**Devour My Pain**
Alice despised working with children. It was exhausting, tedious, and risky. A child’s reality was still unformed—too fragile, too easily swayed by unseen forces. And since children existed within their mother’s energy, she’d have to deal with the parent too. Worse, kids loved to fantasize. Who hadn’t dreamed of magic powers as a child? Invented an imaginary friend? Every word had to be double-checked, dredging up more effort than it was worth.
So when the woman appeared at her door—draped in pretentious black, lips blood-red, eyelids smeared with navy shadow—Alice barely reacted. Eccentric clients were nothing new. But the boy, no older than ten, trembling behind her like a frightened rabbit? That made her hesitate. She opened her mouth to refuse—she didn’t work with children—but the woman cut her off.
*”We have an appointment. I’m Evelyn. I messaged you yesterday. You remember—my cat was in the profile picture?”*
Alice remembered the cat.
*”Fine. Come in.”*
Perhaps the boy was just along for the ride—left with nowhere else to go while Evelyn dealt with her own troubles. The woman was plump but still striking, mid-forties, the kind people called *”well-preserved.”* Gaudy makeup, too many clattering bracelets, hands flailing dramatically. The black outfit—was it mourning? A performance? Either way, Evelyn wore it like a costume, relishing the drama. *A show-off. And I’m about to be her audience.*
*”My husband died,”* Evelyn announced, dabbing a tissue across dry eyes.
*”Condolences,”* Alice replied evenly. *”But I don’t do séances. Dangerous. Pointless.”*
Undeterred, Evelyn tried another angle.
*”Our family has a gift,”* she whispered theatrically. *”My great-great-grandmother was a witch. My seventh cousin twice removed—”*
*Let me guess—also a witch?* Alice bit back a smirk. These days, every other client claimed ancestral magic. Dig deep enough, and anyone could find a superstitious great-aunt. But magic, like boxing, wasn’t inherited—it was earned.
*”Anyway, the gift skips generations. Thank God,”*—Evelyn spat over her shoulder, but Alice caught the flicker of disappointment—*”it passed me by. But my son—Victor—”* Her eyes gleamed with perverse pride. *”He sees ghosts!”*
*Sees ghosts? Wonderful.* Two possibilities: schizophrenia, or an actual ancestral spirit—what some might call a demon.
*”Tell her about the ghosts!”* Evelyn demanded.
Victor hesitated, then muttered, *”Not ghosts. Just one. My dad visits me… every night.”* He trailed off, glancing at his mother like he’d rather be anywhere else.
*Necromantic attachment? Or grief hallucination?* Alice’s thoughts stalled. Behind the boy loomed a shadow—not his father. Something darker. Something *watching* her. Her skin prickled. This wasn’t just a ghost.
*”You know,”* Evelyn mused, *”they’ve never had a child on* Britain’s Psychic Battles. *A boy medium? Instant fame!”*
Victor hunched, shoulders curling inward. *Ah. Evelyn didn’t want a son—she wanted a spectacle.*
*”Your energy’s overwhelming,”* Alice lied. *”I need to work with Victor alone. Take a walk. Come back in an hour.”*
Evelyn left reluctantly. Victor, now alone with Alice, clammed up—jaw tight, nibbling biscuits, answering in monosyllables. *Go away, witch-lady. Not your business.*
So Alice coaxed him—school, friends, crushes—until he relaxed, pink-cheeked, defenses crumbling. She closed her eyes, listening, *seeing* what had really happened.
—
Victor adored his father more than anyone. They played soldiers, skated, swam in the lake. When his parents fought, Victor always sided with Dad—even when he forgot things, even when Mum screamed. Because Dad bought him candy floss and balloons.
When his teacher assigned *”My Best Friend,”* Victor wrote about Dad. Mrs. Hawthorne pulled him aside. *”No friends?”* He thought, *You’re stupid. I have loads. But Dad’s the best.*
Then—the accident. Mum wailed, clawed her hair, hurled herself at the coffin. *Bury me with him!* Victor’s tears stayed inside. He replayed that day—Dad had asked him fishing. He’d said no. If he’d gone, would Dad still be alive?
The guilt hollowed him. Soon, he could barely get out of bed.
Then Dad appeared in his dreams. Not like scary movie ghosts—just Dad, red-bearded, laughing. *”You’re alive!”* Victor cried.
Dad smiled. *”See for yourself.”*
They ate candy floss, walked in the park, like before. For the first time in months, Victor felt *almost* happy.
He lived two lives now—school by day, Dad by night. They played, watched films, even practiced boxing (Dad hadn’t had time to teach him before). When a bully shoved him, Victor fought back. When he liked a girl, Dad helped him talk to her.
The guilt faded. He could breathe again.
—
The shadow behind Victor wasn’t a ghost. Something older. Hungrier. It *fed* on grief—pure, childlike sorrow. Alice’s stomach twisted. She hugged Victor.
*”You know it’s not really your dad, don’t you?”*
Months of trapped tears burst free. Alice held him, poured tea, fed him hidden sweets.
*”How’d you know?”* he whispered.
*”I’m a witch.”*
*”I kind of knew. Like in* Men in Black*—the alien wearing a skin. It moved weird. Dad-in-the-dreams felt… wrong.”*
*Clever boy.* Most grieving souls missed the details—stiff gestures, odd speech.
*”Your dad’s gone, Victor. Probably reborn already. But we’ll fix this.”*
She glared at the spirit. Most entities dredged up pain to feast. This one had gorged on Victor’s sorrow. And now—
*”Don’t fret, witch,”* it murmured. *”His pain is spent. I leave tonight.”*
*”Just like that?”* Alice’s exorcism prayers died on her lips.
*”I’ve eaten my fill. Your world is ripe with sorrow—I shan’t starve.”*
The spirit withdrew. Victor shuddered—not with anger, but loss.
*”I’ll miss him,”* he admitted, unsure if he meant the spirit or his father.
*”Me too,”* the shadow whispered, ruffling his hair like a breeze. One last hug—then it vanished.
—
The door burst open. Evelyn, manic: *”Well? Is he ready for* Psychic Battles*?”*
Alice sent Victor outside. Evelyn wouldn’t believe the truth—that her son had been haunted by something feeding on his grief. She’d drag him to charlatans until one said what she craved: *Yes, your boy’s a prodigy.*
*”Victor’s still grieving,”* Alice said flatly. *”This isn’t magic—it’s trauma. Get him therapy. Stop exploiting him.”*
*”But he never cried! I thought he didn’t understand!”* Evelyn’s face twisted. *”Are you sure it’s not supernatural?”*
*”Psychology. Nothing more.”*
Alice had seen that spirit once before—hovering behind a sobbing girl at a cemetery. It nodded at her then, and she’d understood. The next night, it would come as her mother—stroking her hair, swallowing her pain.
People blamed their horrors on upbringing, on trauma. But even a spirit born of sorrow could choose kindness.
If it wanted to.
