooden schoolhouse. Most of the local children attended the multi-roomed school, but in the evenings, older people gathered there to discuss books or teach each other math and other concepts. The idea of the school housing different activities for different ages was rather cutting-edge for the time.

  Natasha had heard that sometimes-select people during late night sessions even discussed the subjects that had begun the hysteria.

  “Why are we here?” Natasha asked as Marianne led her around the building to the back gardens.

  “There are two girls who come here almost every night. We need to entice them back to your place.”

  “To feed?”

  “Better.” Marianne’s eyes lit up, but her lips remain closed.

  Natasha didn’t question her again.

  The women wandered through the gardens and then sat on a stone bench that was nearly hidden under a tall lilac bush. They sat quietly and listened to the crickets chirping and the odd chatter from people walking down the distant street.

  As Marianne predicted, two young ladies quietly entered the backyard. Their long dresses swished in the stillness of the night as giggles escaped their lips. They scurried through the garden, knowing the way easily in the darkness, and settled on one of the other benches that was farther down the garden from Natasha and Marianne. Natasha noted with astonishment that the ladies hadn’t seen them sitting under the lilac bush.