**Eat My Sorrow**
Alice hated working with children more than anything. It was exhausting, tedious, and fraught with risk. A child’s web of possibilities wasn’t yet fixed, and the danger of pulling in some wretched twist of fate was far too high.
Kids were tangled in their mothers’ auras, meaning she’d have to deal with the parents too. Worse, children loved to spin fantasies. Who hadn’t dreamed of magic as a child? Imagined some invisible friend? Every word from such a “client” had to be double-checked, adding another layer of effort.
When Alice saw the woman on her doorstep—draped in gaudy black, lips blood-red, eyelids smeared with cobalt—she didn’t flinch. Eccentric visitors were nothing new. But the ten-year-old boy shrinking behind her made Alice tense. The moment she opened her mouth to say she didn’t work with children, the woman cut in sharply:
*”We have an appointment. I’m Eleanor—we spoke yesterday. I had a cat in my profile picture, remember?”*
Alice remembered the cat.
*”Fine. Come in.”*
*Maybe the problem’s with Eleanor, and she just dragged the boy along because she had no one to leave him with?* The witch eyed her discreetly. Eleanor was plump, still striking for a woman in her mid-forties—what some might call *”in her prime.”* Her makeup was bold, almost garish, her wrists clattered with bangles, and she gestured wildly. The black clothes—was it mourning? A performance? Either way, she wore it with relish, like a costume. *A woman who loves a spectacle. And now I’m the audience.*
*”My husband died,”* Eleanor announced dramatically, dabbing dry eyes with a handkerchief.
*”Condolences,”* Alice said evenly, *”but I don’t do séances. Dangerous and pointless.”*
Undeterred, the woman tried another angle.
*”Our family has… gifts.”* She leaned in, whispering theatrically. *”My great-great-grandmother dabbled in the craft, and my sixth cousin twice removed—”*
*Let me guess—also a witch?* Alice bit back a smirk. These days, every other client claimed lineage from some mystical bloodline. Magic was common enough—but did having a boxer for a grandfather make *you* a champion? Same principle applied.
*”And now the Gift has passed to my son, Oliver,”* Eleanor said, spitting over her left shoulder, though Alice caught the flicker of disappointment in her eyes. *”He sees ghosts!”*
*Sees ghosts, does he? Trouble.* Alice had theories. First and likeliest—early schizophrenia. Why parents took hallucinating children to witches instead of psychiatrists baffled her. Second option? A *real* inheritance—something old and hungry, whispering down the bloodline.
*”Tell her about the ghosts!”* Eleanor demanded. The boy spoke reluctantly.
*”Not ghosts. Just one. My dad… visits me every night.”*
Oliver fell silent, glancing at his mother, pleading silently: *Can we go now?* She missed the look, puffing up with pride as if boasting about straight-A grades.
*Necrotic attachment? Or just grief—the boy misses his dad…* Alice stiffened. Behind Oliver loomed a shadow. Not his father. The thing stared at her, unblinking. Her skin prickled. *A demon. Worse than I thought.*
*”You know,”* Eleanor mused, eyes bright, *”they’ve never had a child on ‘Britain’s Psychic Showdown’! He’d be a sensation!”*
Oliver hunched in his chair, wishing he’d never spoken. *Ah. Eleanor loves a show more than I realized.*
*”Your energy is overwhelming. The aura is… too dense. I need to work with Oliver alone.”* Alice swiftly shooed the woman out. *”Take a walk. Come back in an hour.”*
Alone, Oliver clammed up—shoulders tense, monosyllabic answers. But Alice coaxed him, avoiding talk of his father. School, friends, crushes. Twenty minutes in, he softened, cheeks flushing. Adults rarely cared to listen.
Alice closed her eyes, tuning into his voice, unraveling his truth.
***
Oliver loved his dad more than anyone. No one else had a father like his. They played soldiers, skated, swam in the lake. When his parents fought, Oliver always sided with Dad—even when he forgot things. For ice cream and balloon animals, the boy forgave everything.
When school assigned *”My Best Friend,”* Oliver wrote about his dad. His teacher, Mrs. Whitaker, pulled him aside: *”No friends your own age?”* Oliver stayed silent but thought: *You’re stupid. I’ve got loads of mates—just none as good as Dad.*
Then—the accident. His mother wailed, tore her hair, howled like a wounded dog. Oliver’s tears stayed locked inside. He replayed that day: Dad had asked him fishing. He’d gone with friends instead. *If I’d gone, he wouldn’t have been on that road.*
The guilt gnawed him hollow. Soon, he could barely get out of bed.
Then—Dad visited his dreams. Not like in films, all rot and rage. Just Dad: red beard, balloons, same as ever.
*”You’re alive!”* Oliver cried.
Dad just smiled. *”Was it a mistake?”* Oliver asked.
Dad spread his hands—*see for yourself.*
They went to the park, ate candyfloss, laughed. For the first time in months, Oliver felt almost happy.
Now he lived two lives. By day, school, homework, football. By night, Dad taught him to fight (never got around to it in life), helped him talk to a girl he liked. The guilt faded. The pain dulled.
***
The thing behind Oliver watched Alice. Not a demon—something older, stronger. A devourer of sorrow.
*”You know it’s not really your dad, don’t you?”* Alice whispered.
Months of trapped tears broke loose. She held him, plied him with tea and hidden sweets.
*”How’d you know?”* Oliver mumbled.
*”I’m a witch.”*
*”Ever seen ‘Men in Black’? The alien wearing a skin-suit? Moves all wrong. That’s how Dad felt in dreams.”*
*Observant boy.* Most grieving souls missed the details—the wrong eyes, the stiff gestures.
*”Your dad’s gone. Probably reborn by now. As for you…”* Alice eyed the spirit, forcing calm. These things fed on emotion—drove men to drink, to violence. This one dined on a child’s grief. It had to go.
*”Don’t fret, witch. His pain’s almost gone. I’ll leave on my own,”* the spirit murmured, stepping back.
*”Just like that? No fight?”* Alice’s exorcism prayers died unsaid.
*”I’ve eaten my fill. Your world’s drowning in sorrow—I’ll never starve.”*
The spirit left. Oliver’s face twisted—not anger, just loss.
*”I’ll miss him,”* he whispered—to himself, or to Alice, or to the air.
*”Me too,”* the spirit ruffled his hair with a ghostly breeze. One last hug, then it vanished.
***
The doorbell shattered the moment. Eleanor barged in.
*”Well? Will he audition for the show?”*
Alice sent Oliver outside. No mother would believe her son hosted a hunger-spirit. She spun a simpler tale: grief dreams, no magic needed. *”Take him to a therapist. Stop chasing psychics. You’re hurting him.”*
*”So he’s still upset?”* Eleanor frowned. *”I thought he was too young to understand. Barely cried. Sure it’s not supernatural?”*
*”Trauma,”* Alice said, hammering the word home. *”See a doctor.”*
Once, she’d seen the spirit at a graveyard—looming behind a weeping girl. It nodded at her then, and something in Alice’s chest ached. She hadn’t worried. The girl’s mother would come that night, comb her hair, soak up the pain.
It always made her laugh, how people blamed their scars for everything.
Even a thing made of sorrow could choose kindness.
If it wanted to.
