THE SUBWAY COLLECTION-A Box Set of 8 Dark Stories to Read on the Go by Billie Sue Mosiman
Authors: Billie Sue Mosiman
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replied. "I know I'm not pretty. There are hundreds of pretty girls in this town and I'm not one of them. I'm overweight--okay, I'm fat. No one's ever been able to do anything with my hair. The cut's never right, the permanents frizzle. I buy good clothes, expensive clothes, and they hang on me like rags."
"I can still get you one," Vera said, standing by a scarf-draped table. "A man." She glided to a wall of shelves and took out one of the glass-stoppered bottles there. She sat at the table again and her face looked aged in brine in the soft amber sunlight spilling across from the windows.
"What's that?" Dessy felt hesitation setting in. Did she really want to be involved in witchcraft? It felt so archaic. It also felt dangerous, like walking along a railroad track on a trestle bridge, waiting for a train.
Vera smiled. It was like watching an icicle first crack and then hang precariously from an overhang. "It's what you drink to have a man love you. Take it."
Dessy licked her lips and thought this had been one of her more lame-brained ideas. Imagine going to a witch who advertised spells on a hand-painted sign in the door glass of the apartment vestibule's door. She didn't even believe in witches. She believed in palm readers . One had told her when she was sixteen that she would move away from that two-horse, dry, West Texas town into Houston. And she had--was offered a job when she was eighteen and took it. Predicted she would go on a trip to an exotic clime, and the first year she worked for the oil company, her boss, impressed with her capable and efficient skills, took her along as his secretary to Mexico City for a conference. It had been a fabulous trip, broadening her horizons.
That must have been what caused her to timidly knock on the door of Apartment 311 and ask for a session from the witch. If a palm reader could tell the future, couldn't a witch arrange the future? And her future was so bleak, so empty, it needed the utmost arrangement.
"How much does it cost?" she has asked Vera that day. "I don't have a lot of..."
"The fee is nominal. The monetary fee, that is." Vera smiled and unease spread through Dessy like a chill from swallowing a chunk of ice.
"What do you mean? What other fee is there?"
"Love is paid for in blood, dear Dessy."
There it was. Dessy wanted to head for the door.
"I still don't know what you mean. Maybe I should go...I don't know why..."
Vera took hold of her hand across the table. The light was fading fast from the room. Shadows advanced from the corners, gathering like whispering old women at the funeral of a madman. Vera leaned forward and lowered her voice. "Not much blood. Just some, Dessy. A life on its way out anyway, one life here...and there. You'll hardly notice."
Dessy left then, her heard like a stone lodged hard beneath her ribs, a thing big enough and cold enough to kill her. "I can't," she had said, "that's unspeakable." She escaped Vera's grasp, hurrying from the dim, dusty room for the hallway and her own apartment.
A week later she was back. It was the loneliness that took her feet tracing the way to Vera's door.
"Remember me?" She peered through the gloom at Vera's knife-edged face at the door crack. "The potion?"
"Ah, yes, the man to love you." Vera stepped back and swung the door wide to sweep her inside.
It had been explained to Dessy the deaths would come to those she knew, but it was coming anyway for everyone, and soon for these--the ones Vera must take in order for Dessy to pay for the
"I can still get you one," Vera said, standing by a scarf-draped table. "A man." She glided to a wall of shelves and took out one of the glass-stoppered bottles there. She sat at the table again and her face looked aged in brine in the soft amber sunlight spilling across from the windows.
"What's that?" Dessy felt hesitation setting in. Did she really want to be involved in witchcraft? It felt so archaic. It also felt dangerous, like walking along a railroad track on a trestle bridge, waiting for a train.
Vera smiled. It was like watching an icicle first crack and then hang precariously from an overhang. "It's what you drink to have a man love you. Take it."
Dessy licked her lips and thought this had been one of her more lame-brained ideas. Imagine going to a witch who advertised spells on a hand-painted sign in the door glass of the apartment vestibule's door. She didn't even believe in witches. She believed in palm readers . One had told her when she was sixteen that she would move away from that two-horse, dry, West Texas town into Houston. And she had--was offered a job when she was eighteen and took it. Predicted she would go on a trip to an exotic clime, and the first year she worked for the oil company, her boss, impressed with her capable and efficient skills, took her along as his secretary to Mexico City for a conference. It had been a fabulous trip, broadening her horizons.
That must have been what caused her to timidly knock on the door of Apartment 311 and ask for a session from the witch. If a palm reader could tell the future, couldn't a witch arrange the future? And her future was so bleak, so empty, it needed the utmost arrangement.
"How much does it cost?" she has asked Vera that day. "I don't have a lot of..."
"The fee is nominal. The monetary fee, that is." Vera smiled and unease spread through Dessy like a chill from swallowing a chunk of ice.
"What do you mean? What other fee is there?"
"Love is paid for in blood, dear Dessy."
There it was. Dessy wanted to head for the door.
"I still don't know what you mean. Maybe I should go...I don't know why..."
Vera took hold of her hand across the table. The light was fading fast from the room. Shadows advanced from the corners, gathering like whispering old women at the funeral of a madman. Vera leaned forward and lowered her voice. "Not much blood. Just some, Dessy. A life on its way out anyway, one life here...and there. You'll hardly notice."
Dessy left then, her heard like a stone lodged hard beneath her ribs, a thing big enough and cold enough to kill her. "I can't," she had said, "that's unspeakable." She escaped Vera's grasp, hurrying from the dim, dusty room for the hallway and her own apartment.
A week later she was back. It was the loneliness that took her feet tracing the way to Vera's door.
"Remember me?" She peered through the gloom at Vera's knife-edged face at the door crack. "The potion?"
"Ah, yes, the man to love you." Vera stepped back and swung the door wide to sweep her inside.
It had been explained to Dessy the deaths would come to those she knew, but it was coming anyway for everyone, and soon for these--the ones Vera must take in order for Dessy to pay for the
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