The Curse Collector

Prompt: You crossed a witch and were cursed to die a horrible death. The only problem? You were already cursed to live forever.

_____

You stare at the woman who stands with her finger extended toward you, an expression of malice on her face and crazy in her eyes.

“Wait. A horrible death? That’s the curse you used?” you ask.

The witch’s expression falters, then returns with a vengeance.

“Of course, idiot. That’s what A morte dira means!”

You raise a hand to your chin, thinking.

“What are you doing?” the witch snaps at you. “You should be crying or screaming or – or groveling!”

“Well, see,” you start, still mulling this over, “last year I crossed an arch-demon and he cursed me to live forever. So…” you trail off, raising your arms in a “who knows” gesture.

To your surprise, the witch drops her hand and looks at you with her head tilted to the side.

“An arch-demon, huh?” she says. “Hmm. That is a toughie.”

“Exactly,” you reply. “I mean, you’re both on approximately the same plane according to the Daemon daemonium, so whose curse is going to win out? The arch-demon’s, because his was first? Or yours, because yours came second and is now the most recent curse?”

“Or will they cancel each other out?” she muses.

“Right.”

The witch crosses her arms, tapping her foot.

“I mean,” she goes on, “if you killed one of us, it would break the curse. Obviously not me,” she adds, her eyes flashing. “I assume you haven’t also been cursed to not have your arms fall off.”

“Ah, no.”

“Didn’t think so.”

“But why would I want to bother trying to break the arch-demon’s curse? Eternal life would probably suck in a few thousand years, but at the moment it sounds a lot better than dying a horrible, painful death.”

The witch opens her mouth to respond, then closes it again, nodding.

“Well, why don’t you tell me the name of this arch-demon. Maybe we can come to an agreement.”

“I think he’s called Bill.”

“Oh, the one with the –” The witch raises her hands and draws a pair of twisted horns sprouting from her hair.

“Yeah, that one.”

“Oh, Bill’s a good friend! Yeah, let me just get him over here.”

And in a puff of smoke, the witch is gone.

You stand there alone for a bit, shifting your weight from side to side. After a brief hesitation, you peek inside the witch’s house. She already cursed you today, after all – that kind of skill has a cool-down of a few days. The interior is average stuff, candy stuck to every surface. Typical “the witch from Hansel and Gretel” wannabe. That might’ve been helpful information earlier today.

You jump as, with a bang, the witch reappears. At her side is the arch-demon Bill, twisted horns and all.

“This the kid?” the witch asks.

“That’s him,” Bill growls. “He tried to hang Christmas lights from my horns.”

“Poor baby,” the witch coos back at him, reaching up to stroke the black horns.

“Hey, uh, I thought we were discussing this whole ‘curse’ thing,” you cut in nervously. “No need to bring up the past, right?”

“Oh, right,” the witch says. “Now then, Bill, it seems we’ve cast two opposing curses. You cursed him with eternal life, and I cursed him with a horrible death.”

“Ah. Your classic ‘bear the devil’s child as your first-born –’”

“‘Trade the first-born to a witch,’ yeah.”

The two look at each other for a moment, their eyes seeming to say more than actual words. The longer they stare into each other’s eyes, the more nervous you get. How could this ever possibly turn out well for you? At least before it was a mystery which would happen – now something bad is almost definitely going to happen.

“All right,” Bill says at last, turning back to you. “We’re going to arm-wrestle for it.”

“Uh. What?” you ask.

“Arm-wrestle,” the witch repeats slowly, like she’s speaking to a simpleton. “You know, grab the other’s hand and try to press it to the table?”

“Yeah, I know what arm-wrestling is.”

“Good. Well, that’s what we’re going to do, seeing as how we both hate you,” the witch tells you.

“Great.”

As the two of them head inside and settle around the witch’s table, an idea comes to mind. It might not work, but it might also be your only chance.

“So will you two swear that this is how you’re going to decide this, then?” you ask.

The witch and the arch-demon glance up at you from their places at the table, where the two of them are stretching their wrists.

“You want us to swear?” Bill asks.

“Yes. Swear that, with your dominant hands, you will be deciding whose curse will hold. And if you don’t, both will break.”

They exchange a glance, then nod. You hand the witch your sword, and she slices open her right palm, then draws a cross over her heart with the same hand.

“Cross my heart and hope to die,” she says. You note the expression on her face as she passes the sword to Bill – a look that says “look at this idiot, trying to make an agreement like this.”

Bill does the same, cutting his right hand before crossing it over his heart.

“Can we begin now?” Bill asks dryly, passing your sword back.

“At your leisure,” you reply.

And then you wait. Only a little bit, just enough for them to get into the arm-wrestling match. Long enough for them to forget that you’re there. The witch’s eyes are starting to bug out with the strain, and Bill’s muscles are standing out against his skin.

With a single sweep of your sword, you slice their clasped-together hands clean off.

The two of them howl in unison as blood spurts from their stump arms, but you don’t stay to watch the fallout. Immediately you snatch the clasped hands and take off running, dashing through the door into the woods beyond. Within you, you feel something pop, like popping your spine after a long day of hunching over, and you know the curses are broken.

When at last you’re safely far enough away from the house that you know neither of them will be able to follow you, you slow down and halt against a tree to catch your breath. Once your breathing is back to normal, you straighten up, holding up the two hands with a grin. A quick dehydrating spell, and the skin shrinks against the bones.

Maybe you can make a collection out of this.