Black Opal Magic

Halloween 2023

Black Opal Magic

Author's note: This is my entry for the Halloween contest. It is supposed to be spooky, and unsettling. There is a scene toward the end which appears to be a nonconsensual encounter. I hope I've made it clear that due to what's going on with the main character, it isn't really nonconsensual, but I wanted to mention it in case that sort of writing is something that would bother you too much to enjoy the rest of the story.

Otherwise, I do hope you enjoy, and vote, and please leave me comments and/or feedback about anything you liked or not.

Happy Halloween, and other assorted fall holidays and traditions.

Love

Belle

**~~** Prologue **~~**

I watched as the aide wheeled the newest resident into the recreation room, struck by the look of sheer terror on the woman's face. Her eyes wide and darting around the room; her hands gripped the wheelchair's armrests so tightly I could clearly see her knuckles. Her hair was short, bright white, and thin enough that I could make out the shape of her skull.

She looked every bit of 85 years old, and I pitied her in that moment, assuming she was demented, confused, unaware of where, or maybe even who she was. The skin on her arms was dusty looking, a pale imitation of the beautiful mahogany it might have been in her youth.

But then, in her nervous glancing around, our eyes met for a moment. And I noticed the discoloration just below the hollow of her throat. An almost perfect oval, the size of my palm, like a freshly healed burn. It was exposed because the nightgown she wore was clearly several sizes too large for her frail frame. My heart thudded in recognition.

I looked at her face again; really looked at her eyes. There was no cloudy film, no rheumy red along the lids. Her deep brown irises stark against the clear whites. Our gazes met again, longer this time, and in that moment I knew. I felt her terror, her horror, her shame, and it echoed in me.

I pushed myself up, swaying as I stood, and gripped my walker. I eased over to a chair next to her wheelchair and sat down. She watched me, warily. But I saw her note the scar on my chest. I reached out to pat her hand. She gripped my hand fiercely, desperately, staring into me.

If I'd had words; if I'd had a way to explain it, I would have told her I understood. We sat in silence, and I hoped she felt some recognition, and some comfort.

**~~** 1 **~~**

The tale I would have told the new woman starts several years ago. I'm not sure how many. It might be ten or fifteen, or maybe only two. More than one, I'm sure of that. Time is funny now. It stretches, snaps back, twists. Minutes are never the same length. Weeks pass in a few hours; an hour stretches for days. I eat, or they feed me. I sleep, or I lie in bed awake but unaware. There are activities, music that sounds hollow and tinny, games that are convoluted and dull, television droning on. Seasons have passed, marked by plastic Christmas trees, plastic flowers, plastic bunting, and recently, plastic skeletons, and spiders, and witches.

None of it makes any difference to me.

The tale I would tell starts on a gorgeous autumn day. It starts with a woman driving fast in a rented car, determined to try something new for herself. I'm not sure how it ends.

I'll never know why I stopped at that store, or what made me go in. I believe I'm not supposed to know, that it's one of the things I have to accept. When I'd stopped for gas, I realized I was hungry. I asked the guy at the checkout for a good place to eat close by. He told me about a diner at the edge of town. I thought I followed his directions just fine.

There was a diner at the other side of the parking lot. But when I pulled in, I went straight toward this little ramshackle store. I glanced at the door, and the next thing I knew I was walking up the steps.

Four or five wooden steps and a narrow porch. A rickety grey door with a bell that rang as soon as I opened it. Inside was dimly lit, crowded with display cases next to dressers, next to bookcases, next to tables. Narrow spaces let me wend my way through the jumble of stuff, and I breathed in a heavy, not quite musty smell that sang of very old things with stories.

I'm all about stories. I tell them for a living. I'm a walking cliché, I guess. Or I was, anyway. The romance writer who hadn't been in a serious relationship in years. The erotica writer whose real life idea of a wild night was leaving the lights on. Who couldn't remember the last time someone else had caused her to orgasm. Who, well, let's just say that I had a long list of things I'd write characters doing that I'd never consider doing myself.

Until all that changed.

In the store that day, I was drawn instantly to a low wooden chest of drawers deep in the back. The top was covered in small baskets and trays, and there was a wild assortment of jewelry scattered among them. I looked over the selection, hands poised to dive in, trying to discern some sort of rhyme or organization.

There was one ceramic bowl, in a dark glaze that had flecks of something silvery. It was full of bracelets. Some bangles, some cuffs, some chains. Some were studded with gems. Others were plain, or engraved metal. I picked up a handful, and let them drop back into the bowl. I felt a kind of vibration in my feet, a pulsing in my chest, and I just knew there was something in there that I needed to find; something in there needed me.

One by one, the bracelets clattered back until I held the last. It was the most beautiful thing I'd ever seen. It was a platinum bangle, about the width of my index finger, with an arrangement of opals. There was one large black opal in a rough oval, and six smaller stones arranged around it. These were in various hues of orange. All of them showed multiple flecks and streaks of iridenscence and sparkle.

Opal is not my birthstone; I'm born in January, I'm pretty sure. It was my grandmother's and she always said that only people born in October should wear them, and that you should only wear opals if they were a gift. She was very clear, it was bad, bad luck to have opal jewlery if you bought it yourself.

But I'm not one to believe in supersitions. I like black cats. I stand under ladders. I don't throw salt over my shoulder if I spill some. So I didn't care about the echoes of my grandmother's voice warning me against getting the braclet. I thought it was the most beautiful thing I'd ever seen, and I had to have it.

I remember turning it over and over, watching as the streaks of different colors shifted and caught the light. I slipped it over my right hand, and it felt perfect. The bangle was smooth and warm against my skin, and it slid halfway to my elbow. Smiling, I looked up finally, to try to find the check out.

But immediately, I was drawn to a table near the chest of drawers. There was another jumble of jewelry, and I quickly found the mate to the bracelet I had just picked up. I slipped that over my right hand as well, since my watch was on my left wrist. The two together looked even more perfect, and my eyes almost watered at how happy I was to have found these things I wasn't even looking for.

I noticed a gap in the furniture, and managed to see a sign hanging from the ceiling with an arrow pointing down to a counter. A man stood behind an ancient looking cash register, and it startled me that I hadn't even noticed him. I smiled at him, and he nodded curtly.

All I remember about him is his grizzled face, wrinkled from forehead to cheeks, and the long bushy white beard that jutted out from his chin. He could have been any age from sixty to a hundred. But his eyes were clear and so dark as to look black.

As I walked toward the counter, I felt a pain near my heart. I stumbled, knocking into another one of the crowd of display cases.

The man was still staring at me as this burning pain grew in my chest and lungs, until I coughed, and leaned both hands on the case. That's when I saw it. A opal pendant, similar in style to the bracelets. This one was large and smooth, almost perfectly round, with a circle of smaller opals around. The center was a black opal, and the rest were assorted colors, all with bright streaks resembling lightning. It was edged with a fine filigree in platinum as well. When I picked up the pendant the pain immediately went away.

I looked at it closely, turning it over in my hands. On the back was some kind of engraving, just the suggestion of a picture. I realized it must have been very old, for the engraving to have been so worn away that I couldn't make it out. But it didn't matter, I knew that I had to buy it as well.

The pendant was by itself, but a selection of chains hung from a makeshift rack on the same case. I saw one that seemed to match the platinum settings of the other pieces. I figured the length would let the pendent hang nicely, neither too close to my neck, nor too far down in my cleavage.

Finally ready, I turned and took my items to the man.

Don't ask me what I paid for them. I have no idea how much money I spent that day.

It was the first week of October. I was driving up into the mountains in Vermont. I'd told my agent that I needed some time away. I'd told her that I wanted to work on my great American novel, to try my hand at something other than the romances and erotica that had paid my bills the previous ten years.

I had always wanted to be an author, but I hadn't planned on writing romances. I started one as a lark, just after college, when I wasn't having any luck in romance myself. I took all my frustration and fantasy about finding that right man, developing that great relationship, having the mind blowing sex that leaves you gasping and spent, and poured it into a long story.

Drunk one night, I'd showed it to a girlfriend, who'd showed it to her dad, because he worked for a publisher. Ten years later, I'd written a couple of dozen books under three different pen names. I was no multi-millionaire, but all my bills got paid and I enjoyed it.

But I'd always itched to write something someone would call literary. I had all these hints of ideas, sketches of characters, and bits of plot that I'd jotted down over the years, in this one special notebook I carried with me most of the time. Finally, I decided to take a break from my real life and immerse myself in the stuff in that notebook.

I told my agent that I was going to hole myself up in a rental house somewhere without any distractions, and at least get a draft of the book. She was skeptical, but she knew me well enough that trying to talk me out of it was a losing fight. Instead, she helped me. She had a friend with a summer house in Vermont, who was looking for someone to keep an eye on it over the winter. I forget why the friend needed someone new, or really any of the details.

All I knew was that this was an opportunity to have this new space, with shitty cell reception, and a reportedly spotty WiFi connection, all to myself and for free. For three months at least, and maybe five. All I would pay was a nominal amount to cover the utilities. I loved the idea of being up in the mountains, surrounded by forest, and without the usual distractions of modern life.

I had visions of tapping away in a big country style kitchen. I imagined myself making notes, and editing drafts while curled up on a comfy sofa next to a roaring fire. It was a fantasy more romantic than most of my novels.

I'd driven from my home, taking my time once I got into the back country. It was beautiful. The roads were narrow and curvy, the leaves were almost at their full color. The various yellows, reds, and greens were all lovely. The air was crisp, and the sky was that gorgeous blue that only happens in the fall.

I was comfortable in a favorite pair of jeans, and a worn, loose sweater over a t-shirt. I had a little less than an hour's drive when I made the stop for gas; I didn't eat. I kept driving, now wearing the bracelets, and with the pendent and chain in a bag in my purse. I felt freer than I had in months. I was giddy and smiling, and cruising over those twisty mountain roads like I'd travelled them my whole life.

I turned onto the driveway, which was indicated by little more than a small mailbox and a break in the line of trees at the side of the narrow road. My car crunched on gravel and the trees almost met overhead. The driveway was another mile and then widened out to a loop in front of the house.

I was surprised when I saw the house. It was a big, modern looking construction, with a wide front porch, blue-grey siding, and a steep metal roof. There were several chairs arranged at one end of the porch, and the door was bright red. I climbed the few stairs to the porch, and saw the electronic lock with the keypad. I reached into my purse to get the card I'd been given with the access code and the contact information for the owners. My fingers brushed against the bag with the pendent, and my heart fluttered.

Once inside, I was even more impressed with the house. It was spacious, with several bedrooms. The one I moved into had a large four poster bed with an enormous headboard. The kitchen was good sized, and had lots of windows for natural light. Off the back of the kitchen were double doors that led to a big back deck. When I went out there, I realized that the house was built on a hill. The view from the deck was wonderful, through the trees, and down the hill. I even caught the glint of the water from a nearby lake. There was a gas log fireplace, with a thick rug and two decidedly comfy looking sofas. My mood had only improved as I toured around the place, and I was really looking forward to the solitude, and the different atmosphere.

I unpacked the car, dragging a suitcase and other bags into the house. I'd actually remembered to get groceries before I left, stocking up on staples, cereal, too many cans of soup, and other things to at least get me through a week or so while I was learning my way around. The owners had been good enough to have their handyman bring over a few things, too. Then I set up my laptop and printer, and pulled up the email I'd gotten from the owners with details about the area, the amenities, and who to call in what kind of emergency. I printed it and stuck it on the fridge. I texted my agent and a friend to let them know I'd arrived ok, and reminded them that I wasn't going to be available much. I left my phone in my purse, not planning to check it again.

I heated up some soup and took a mug of it out to the back deck. I sat staring out over the trees, soaking in the last of the sun's rays and delighting in the chill that grew. I hadn't paid any attention to a weather forecast, and I only had the emergency contact info. It felt like running away. Like I could pretend to be a different person.

I pulled my shoulder length auburn hair from the ponytail and shook it out. I leaned back in the chair, feet up on a table and sipped my soup. Tranquility washed over me, and I realized that I'd been so caught up in the business of my life, and for so long, that I'd almost forgotten what it felt like to be free of obligations. Here there was no ringing cell phone. There were no email requests for interviews, no long discussions about editing, no pressing concerns about book covers or story ideas. I'd wrapped up the last two books I had advances for and told my editor that he wasn't going to be hearing from me for a while. I'm not sure he believed me.

Ever since that first book took off, the demands had been close to nonstop. I won't claim to be the world's greatest writer, but I've been told that I have a way of creating believable characters who still seem realistic when I write them doing outlandish things. All I can say for certain is that the publishers kept asking for more.

On top of that, I had to figure a way to maintain my privacy. I was deathly afraid of being called a fraud or a fake, since I never did any of the things I wrote about. There is something cliché about that, but I always wonder about disappointing a reader if they realize that the person writing these fantasies of interesting people doing sexy things was really an ordinary woman. Who wears granny panties most of the time, and sweatpants, and spends more time masturbating than she does flirting with anyone.

I sat on that back deck, sipping my cooling soup, staring out into the darkening sky, letting my mind wander, and the stress of the last few years fall away. When it was too dark to see and I was shivering, I finally got up and went in the house.

I rinsed out the mug in the sink and unpacked my suitcase. I took the bracelets and my watch off and put them on the dresser in the bedroom I'd chosen. I found the pendant and slid it onto the chain, and coiled it up next to the bracelets. I changed into my favorite baggy sweatpants and t-shirt, put on thick woolen socks, and pulled on a flannel robe.

I'd set up my laptop and printer in the kitchen, near the windows. I pulled out the rest of my writing paraphernalia, including the notebook of ideas, and other assorted notepads, pens and doodads that I used to focus or try to break through creative blocks. I wanted everything to be ready for me when I got up in the morning. I added my phone, so it could charge; I didn't check to see if anyone had responded.

I got a beer from the fridge, and wandered into the living room. I turned on the gas logs, and basked in the warmth from them. Then I curled up on the couch and started reading a novel. I was relaxed, calm, and more than a little excited.

By the time I finished the beer, I was sleepy. I crawled into bed, still wearing the sweatpants, t-shirt and socks. I wasn't sure how cold it was going to get. When my head hit the pillow, I dropped off to sleep.

I woke up instantly, as though someone had thrown a switch. It was bright in the room, and warm. I threw back the covers and jumped out of the bed, raring to go. Then I realized I was naked.

I looked down at my body, and the fact of my nudity surprised me. I never sleep naked. I never go around my house naked. Surely, I would have remembered getting up and taking off all my clothes? But I had no memory of that. I had no memory of anything after I settled into the soft mattress.

And that was another odd thing. Usually, I remembered at least some of my dreams, but I couldn't remember any from the night before. I shrugged, thinking that just the change in environment accounted for that.

"Maybe that beer was stronger than I realized," I said out loud to no one. "And the drive. I was pretty tired."

I shrugged and went into the adjoining bathroom. As I pulled my hair back, one of the bracelets tangled in the curly ends. Startled, I looked at my arms. I'd put one bracelet on each wrist. I moved to take the one off my left wrist, to make room for my watch.

As soon as I touched the bracelet, the thought hit me that I didn't need to wear a watch anyway; I left it. And found myself adjusting the chain with the pendant so that the clasp was in the back. The pendant hung a little lower than I expected, and would be nestled right at the top of my cleavage when I put on a bra. It was heavier than I'd expected as well. I admired the look in the mirror, the dark pendent with the bright streaks stuck between my full breasts. It made my skin look more pale than usual, but in a soft, creamy way.

I washed my face, finished my morning routine and got dressed in a pair of comfy yoga-type pants and another long t-shirt. I wasn't trying to impress anyone; I was trying to get work done on this novel that had been rattling around in my brain for so long. I didn't think about taking off the opals.

The day went pretty well. I spent it organizing and reviewing my myriad ideas. By the time I was ready for lunch, I had a rough outline of what I wanted to write, and some notes to target some research. I was happy with myself as I heated up some more soup, and toasted some bread. I made coffee and decided to give myself one hour to relax. I actually set a timer on my phone to ring when the hour was up.