**Saturday, 18th June**
Emily and I had just returned from her birthday dinnera proper celebration at The White Hart in Cambridge. The place was packed with family and colleagues, though half the faces were strangers to her. Not my usual crowd, but necessary, I thought.
Emily never questioned my choicesnever one for a row. Easier to nod along than argue.
“Em, can you fish out your keys? Reckon theyre buried in that bag of yours?”
She rummaged, then gasped, dropping her purse.
“Whats wrong?”
“Something stabbed me.”
“Hardly surprising with that clutter in there.”
She said nothing, just dug out the keys. By morning, her finger was swollen red. She remembered the prick, emptied her bag, and found a rusty needle at the bottom.
“What on earth?”
No idea how it got there. She tossed it, cleaned the cut, and went to work. By lunch, fever hit. She called me, shaky-voiced.
“John, Im not right. Found a rusty needle in my bag yesterday. Now Im burning up.”
“See a doctor.”
“Its fine. I disinfected it.”
But she worsened. Took a taxi home, collapsed on the sofa, and dreamed of her nan, Gran Margaretgone since she was little. The woman led her through a field, showing her herbs for a healing tea. “Someone means you harm,” she warned. “Stay alive to fight back.”
Emily woke drenched. Seconds had passed. I came home, gasped at her reflectiongrey, hollow-eyed.
“Saw Gran in my dream,” she mumbled. “She told me what to do.”
“Em, were going to hospital.”
“No. Gran said doctors cant fix this.”
We rowedfirst proper one. I threatened to drag her; she twisted free, fell against the table. I stormed out.
Next day, she insisted we drive to Grans village. A ghost of herself, she slept the whole way, then jolted awake near a field. Staggering out, she found the herbs Gran had shown her.
At home, she drank the bitter tea. Later, black urine. “The poisons leaving,” she whispered.
That night, Gran returned in a dream. “The needle was a curse. Buy fresh ones. Recite: *Spirits who walk the night, hear me, guide me, find my foe.* Hide one in Johns bag. Whoever pricks themselves is guilty.”
Emily obeyed. Days passed. Then I mentioned Irene from accountspricked herself helping me. “She glared like Id killed her dog.”
Emily stiffened. “Whats between you two?”
“Nothing! Its always been you.”
Grans next dream revealed the truth: Irene had cast the curse to take my place. Emily reversed it. Soon after, Irene fell gravely ill.
Last weekend, we visited Grans grave in Suffolk. Emily cleaned the headstone, laid flowers. “Shouldve come sooner,” she whispered. A breeze brushed her shoulderno one there.
**Lesson learnt:** Some ties never break, even in death. And trust your gutespecially when its your Gran shouting down from the afterlife.
