I’ve always been a private person, preferring solitude to noisy crowds. After getting married, I felt like I’d found all the warmth, understanding, and support I might have lacked before in my husband. I was content in our little cocoon of two. My friendships were few but strong—two close friends living in different cities, with occasional calls and messages. It was the kind of rare but genuine connection that suited me just fine.
Then there was *her*. Lucy.
How she came into my life, I can’t even explain. We met by chance, chatted, exchanged numbers. At first, it was all harmless: holiday greetings, unexpected favors, small acts of kindness. Lucy wove herself into my life, and pulling at that thread seemed impossible—it all felt so innocent. But then I realized: we weren’t cut from the same cloth. She moved in different circles, and around my friends and colleagues, her overfamiliarity often made me cringe. After her “jokes,” there’d be an awkward silence I’d have to fill with forced laughter or quick distractions. I always excused it the same way: “Lucy means well. Don’t judge a book by its cover.”
She had an uncanny knack for showing up uninvited whenever I had guests, always clutching a bottle of cheap sparkling wine—even if the company wouldn’t touch the stuff. And without fail, she’d raise a toast. Long, theatrical, praising me like some kind of saint: *”Ann and I, though not born of the same mother, are like two loaves from the same batch…”* Humiliating.
My husband despised her. He thought I let her walk all over me out of weakness. He’d counter her absurd speeches with equally exaggerated compliments before storming off, leaving me alone in that circus. We fought over Lucy constantly—he accused me of being blind; I accused him of being a snob.
But here’s the thing. Lucy was around for *twelve years*. And in all that time, nothing truly catastrophic happened. Until it did.
For my birthday one year, she gave me a lacy nylon lingerie set. After one wear, my skin broke out in a rash. The doctor called it a synthetic fabric allergy. Cotton only from then on. At the time, I never thought to link it to Lucy.
A few months later, my slightly wavy hair turned frizzy, tangling into matted clumps that fell out in fistfuls. I suffered until I finally tossed out the hairbrush—another gift from Lucy. Slowly, my hair recovered.
Then money went missing from my purse—the ugly one she’d given me for my birthday. My husband muttered, *”Who else would pick something that hideous?”*
Our daughter, Emily, started feeling sick after every visit—nausea, fever, vomiting. My husband joked, *”Lucy makes Em sick.”* I laughed. I shouldn’t have.
Our cat, Oliver, had been with us seven years—gentle, neutered, a sleepy lump. Once, we were away for two days, and Lucy offered to look after him. When we got back, Oliver lunged at me, clawing my shoulder bloody. After that, he was never the same. And every time he acted strange, someone would say, *”Ever since he stayed with Lucy…”*
I still didn’t piece it together. Not until *that* day.
Seeing Lucy out, I absentmindedly grabbed the remote and switched the TV to the hidden hallway camera feed—no one but family knew about it.
On the screen, Lucy crouched by our door… *scrubbing the doormat*. Then she stood on tiptoes, pulled something from her bag, and wedged it above the doorframe before leaving.
Numb, I ran my hand along the top of the frame—and pricked my finger. Three rusty nails jutted out. Under the mat, strange grains were arranged in a pattern. I’d never have noticed—the cleaner scrubbed under there weekly.
I wrapped the nails and grains in newspaper and waited for my husband.
He called me a fool—the first time in fifteen years of marriage. Deserved. He gathered every gift Lucy had ever given us, from birthday cards to brooches, drove them out to the moors, and tossed them into a bog. *”So no one else finds them.”*
I called Lucy and said just one thing:
*”You know what you did. Make sure we never cross paths again. For your own sake.”*
Then I had the vicar bless the house. And that was it. She vanished.
With her gone, the oddities stopped—Emily’s sickness, Oliver’s aggression. Only the synthetic allergy remains. Like a warning: *Beware of Greeks bearing gifts.*
I never believed in curses. Now… I’m not so sure.
