Wish

By Victor Viejo

A strange old woman sets up shop in the small town of Sutterton, Georgia. She promises to make wishes come true, and—to the delight of the townsfolk—she delivers. From the struggling father to the Army wife to the little boy next door, everyone is touched by the magic. The horror begins when it comes time to pay for her services, but the true horror comes when people realize how much they’re willing to trade. What price is too high for dreams to come true? Is the road to Hell really paved with good intentions? When does greed turn people into monsters? And how will they ever escape from this nightmare?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Victor Viejo
• Release date: Jun 19, 2011
• ISBN: 9781466047761

Book preview

CHAPTER 1

Ten years ago, Delilah Thibedeau would have broken down crying at her situation. But that was before. Before being mugged and raped at knifepoint back in Harlem. Before her bout with breast cancer. Before meeting Samantha Baker. All that was before.

Now? Now she was stronger. Smarter. Wiser. Fearless. And not ready to let a hurricane take her down.

She shuffled around their shop—Hello You, Good Bayou. Sam chose the name, and Del didn’t dislike it enough to argue. It was cheesy, but catchy, and it looked good on the colorful t-shirts that were popular with tourists who had a few too many alcoholic hurricanes.

There weren’t many tourists out nowadays. No sir. Hurricane Katrina did a good job of clearing out Bourbon Street. Rain hammered down, making it difficult travel. Difficult to see. Even difficult to hear as it smashed against the front window and the sidewalk and the walls. And reports had it that the levees were about to go. Everything around her was about to be drowned by the Gulf of Mexico in a Biblical wave coming to erase sin from the city. They were about to lose everything. But she couldn’t leave. Not yet.

If you’re not going, then I’m not going, Sam barked. That was the day before yesterday. The crow’s feet around her brown eyes crinkled and she bit her bottom lip in that way that signaled to Delilah that her baby was about to cry. Delilah responded by running a hand through Sam’s silky blond hair—such a contrast to her own nappy dreadlocks that floated about her head like a nest of spiders. She rested her palm against Sam’s cheek and looked into her eyes.

Baby, don’t you worry about me, said Delilah. I’ll be just fine, no matter what. You can believe that. And I’ll get out of the city safely, and I’ll meet you at your sister’s up in Memphis. That’s a promise. But right now I need to take care of a few things, and I can’t have you slowing me down. And don’t you ‘but’ me because you know it’s true.

Sam smiled and blinked the moisture from her eyes. Del sure knew her, all right. But that didn’t mean she liked what her partner said.

You’d better call me every chance you get so I know you’re okay, said Sam. She knew how hardheaded Del could get, and she knew it would do no good to argue.

I will, said Delilah.

And you’d better do what you have to do and get out of here as soon as possible.

I will, said Delilah.

Two hours later they had Samantha and her bags in her old Ford F-150, heading north toward Tennessee. It was a good thing they lived outside New Orleans. It made it easier to leave. Inside the city limits, the roads weren’t as forgiving. But that’s the way Delilah was headed.

Delilah’s Honda Civic sloshed through the rain like a Marine storming a beachhead. She was almost proud of her little rice-burning hero. Water sprayed up on either side as she made her way through the streets of N’awlins, making her feel like she was Moses cutting through the Red Sea.

The city was almost dead. Everyone was either gone or indoors. Hell, for all she knew the streets were packed with people and she just couldn’t see anyone through the rain. If Delilah had known the mess that was about to occur with evacuations and The Superdome and that she might possibly get stuck in the midst of it, she still would have headed into the city. She had things to take care of, and if this is what the Apocalypse would be like, it would… well, it would be scary but a little thrilling.

She had to take a detour after being stopped by a National Guard vehicle, what they call a Humvee. A young soldier who couldn’t have been any older than twenty-five knocked on her window, wincing against the onslaught of precipitation. She rolled it down and assured the polite young soldier that yes sir, I know I shouldn’t be out and yes sir, I’ll be sure to get indoors, and yes sir, I’ll be sure to be safe, thank you.

Delilah rolled the window back up and made a u-turn, giving the impression that she was on her way home, then she turned down a side street and headed back to her destination. With the military being spread so thin and visibility being so low, it was easy to find a detour around the soldiers.

And now she found herself back inside Hello You, Good Bayou, soaked from the run from the car to the storefront. The power was out everywhere she had passed, from traffic lights to neon signs, and she had to rely on natural light through the window to see.

She caught her reflection in the thin strip of mirror on the rotating sunglasses display. She took a closer look, trying to see if she looked like the drowned rat that she felt like. Instead, she caught a hardened face with a furrowed brow and the right eye cocked to the outside—the result of one night when she was ten and her mother’s drunken boyfriend struck her so hard across the head that her eye went sideways for the rest of her life.

It was times like this when she couldn’t understand how someone as pretty as Samantha could fall in love with her ugly black self, but Delilah had learned not to question her blessings for fear they’d be snatched away.

She looked around the store. Nothing but New Orleans tourist trash. Their biggest sellers were the t-shirts, ranging from family-friendly ones like a knockoff Bart Simpson shouting Welcome to N’awlins, Y’all, to not-so-family-friendly ones such as an illustrated chart of the many types of tits to be found on Bourbon Street. Most of them ranged on the naughty side.

It was the same with the novelties. There were party hats, masks, feathered boas, and beads all year round (though they sold the best during Mardi Gras). There were also penis neckties, cock shot glasses, vagina-shaped pillows, wind-up toys of people fucking, and good-old-fashioned dildos.

These were the items that paid the rent. People from all over the world would come into their shop, some reveling in the hedonism of sex and alcohol that defined that part of New Orleans, and others taking in this slice of American culture as if it was another stop on another one of many historical city tours.

Wholesome families would come in, almost fearful, as the displays of sex and sex and sex assaulted their prudish sensibilities. Parents tried to herd their children through the merchandise while giving her and Sam dirty looks. Delilah always wondered why these families decided to visit New Orleans, Louisiana, instead of Branson, Missouri. No one forced them to come to Bourbon Street, and no one on Bourbon Street was about to change their ways for the prudes.

The drunk rednecks were the best and the worst. They’d always buy the most outrageous stuff, but then they seemed the most likely to try and shoplift. It was like there were two separate breeds of redneck. One breed was willing and able to throw money around like it was glitter. The other breed was opportunistic and always needed to be watched as they waited for the first chance to pilfer some junk. Both liked to drink and were polite until challenged over something.

But most of their customers couldn’t be described as anything other than normal. Normal people on vacation. Taking in the sights. Safely exploring their naughty sides. Bourbon Street was like an S&M safe word. People had the opportunity to get as down and dirty as they wanted, but they could always get out before they were in over their heads. And it was all okay, because everyone else around them was doing the same thing. Seeing the same things. Drinking the same things. Eating the same things. Strip clubs on every block, alcohol everywhere, world-class street performers (even if it’s just a kid tap-dancing with bottle caps on the bottom of his sneakers), and a low voltage of sex running through the area.

The normal customers were their best customers. Their most stable customers. Their most plentiful customers. And the customers most likely to shop from the back of the store.

Delilah headed to the back. She liked to think of the back as her section. The witch section.

The biggest seller from her section was gator teeth, and she made sure to keep them plentiful. Boxes full of individual gator teeth. Gator tooth necklaces and bracelets. They were small enough, cheap enough and unique enough to make good souvenirs, or gifts for friends that said hey, I got you something from New Orleans.

Besides gator teeth, they stocked dried gator heads and gator skulls. And there were the crystals, also organized in boxes. They sold wands that were neatly arranged in a glass display case. Books on Wicca and witchcraft and magic. Jewelry and charms. Robes. Altar cloths. Chalices. Crystal balls. Runes and tarot cards. A lot of stuff that was classified as new age, though Delilah believed they were remnants of something very old, indeed.

But this wasn’t even what Delilah had come back for. This isn’t what she risked facing down a hurricane for.

She almost didn’t hear the person at the front door, but when she turned to look she immediately wished she hadn’t. A haggard woman with wild, gray hair and wilder, grayer eyes was rapping on the glass with the knuckles of both hands, rat-tat-tatting like a machine gun.

Delilah took a moment to think, and then she stomped back up front. She didn’t like what she was about to do, but it might be her only option.

She unlocked the front door then had to step back quickly to not get run over. For being a frail-looking old woman, the newcomer had some spunk.

Hello, hello, hello, my sweet Delilah, the old woman greeted. Fancy meeting you out here. Not the weather for a walk, now is it?

So what are you doing here, Mooncat? Delilah had been trying to discover the old woman’s birth name for the past two years and had given up after she tracked down three names and discovered that there were more. Currently she went by Mooncat Sunrise. Next year it might be something else, somewhere else.

Oh you know me. I just came here to browse, sweetie, Mooncat said, with the storm crashing behind her. She twirled around the store, letting her fingers float across racks of t-shirts, and then she grabbed a plain white mask and put it on.

Boo! she exclaimed, fanning her fingers at her cheeks like whiskers. She removed the mask and replaced it with a sigh, shaking her head as if amused by some far gone memory.

Look, said Delilah, I can’t stay here forever. Maybe you didn’t hear, but we’re about to get hit by a hurricane, so let’s cut the crap so we can get out of here.

Fair enough, said the old woman. So cut the crap and bring me what I want.

Excuse me, said Delilah with a roll of the neck. She hated the neck-roll because of how stereotypical it was for black women and she had tried to wean herself from that childhood habit, but sometimes it was the most effective way to get a message across and it would just slip out.

"I’m not bringing you a damn thing, Delilah continued. I came here to protect what’s mine, and I am not at your mercy, so just put that out your thick head right now. Now maybe we can do business, but I am not going to serve you. Got it?"

The old woman fumed for just a second, then composed herself. Getting mad wouldn’t get her what she wanted. Might as well play the other woman’s game, even if for show.

Fine, she said, more curtly than she intended, while straightening herself and folding her hands across her waist. I understand. So may you please take me to the merchandise? I would like to make a purchase.

Delilah glared at her for just a second.

Follow me, she said.

She went through her section to a thick purple curtain that hung on the back wall, and when she pulled the curtain back it revealed a door that looked like it could lead to a stockroom. She used a set of keys to undo the locks and let them in, and then lit some candles to drive away the darkness.

This was her section. Her true section. This was where she kept the real merchandise. The true artifacts of her craft that were too dear to be mere souvenirs. The crystal balls that actually foretold the future. The wands that glowed when placed in the right hand. The ancient books and scrolls (one scroll actually being papyrus), written in known and unknown languages that contained magic that hadn’t been used in centuries.

It was this collection that earned Delilah the envy of some witches and the hatred of others. No one had a collection as large and as diverse as hers, and there was only one reason for that. Delilah made it a business. She bought and sold like it was regular merchandise, and there were many, many witches who found that offensive. Trading off sacred artifacts as if they were nothing but inventory for profit. But unfortunately, that’s what Delilah had to do. That was the practice that gave her access to these things so she could turn around and find appropriate owners who would respect them and care for them.

She wouldn’t mind if a tourist wanted to buy some of these things. But all of the items were priced far beyond souvenir status. And most of the tourists didn’t stay in Louisiana long enough to go through Delilah’s thorough interview process and background investigation. No, tourists were the ones who bought gator teeth and palm readings. They were the ones who fell for her hoo-doo/voo-doo Cajun witch doctor act (not picking up on her northern accent) so she could sell them stuff from a swamp. The stuff in the back room was for the real players.

Delilah didn’t trust Mooncat Sunrise one bit. That old hag had been pestering Delilah for years, trying every bit of coercion she could think of to get one artifact or another. The only thing she hadn’t tried was being honest, and that didn’t sit all right with Delilah. She had a hard time selling something so precious to someone so shady.

But this was an unusual circumstance. Delilah had come back to Hello You, Good Bayou to protect her treasures. She had plastic tubs and rolls of thick construction-grade plastic in her car. She could rescue some things in her Honda, but most of them would have to be left to stand against the ravages of flood and storm.

She hated to say it, but Mooncat might not be such a bad option at the moment. There had to be something Delilah could trust her with. Not the rarest most valuable stuff. Oh no, best leave that to chance with Katrina rather than hand it over to that conniving old bag. But maybe something… The first thing that came to mind was a wooden deck of tarot cards that was carved and hand-painted during the reign of Vlad the Impaler and was rumored to have been locked in a vault in the Vatican for a century. It was priceless for what it was, but at least it couldn’t harm anyone.

I think I have something for you that’s right up your alley, said Delilah.

Well, not to be rude, dearie, said Mooncat, but I think I know what’s up my own alley. And it’s not those tarot cards you’re thinking of.

"So what exactly is up your alley?" asked Delilah, not the least bit surprised by Mooncat’s mind reading. She was pretty sure she knew where this was going.

There’s a little book of yours that caught my eye once…

Oh no, said Delilah. Sorry hon, but you’re not getting that one. I keep telling you over and over again, but you just don’t seem to be hearing me.

Things are a little different now, said Mooncat, drilling into Delilah with an iron stare. This hurricane named Katrina is about to rock everyone’s world. This shop is going underwater, and that book is in no shape to survive it. It’s not in much shape to travel, either. Must weigh at least seventy pounds. Very fragile. Why not let someone take care of it? Someone who realizes how important it is?

Delilah knew which book she was talking about. The Spellbook of Siam. That wasn’t the real name of the tome—there were few in the world who could understand the arcane language it was written in. It was called The Spellbook of Siam because it had first surfaced in the kingdom of Siam, though its actual origins were untraceable.

Mooncat was right—it wouldn’t survive being submerged. The pages were thin, faded, and fragile, as if it was looking for an excuse to turn to dust and blow away. And she was right that it was heavy, though it was probably closer to fifty pounds than seventy. But it wasn’t the weight that made it difficult to transport—it was the size. It was almost the size of a twin-sized mattress, which made it impossible to fit in the Honda. She considered wrapping it in plastic and tying it to the roof of the car, but that also would result in the book’s destruction.

Delilah’s plan was to wrap it in so much plastic and duct tape that not even a drop of water had a chance of making it through. It was the best option she had. She surely couldn’t trust Mooncat with it. There were stories… too many stories about the book. Were they legends? Stories based on a shred of truth but exaggerated to a point of fancy? Maybe. Or were they myths and fables, meant to scare the likes of children and to provide a moral lesson along the line? Perhaps. But until anything could be confirmed, it couldn’t be left with just anyone. The Spellbook of Siam was believed to bring nothing but mischief, chaos, and death.

Look, Mooncat, said Delilah. There’s no way I can let you take care of that one, and you know why. You haven’t been straight with me ever since we met. Better for that book to be destroyed and lost forever than to be in the wrong hands.

What makes you think my hands are the wrong hands? asked the old crone, faking insult. Why, I can take care of that one as well as anyone else can. At least as well as someone who purchased it with a gigantic ruby-and-diamond encrusted pentacle and some Euros.

I disagree, said Delilah, unfazed by the jab. She noticed Mooncat’s eyes scan the room and come to rest on The Spellbook of Siam. It wasn’t easy to overlook, propped against the wall in a glass-enclosed frame like The Mona Lisa.

Well, then, said Mooncat, shoulders dropping. I guess that’s settled. But if you can satisfy an old woman’s curiosity—for old swords can still have sharp edges—have you ever looked inside? Ever read it? Does the magic in there actually work?

Delilah studied the old woman for a moment. She suddenly went from looking feisty and mischievous to frail and defeated. Delilah felt kind of sorry for the crazy old witch.

Yes, Delilah answered. Yes, I took a look inside. Once I got it, I resisted opening it for about two months. But my own curiosity got the better of me. I opened it up and took a look. And no, I couldn’t read it. Didn’t understand the language, and couldn’t find anyone who could.

What about the magic? asked the old woman, eyes glittering with wonder. Does it work?

I… personally don’t know, said Delilah. I’ve never seen it in action. All I’ve heard are the legends. That it brings nothing but trouble. Death, destruction, and the like.

Of course, said Mooncat. It’s in the title, after all.

What do you mean? asked Delilah.

"The book. It’s titled Blessings for Curses."

"Blessings for… how do you get that?"

"It’s right there on the front cover. Look at the writing. It says Blessings for Curses."

You can read that? asked Delilah. She was instantly skeptical, believing that the old woman was trying to trick her. Trying to give her a reason to hand the book over. Would Mooncat try and convince Delilah to give her the book for her translate, maybe? What are the chances that this loony old hag was the only person in the world who could read that ancient script? Delilah smelled a whole lot of bullshit about to come her way.

"Yes, dear, I