**A Friend Who Made Me Sick: A Story of Friendship That Turned Frightening**
I’ve always been a private man, preferring solitude to noisy company. After marrying Emily, I felt I’d found all the warmth, understanding, and support I might have lacked before. Our little world of two was enough. My friendships were few but strong—just two mates, living in different cities, catching up occasionally. It was the real thing: rare but genuine. And that suited me fine.
Then there was *her*. Margaret.
How she slipped into my life, I can’t say. We met by chance, chatted, swapped numbers. At first, it was harmless—birthday wishes, small favours, kindness. Margaret wove herself into my days, but unravelling it seemed impossible—it all felt so friendly. Then I realised: we weren’t the same. She was from a different world, and her bluntness around my friends and coworkers made me cringe. After her “jokes,” the room would fall silent, and I’d rush to fill it with laughter or excuses. “Margaret’s got a big heart,” I’d say. “Don’t judge her by her manners.”
She had a knack for turning up uninvited whenever we had guests—always with a bottle of bubbly, even if no one drank. And always, *always* a toast. Some long, dramatic speech where I was practically canonised: “William and I may not share blood, but we’re cut from the same cloth…” Humiliating. Awkward.
Emily loathed her. Said I was too soft, letting her manipulate me. She’d fire back with equally extravagant compliments, then leave me stranded in this absurd one-woman show. We argued about Margaret constantly. I called Emily a snob; she called me blind.
Twelve years. That’s how long Margaret lingered. Nothing outright monstrous happened—until it did.
For my birthday, she gave me a sleek nylon dressing gown. After one wear, my skin erupted in a rash. The doctor called it a synthetic allergy. Cotton only from then on. At the time, I never connected it to her.
Months later, my wavy hair turned frizzy, matting into knots, falling out in clumps. I suffered until I tossed out the comb—*her* gift. Then it grew back.
Then money vanished from my wallet—*the* wallet she’d given me on my last birthday. Emily muttered, “Who else would pick something that hideous?”
Our daughter, Charlotte, fell ill after every visit—nausea, fever, vomiting. Emily joked, “Charlie’s sick of Margaret.” I laughed. I shouldn’t have.
Our cat, Oliver, seven years old and docile, stayed with Margaret while we were away. When we returned, he attacked me—raked my arm bloody. After that, he was never the same. Every odd behaviour was met with, “…ever since he stayed with *her*.”
I still didn’t see it. Until *that* night.
As Margaret left, I absently grabbed the remote and switched to the hidden hallway camera—only family knew about it.
On screen, Margaret crouched by our door… *scrubbing the mat.* Then she stood, pulled something from her bag, and tucked it above the frame.
Numb, I ran my hand along the door—*prick.* Three rusted needles jutted out. Under the mat, strange patterns of seeds. I’d never have noticed—the cleaner always mopped beneath it.
I wrapped the needles and seeds in paper, waited for Emily.
She called me a fool for the first time in 15 years. Deserved. She gathered every gift, every note, and threw them into a bog. “So no one finds them.”
I rang Margaret. Said only: “You know what you did. Stay away. For your sake.”
Then I had the flat blessed. And just like that—she was gone.
The strangeness stopped: Charlotte recovered, Oliver calmed. Only the synthetic allergy remains. A reminder: *Beware Greeks bearing gifts.*
I never believed in curses. Now… I’m not so sure.
*Some friendships aren’t worth the cost. And some people aren’t what they seem.*
