The Fortune Teller
George was an average 40 year old man. He was happily divorced, lived alone, and maintained a stable income at his stable job. Like most people, he loved experiencing new things.
One night George was feeling particularly adventurous so he took a trip down to Madame Turitsa’s house, an old mute fortune teller who was just as lonely as George.
Madame Turitsa opened the door and gave him a sly smile as if she had been expecting him. She silently led him to a table with her small black cat trailing behind them.
She grabbed his hand and closed her eyes for a few moments before scribbling some notes on an old piece of parchment which she then handed to George. He glanced at it, not really thinking much of its meaning, then shoved the piece into his back pocket and grumpily paid Madame Turitsa the appropriate fee.
The fortune teller silently gestured him goodbye as he climbed in his car. Although Madame Turitsa did not say a single word, he knew exactly what she had given him. He had heard the men at the office talk about it a few days ago. It was a list of words relating to his time of death.
He rushed home and read the list of words in order: chime, thump, scratch, crash, click, slip, 2:25, head, dead, gasp, hand.
2:25? George glanced at the clock and it read 1:45 am. He would not have called himself a very superstitious man so he thought the time’s correlation to the notes Madame Turitsa had given him was just a coincidence. Surely, her “fortune” was just a scam.
He tossed the list onto the coffee table in his living room and plopped himself on the rocking chair. He read for some time and started growing sleepy, realizing there was no way Madame Turitsa’s prediction could be true until he was startled awake by a noise that sent shivers up his crooked spine.
It was the chime of the grandfather clock that sat in the corner of his cold living room that broke the grim silence.
Remembering Madame Turitsa’s first clue, George’s stomach churned. Although he was not superstitious, he was starting to feel anxious. Perhaps Madame Turitsa had used common words to her advantage in order to deceive him. Either way, he was not taking any chances. He ran upstairs, peering back at the grandfather clock whose chime pierced his ears like nails in his skull.
George decided he should try to fall asleep anyways since it was so late, but he was too busy trying to calm his breathing. At least the grim cold sheets helped to cool the heat of his sweaty body. He closed his eyes and counted to ten. Then, he decided to count to 100, but at about 31, he heard a small patter of feet, as if from a mouse. He stopped counting and lay as still as a corpse in bed and listened again. The pattering continued, then stopped.
He tried to block the patter of feet from his mind, but they seemed to be growing louder. They did not sound mousey anymore, but like the heavy footsteps of a person. George jolted up in bed. “Someone is in my house! Get out! Go away! You are not welcome here!”
Despite George’s shrieks of desperation, the pattering continued to grow louder and louder and ended in a loud THUMP! He clutched the pillows, drenching it with his petrified sobs.
He forced himself to stand up and a scratch on the door pierced his ears, driving him to remember yet another grave clue.
He stopped in his tracks and shivered in his stance. The scratches lasted for several moments, then stopped. George waited a few minutes in silence.
When he heard nothing more he slowly walked downstairs and poured himself a glass of water, hoping that would calm his mind. The refreshing liquid seemed lukewarm when it gushed down his throat. Since he had nearly spilled the whole first glass, he poured himself another.
Click click click.
The sound of yet another horrific clue caused George to jump and drop his full glass of water.
CRASH!
Broken glass shards lay in a pool of water on the kitchen floor.
He froze and his heart raced faster than ever. The clicking grew louder.
Click…Click…Click.
He didn’t know whether to run or stay. The person must have been just around the corner. He hoped it would disappear and leave him unharmed. Madame Turitsa’s prediction was accurate. It was then 2:24 am.
Beads of sweat rolled down George’s face. This time, he was certain his death was only a minute away.
Click click click.
“Dear God! Get out of my house! Leave me alone!”
The clicking grew even louder and louder and louder.
Click. Click. CLICK!
Seeing a dark figure slowly creep around the corner, he turned around and decided to make a run for it.
SLIP!
In a split second he fell to the ground. His corpse lay in the bloody pool of water.
2:25 am.
There was a large bloody gash on George’s head.
He was dead.
Gasp! A harmless old woman by the name of Madame Turitsa came rushing around the corner, her heels clicking on the kitchen floor and her black cat waddling along. In her old wrinkly hand she held George’s wallet for he had left it at her house just before he went home to meet the fate she had foretold.
