The running tab

She decided to use voodoo magic. A handmade doll bore the face from the photograph she kept on her nightstand.

She was playing with things she didn’t understand. There was a price—for every prick and pinch, the tab was already running.

Dark magic keeps score, and its debts are always paid.

Her hair began to fall out in patches, then in handfuls. When she finally got rid of the doll, it was already too late. The debt still had to be paid.

Her beauty faded day by day, bit by bit—slow enough to deny, clear enough for her to know what was happening.

He felt the small pains but remained patient. He had seen it before. There was nothing to do.

By the time the first pinch is cast, the tab is already open—and it always ends the same.