Fiction/Short Story
The Whirling Dervish
I’m dead.
You heard me. Dead.
You’ve heard that expression curiosity killed the cat? Yeah. I never should have even touched that pocket watch, let alone take it.
Walking through the flea market, Jenny spotted a glint of something from the corner of her eye. It called to her. It begged her to stop. It beckoned her toward it. Through the crowd of casual browsers, she made her way to the back of a booth. There, in a dirty old box of broken treasures, she saw it. An old, dusty antique pocket watch. A watch not unlike the kind of hand-me-down you might find hidden away in your grandfather’s drawer.
Yeah, but the fucking thing killed me!
I’m—oh, what’s that word again. Oh, right. DEAD!
The thing was haunted, I put it in my pocket and left, and then I died.
End of story. But you do you.
Jenny picked up the watch. It felt electric at the touch. She had never seen such an intricate design before etched into the faded gold. She felt compelled to put the trinket in her pocket. “It is in the junk box,” she justified to herself. She hurried out of the flea market, the watch burning a hole through her pocket, excited to get home quickly and more closely examine her new treasure.
