The Friend Who Made Me Sick: A Tale of Friendship Gone Strange
I was always a solitary soul, preferring quiet to crowds. After marrying, I felt I had everything I needed in my husband—warmth, understanding, support—like a cocoon for two. My friendships were few but deep: two close friends, living in different towns, the occasional call or message. It was enough.
Then there was *her*. Millicent.
How she slipped into my life, I couldn’t say. We met by chance, chatted, swapped numbers. At first, it was harmless—birthday wishes, little favors, odd bursts of affection. She wove herself in so naturally, so seamlessly, that unravelling her presence felt impossible. Charming, at first. Until I realized we weren’t the same. She was crass where my friends were refined, her jokes landing like lead balloons, leaving hollow silence I’d scramble to fill. “Millie’s just… spirited,” I’d say. “Don’t judge.”
She had a sixth sense for guests. Arrived uninvited, every time, clutching cheap sparkling wine. Even when the company would’ve preferred tea. And then—the toasts. Long, lavish, spilling with praise, painting me as some ethereal being: *“Charlotte and I, though not of one womb, are cut from the same cloth…”* Humiliating.
My husband loathed her. Thought I indulged her out of weakness. He’d volley back exaggerated compliments, then vanish, leaving me trapped in her absurd theatre. We fought over Millie often—he called me blind; I called him a snob.
Twelve years. Nothing outright sinister. Until the gifts started.
First, lingerie—satin, sleek. After one wear, my skin flared scarlet. The doctor’s verdict: synthetic allergy. Cotton only, from then on. I didn’t think of Millie.
Months later, my wavy hair twisted into tight, unbrushable coils. Clumps fell out. Relief only came when I tossed the hairbrush—*her* hairbrush.
Then money vanished from my purse. The *same* purse she’d gifted me. “Who else would pick something this hideous?” my husband muttered.
My daughter, Emily, fell ill after every visit—nausea, fever. “Millicent makes Em sick,” he joked. I laughed. A mistake.
Our cat, Whiskers, gentle and lazy, stayed with Millie for two days while we were away. He returned wild, clawing my arm bloody. After that, any odd behavior was met with, *“Ever since he stayed with Millie…”*
Still, I didn’t see it. Until the cameras caught her.
As she left, I absentmindedly switched the TV to the hidden feed from the hallway. No one knew about that camera.
There she was. Crouched at our door, *cleaning the mat*. Then, rising, she pulled something from her bag—stretched on tiptoe—slid it above the frame. Gone.
Dazed, I ran my hand over the doorframe. A prick. Three rusted needles jutted out. Beneath the mat, grains arranged in strange symbols. The cleaner would’ve swept them away—no one would’ve known.
I wrapped it all in paper. Waited for my husband.
He called me a fool. Not unkindly—fairly. He gathered every gift, every note, every trinket she’d ever given, drove them to the moors, dumped them in a bog. “So no one finds them.”
I called Millie. Said only:
*“You know what you’ve done. Never let me see you again. For your sake.”*
Then, the vicar. A blessing for the house.
And she was gone.
Emily stopped falling ill. Whiskers softened. Only the allergy remains—a warning: *Beware the Greeks bearing gifts.*
I never believed in curses. Now… now I’m not so sure.
