**Devour My Sorrow**
Alika disliked working with children most of all. It was difficult, tedious, and far too risky. A child’s realm of possibilities had not yet settled, making it dangerously easy to summon unintended consequences.
Children existed within their mother’s energy field, meaning she’d have to deal with the parent as well. Worse, they had wild imaginations. What child hadn’t dreamed of magical powers? Or invented an imaginary friend? Every word from such a “client” had to be scrutinised, adding to the strain.
When Alika opened her door to a woman dressed in ostentatious black, lips painted blood-red and eyelids smudged dark blue, the witch barely reacted. Eccentric visitors were common. But the wide-eyed boy of about ten, nervously fidgeting behind her, set her on edge. Before she could refuse—she didn’t take child cases—the woman interrupted sharply:
“We have an appointment. I’m Lavinia—messaged you yesterday. My profile picture had a kitten, remember?”
Alika remembered the kitten.
“Very well. Come in.”
Perhaps Lavinia was the one in trouble, and the boy was merely along for lack of a sitter. Alika studied her discreetly. Lavinia was plump, still striking at forty-five—what some might call “in her prime.” Her makeup was bold, almost garish, her wrists clattered with bangles, and she gestured theatrically. The black attire—was it mourning? Or a performance?
“My husband died,” Lavinia announced dramatically, dabbing a handkerchief at dry eyes.
“My condolences,” Alika replied politely, “but I don’t conduct séances. They’re dangerous and pointless.”
Undeterred, Lavinia tried another angle. “Our bloodline has witches. My great-great-grandmother practised magic, and my thrice-removed aunt—”
*Let me guess, also a witch?* Alika swallowed a smirk. Lately, every second visitor claimed occult lineage. Magic was widespread, but lineage didn’t grant talent—no more than a grandfather’s boxing career made his grandson a champion.
“In our family, there’s a Gift,” Lavinia continued. “Passed down. Thank heavens”—she spat over her left shoulder, though Alika caught the flash of disappointment—“it skipped me. But my son, Victor…” Her eyes gleamed with misplaced pride. “He sees ghosts!”
*Sees ghosts? Trouble indeed.* Likely early schizophrenia—why parents dragged hallucinating children to mystics instead of psychiatrists baffled her. The alternative? An actual ancestral spirit—often a euphemism for something far darker.
“Tell her about the ghosts!” Lavinia prompted. Reluctantly, the boy mumbled, “Not ghosts. Just one. My dad… visits me at night.” He trailed off, casting a pleading glance at his mother—*Can we leave now?*
Lavinia straightened, basking in maternal pride. Meanwhile, Alika froze. Behind the boy loomed a shadow—not his father. The thing stared unblinking, sending chills down her spine. This wasn’t mere delusion.
“You know, they’ve never had a child on *Britain’s Psychic Challenge*! A boy medium—it’d be sensational!”
Victor hunched in his seat, regret etched on his face. Clearly, Lavinia adored spectacles more than Alika had guessed.
“Your energy is overwhelming,” Alika lied smoothly. “I must examine your son alone. Take a stroll—return in an hour.”
Lavinia huffed but flounced out, appeased by the jargon. Alone, Victor clammed up, nibbling biscuits defensively. Alika nudged the conversation to school, friends, crushes—until, bit by bit, he relaxed.
Then she closed her eyes, listening—not just to his words, but beneath them.
***
Victor had adored his father above all. No other dad in the neighbourhood played toy soldiers, skated, or taught swimming like his. Even when Mum yelled at Dad for forgotten errands, Victor forgave him—balloons and candy-floss smoothed every rift.
Once, for a school essay titled *My Best Friend*, he wrote about Dad. His teacher, Mrs. Whitmore, pulled him aside—“No friends your own age?” Victor bit his tongue. *You’re daft, Mrs. Whitmore. I’ve loads of mates—Mike, Liam, Ethan. But Dad’s my best.*
Then the accident. Mum wailed, tore her hair, howled like a wounded dog at the funeral. Victor’s tears turned inward. He replayed that morning—Dad had asked him fishing. If he’d gone, would Dad have avoided that drunk driver? The guilt gnawed him hollow, until even rising from bed felt impossible.
Then Dad appeared in his dreams—not ghostly, but warm, red-bearded, holding balloons. “You’re alive!” Victor cried.
Dad only smiled.
Night after night, they revisited their old haunts—theme parks, cinemas, board games. Dream-Dad even taught him to fight, helping him stand up to a school bully. When Victor fancied a girl named Natalie, Dad nudged him to talk to her.
Bit by bit, the guilt receded. Pain dulled. Yet that shadow—Alika saw it now—was no guardian.
***
The entity watched her, assessing. Not some petty demon—this was older, stronger. It fed on sorrow. Pure, distilled grief.
She pulled Victor close. “You know that’s not your dad, don’t you?”
Months of pent-up tears burst free. As he sobbed, she rubbed his back, refilled his tea, plied him with hidden sweets.
“How did you know?” he whispered.
“I’m a witch.”
“It’s like in *Men in Black*—when the alien wore a skin suit? Stiff, unnatural… I felt that with Dad.”
*Sharp lad.* True spirits mimicked poorly—wrong gaze, stilted speech. Grief blinded most to such tells.
“Your dad’s gone, dear. Likely reborn by now. But we’ll handle *this*.”
She glared at the spirit. Such entities provoked their hosts—driving addicts, killers. This one gorged on a child’s mourning. It had to go.
“Fear not, witch. His pain’s nearly gone. I leave willingly,” it murmured, detaching from Victor.
“Just like that? Abandoning your feast?”
“I’ve devoured his sorrow. Your world overflows with fresher agony. I shan’t starve.”
As it withdrew, Victor’s face twisted—not in betrayal, but wistfulness. “I’ll miss him,” he admitted, unsure whom he addressed.
“As shall I,” the spirit rustled, tousling his hair in a final breeze before vanishing.
***
The door crashed open. Lavinia barged in. “Well? Will he audition?”
Alika sent Victor outside. Lavinia wouldn’t accept possession—she’d shop him to charlatans until one promised supernatural fame.
“He’s still grieving,” Alika stated firmly. “Dreams are psychological. He needs a therapist—not spectacle. Drag him to mystics, and you’ll break him.”
Lavinia frowned. “But he never cried. Surely it’s something… uncanny?”
“Trauma,” Alika clipped. “See a doctor.”
Years later, she spotted the entity again—hovering behind a weeping girl at a cemetery. It nodded; Alika’s chest prickled. She wasn’t worried. That night, the girl’s mother would visit her dreams—stroking her hair, absorbing the scalding pain.
It amused her, how people blamed their scars for their cruelty. Yet here was a spirit of darkness, born from sorrow, choosing mercy.
Even shadows can cradle light—if they choose to.
