A brisk sea breeze off the ocean gusted gently over the barrier island. Sounds of ringing alarms blared as families competed against one another in rows of carnival games underneath a gallery of flashing lights and the odditorium. Arcades full of slot machines, skee ball alleys, and quarter-pushers sat next to rows of photo booths, claw machines, and arcade shooter cabinets. Smells of salt water and caramel popcorn mixed with the wafting aromas of french fries and pizza. At the same time, adjacent sideshows and spinning attractions dazzled the twilight sky in a carnival-like atmosphere. Joyous screams emanated from the rollercoaster and the surrounding thrill rides. Other guests explored a large funhouse behind the ice cream stand and the chocolate store. The kiddie rides along the pier added to the mania with laughter and celebration. Vacationers far and wide were enjoying their evening along the Southern tip of Ocean City, Maryland’s boardwalk.

            Amid the cacophony of sights and sounds along the crowded tourist destination, directly across the street from the Ferris wheel and the carousel, sat something unusual. With a fortune teller machine out on the sidewalk, greeting potential customers like a doorwoman, ‘Swallowing Sands Mini Golf’ was similar to any other miniature golf course in Ocean City. True to its theming of Ancient Egypt, ‘Swallowing Sands’ housed a large pyramid and a sphinx within its cramped confines. The eighteen winding holes made their way through some sandstone ruins, past a small oasis, and under the stoic stare of the sphinx before entering the pyramid and back out again.

 Looking past the elaborate décor and the subtle inclines, it was a simple course. Outside of the holes surrounding the oasis, there were little to no water hazards. Some toppled obelisks and carved stone made for a trivial challenge among the seven holes populating the ruins, with the bunkers scattered over the course proving to be the biggest difficulty for golfers. The following six holes lined the oasis and the perimeter of the sphinx, while inside the pyramid, four holes guided golfers into the tomb of an unnamed mummy—the Eighteenth Hole sat outside, neighboring the small clubhouse; a rattlesnake waited with an open mouth to see if golfers could feed it a ball and win themselves a free game.

“Why couldn’t we have just played the castle course?” Tom Curtis asked, eyeing the fortune teller machine warily; under her purple veil, she seemed to return the stare with a gleam in her acrylic eye as the crystal ball shimmered with an ominous red glow.

“That one’s boring,” Austin Curtis, Tom’s younger brother, retorted as he wiped some spots off his glasses. “C’mon, we haven’t played this one yet; it’ll be fun!”

“If you say so,” Tom complained as the brothers entered the clubhouse. “Mom and Dad don’t want us out too late.” The Curtis family had decided to spend their late Summer vacation in Ocean City. While Tom and Austin’s parents, Jack and Natalie, were shopping around the boardwalk, the brothers, ages seventeen and fifteen, had decided to play a round of mini golf.

“And that’s why I wanted to play this one,” Austin countered. “It’s closer.” A wide counter stocked with clubs and multicolored golf balls greeted the brothers inside the well-lit clubhouse. On the opposite wall sat a vending machine of water and varying sodas. A small trunk full of ice cream bars occupied the adjacent space while some shelves of ‘Swallowing Sands Mini Golf’ shirts and hoodies hung over the top of it.

“Gentlemen,” a man with greying hair and a thick mustache nodded at the brothers as they entered.

“Hi,” Tom waved back, reaching for his wallet. “We’d like to play.”

“Sure! Do you have a membership card?” The man, whose nametag read ‘Orson,’ asked.

“Err, we don’t,” Tom answered, handing the cashier some cash from his wallet.

“If you play three rounds of golf at any of our courses, the fourth is free,” Orson Littlewood explained. “Or you can hit it into the snake’s mouth on Eighteen.”

“Where are your other courses?” Austin asked, selecting a red ball from a steel basket while Tom chose a yellow one.

“11^th Street and 64^th Street,” Littlewood answered, handing the brothers their golf clubs. “You could sign up right now.”

“I think we’ll hold off for now,” Austin responded. “We’ll have to check those courses out, though!”

“All right! Have fun, gentlemen!” Littlewood smiled, leaning up against the counter and waiting for some more customers as the brothers exited out the far door toward Hole One.

“Who’s keeping score?” Tom asked.

“I’ve got it!” Austin volunteered, pulling out his phone and opening a scorecard app he had designed himself. “I finally have an excuse to use this thing!”

“Just remember the guy who played with you when you’re making millions off your golf apps!” Tom asserted as the brothers reached the first hole.

“There’s nothing stopping you from doing something similar!” Rebuked Austin.

“Except for my complete lack of interest in software, sure,” Tom countered dryly. “Now, are you going to hit, or what?”

The game began uneventfully. As music from a radio station softly played over speakers disguised as rocks in the background, the brothers tied the first hole dogleg right with two shots a piece. The zig-zagging second hole around some fallen chiseled rocks left both Tom and Austin struggling to complete the hole, scoring a four and a three, respectively. Sloping upward toward the third hole amid the sand, stone, and cacti, Austin began to extend his lead—scoring holes in one on two of the following three holes compared to Tom’s inconsistent putting.

“You lucky little…,” complained the older brother on the Sixth Hole, shaking his head as Austin saved par from a sizable distance in between the hooves of a life-sized figurine of a camel, ricocheting the ball off some brick that outlined the hole. Every few minutes, the camel statue would comically spit into a fern situated on the perimeter of the property next to a tall sandstone fence.  

“It’s not luck,” the younger brother protested, watching Tom as his shot lipped infuriatingly around the cup. “It’s a skill issue.”

“It’s a skill issue,” Tom repeated in a mocking tone under his breath before propelling his ball into the cup. “Shut up and let’s go.”

Holes Seven and Eight finished the brothers’ adventure through the ancient ruins, allowing Tom the opportunity to close in on Austin by one stroke. Hole Nine slightly shifted the atmosphere of the course as the oasis arrived. Palm and Acacia trees towered over a small pond. Two animatronic hippopotamuses and a crocodile leisurely stood around the body of water while the surrounding foliage stood out from the remainder of the desert setting. The hole itself gently curved around the pond, with a ball retriever stationed adjacent to the tee box while a single bunker lined the opposite side. Tom went first, maneuvering around the water and ending his shot mere inches from the cup. Austin was not so lucky.

“Aww, dang it!” he seethed, miss-hitting his ball and watching as it slipped into the bunker.

“Least you’re not in the water,” Tom observed. “Mind if I finish?”

“Go ahead,” Austin nodded bitterly. The older brother put his ball in for two as Austin approached the bunker. “Err…where’d it go?”

“What?” Tom asked, looking over his shoulder as he picked his ball up.

“It’s not in the bunker,” Austin replied, kneeling over the sand trap.

“Maybe it skipped out?” Tom pondered, looking over beyond the boundaries of the hole to a patch of shrubs.

“No, I would have seen that…” Austin answered, trailing off as he scratched the back of his head. Surprisingly, unlike other courses that utilized a pale yellow turf as ‘sand,’ the bunkers at ‘Swallowing Sands’harbored authentic sand within them. Austin stooped lower and reached his hand into the sand.

“Hey, what’re you doing?” Tom asked, walking over.

“What does it look like I’m doing!? I’m getting my ball back—it must have gotten plugged or something,” Austin reasoned.

“You need to play it where it lies,” Tom countered as Austin rummaged around the sand.

“I can’t play it if I don’t see it!” argued Austin, reaching a bit deeper. “Don’t worry, I’ll take a drop—there it is, I found it!”

“You better, my comeback starts—” Tom taunted with a smile.

“CRAP!” Austin shrieked, reeling his hand back and jumping away from the bunker.

“What? What?” Tom demanded, his demeanor changing in a split second.

“Something just grabbed at my hand!” Austin answered hysterically, catching his breath before looking down toward the bunker.  Arching an eyebrow, Tom reached into the bunker and dug around the sand.

“What are you doing!?” Austin blurted.

“Shh,” Tom interjected moments before he pulled out a branch from a nearby Acacia tree. “Austin, are you kidding me?”

“It felt like a hand!” Austin rebuked.

“It’s a stick,” laughed Tom, throwing the withering branch into the shrubs and brushing his hand against his jeans.

“It scared the freaking crap out of me!” the younger brother balked with a sheepish smile. He got to his feet and dropped his ball beside the bunker. “Why do they even have real bunkers here anyway!? You can’t putt out of them!”

“I think that’s the point,” Tom noted after Austin struck his ball toward the cup, ending up a foot or so away. “I mean, why else—”

“Tom,” Austin interrupted his brother.

“What?” Tom asked.

“When did the music stop?” Austin replied, noticing the absence of the background radio station. An unnerving quietness settled in on the area, with the hippopotamuses and the crocodile astutely watching the brothers from the pond with lifeless eyes.

“They may just be in between songs or commercials or something,” Tom remarked, swiveling his head around. The only sounds came from the boardwalk, which sounded distant despite the fact that it was no more than a block away. “Let’s just keep playing.”

“…Right,” Austin grimaced hesitantly, finishing out the hole with a four. Everything remained still as the brothers began walking toward Hole Ten, passing under the remaining trees of the oasis toward the first of the holes around the sphinx. A large cactus between the brothers and the cup prevented any chance of an easy shot. Tom spotted his ball on the tee box and stood up.

“…Austin?” Tom asked.

“Hang on, I’m putting the scores—” Austin started.

“Austin!” Tom interrupted.

“What?” Austin demanded, looking up from his phone.

“Look,” Tom ordered, pointing over across the property at the Eighteenth Hole. Two golfers around the same height as the brothers were getting ready to try their hand at winning a free game. One golfer wore a grey sweatshirt while the other wore a blue T-shirt under a lightweight jacket—the same outfits Tom and Austin were currently wearing.

“That’s weird,” Austin agreed with a chuckle. “HEY, NICE HOODIE!” Around the Eighteenth tee box, the golfer in the grey sweatshirt turned to look harrowingly over his shoulder.

“What the hell,” Tom muttered. The golfer in the grey sweatshirt looked identical to Austin from a distance.  

“…Tom…” Austin mumbled as the golfer in the grey sweatshirt got the attention of his partner; looking up from his phone, the golfer with the blue T-shirt and lightweight jacket had a striking resemblance to Tom. The four golfers stared unsettlingly at each other. A minute passed, and then two minutes while Tom and Austin contemplated the scene in front of them. “Tom, what do we do?”

“I don’t know,” Tom admitted.

“T-that can’t be…” Austin stammered. Abruptly, the speakers found their voice, prompting the brothers to yelp in a startled fashion. A metallic clang erupted as they dropped their clubs onto the pathway.

“How many times is this place going to do that!” Austin complained, calming his heart rate as he picked his putter up off the ground.

“I don’t know,” answered Tom, looking over at the closest speaker before stooping down and collecting his own putter.

 “…Oh, you have got to be kidding me…”Austin muttered.

“What?” Tom asked, following his brother’s gaze. “…Oh…” The golfers over on the Eighteeth Hole had vanished. Everything had returned to normal with the radio station playing another song, except that the brothers were alone once again.

“T-they probably just went into the pro shop,” Austin speculated dismissively.

“Yeah,” Tom agreed unconvincingly. “We should ask the guy about them when we finish.”

“Who?” Austin asked.

“T-the cashier. Behind the counter,” Tom responded, snapping his fingers. “Oliver, or something…”

“Orson,” Austin corrected.

“Yeah,” Tom squirmed uncomfortably. “Let’s, err, let’s keep going.”

The game resumed with the brothers silently progressing through Holes Ten, Eleven, and Twelve without any further incident, culminating with Hole Thirteen, where both Tom and Austin scored holes-in-one. However, as a gust of wind swept over the area, Tom paused.

“Do you hear that?” He asked. Austin was in the process of collecting both of their golf balls from the bottom of the cup.

“Hear wh—” the younger brother began to ask.

“Shh,” shushed Tom, holding up his index finger.

“…Beware…Beware…” A soft voice seemed to whisper in the wind, whistling past their ears.

“What is that!?” Tom asked.

“I don’t hear anything,” Austin asserted.

“…Steel…Your…Fear…,” the whispers in the wind warned, much more urgently.

“…I heard it that time,” Austin whimpered. Across the street behind the brothers, the flags atop the flagpole shifted directions. Tom looked grimly up at the pyramid.

“Do you have a pit in your stomach?” He asked.

“It’s more of a sinking feeling,” Austin described, centering his gaze at the entrance of the Egyptian tomb. “What do we do?”

“We leave,” Tom decided confidently.

“G-good call,” Austin nodded, turning to depart toward the clubhouse. “AHH!”

“Austin!” Tom cried. A hand made of sand, salt, and cigarette butts reached out from the golf cup and grabbed Austin by the ankle—trying to heave him off his feet.

“GET IT OFF! GET IT OFF!” The young brother screamed, trying desperately to hop away from the cup. Thinking quickly, Tom raised his putter over his head, using it like an axe to try and chop away at the sandy appendage. Failing at his endeavor, the older brother resorted to simply stomping on the hand. The hand relented, slinking back into the cup where it came from as the brothers scrambled away to the relative safety of a nearby bench outside the pyramid.

“I’m calling Mom,” Tom decided after taking a moment to catch his breath. He pulled out his phone, but quickly determined that there was no phone service. “I have no cell coverage!”

“You’re joking! This is a nightmare!” Austin exclaimed, stunned into silence. “Should we just make a break for it?”

“I don’t see any other options. The fence is too high to jump it; I can’t—” Tom started. He stopped himself as some bushes over by the oasis rustled. Tom and Austin swiveled their heads to the right just in time to see the animatronic crocodile emerge from the foliage—its lifeless eyes glued to the brothers and its mouth agape with sharpened teeth.

“H-hey, Tom…you see that too, right?” Austin asked rhetorically.

“Run!” Tom simply ordered. The brothers hurdled the bench, attempting to sprint toward the exit. Austin, however, grabbed Tom’s shoulder, preventing him from running right into a sea of quicksand; the ground seemed to shift and buckle as similar sandy hands from earlier scraped and crawled their way to the surface, attempting to grab anything within arm’s reach.  

“The pyramid,” Austin suggested frantically.

“Are you freaking crazy!?” Tom snarled, looking over his shoulder at the approaching crocodile.

“Do you have any better ideas!?” Austin countered. With a grimace, Tom wordlessly dashed toward the pyramid with his brother in tow. Narrowly missing a scorpion climbing up the wall, the brothers stormed into a labyrinth of a room. Each of the last four holes had its own designated area before leading out to Hole Eighteen. A crate of dynamite sat between the tee box and the cup on Hole Fourteen while the unnerving sound of dripping water filled their ears. Tom pointed at the crate.

“…If the animatronics are real,” he speculated, trying to catch his breath with a cough. “…Wouldn’t those be too?”

“…Yeah, cool idea,” Austin replied sarcastically between huffs of air. “How would we light them?”

“Crap, you’re right,” Tom cursed, spying a skeleton wearing a vest leaning up against the far wall near the entrance to Hole Fifteen. He rushed over, checking the pockets of the garment.

“What are you doing?” Austin questioned, watching as his brother held up a lighter in celebration.

“Help me get the lid off of this thing!” Asked Tom, looking over his brother’s shoulder at the growing shadow of the crocodile.

“Are we sure this is a good idea?” Austin inquired, helping Tom break open the crate. Sure enough, some stacks of dynamite lay unused inside. Tom picked up a stick, lit it, and tossed it back toward where they entered the pyramid as the crocodile rounded the corner.

“Move!” The older brother shouted, dragging his brother toward Hole Fifteen and diving behind the wall. A moment later, a loud boom echoed throughout the structure. The brother peered around the corner, seeing the scorched remains of the animatronic crocodile smoking in a pile of scattered debris.

“I can’t believe that worked…” muttered Austin under his breath with a dumbfounded tone in his voice.

“We’re not out of the woods yet! C’mon!” Tom snapped, turning his attention to Hole Fifteen. Continuing the theme of excavation, two wooden crates, one full of pickaxes and the other of jewels, obstructed would-be golfers from an easy shot at the cup. “Grab an axe!”

“And do what?” Demanded Austin with a stressful shrug of his shoulders. A brief moment of silence passed. “Tom!?”

“I’m thinking!” Protested Tom, collecting two pickaxes and handing one to his brother. “This way! Avoid any bunkers!” Tom and Austin moved toward Hole Sixteen.

 The cracked cement walls of Holes Fourteen and Fifteen, painted to look like aged stone slabs, transitioned to some generic hieroglyphics as two moths fluttered near some recess lights of a curved corridor. Making their way past the hallway, Tom and Austin arrived at Hole Sixteen—which had a narrow bridge over water between the tee box and the cup. Two large statues of Egyptian pharaohs wore matching nemeses and wielded similar crooks and flails flanked the hole; the Ankh symbol hung like a necklace around their necks, and their eyes glowed a greenish-yellow. Austin froze in place.

“Austin, Let’s go!” Tom insisted, looking over his shoulder.

“Tom, t–their moving!” Austin stuttered.

“What?” Tom asked, spinning around in time to catch the statues swiveling their heads toward the brothers. “Oh crap…” Gingerly stepping off their altars, the statues lifted their crooks and attempted to swing them at Tom and Austin as improvised weapons. Austin, snapping out of his stupor, ducked under the attack. Finding its way between the mortar joints of two bricks outlining the perimeter of the hole, the statue’s crook became stuck. Meanwhile, Tom swiped his pickaxe—shattering the right leg of one of the statues.

As the pharaoh stumbled into the pool of water, the second statue struggled to disentangle his crook from the mortar joint. Austin reeled back and swung his own pickaxe. The weapon became lodged into the neck of the pharaoh, prompting the younger brother to grab its handle and tug it backward, causing the statue’s head to crumble to the ground. As the pharaoh slumped forward, Tom jammed the eye of his pickaxe into the other statue’s face as it struggled to climb out of the water; the attack beheaded the pharaoh, sinking back down into the pool.

“What are these things made of, paper mâché!?” Austin pondered aloud, looking down at the carcasses at his feet.

“I don’t care, keep moving!” Tom insisted urgently. The brothers followed some more hieroglyphics down a short set of stairs to Hole Seventeen. A sarcophagus sat between the tee box and the cup, with bunkers on either side while more hieroglyphics surrounded the room. Tom and Austin attempted to rush toward the exit on the far side when a tremor knocked them off their feet. The ground began shaking intensely, causing dozens upon dozens of scorpions to flee out of the walls. Geysers of sand erupted out of the bunkers, beginning to fill the room while something pushed the lid off the sarcophagus.

“Austin, go, go, GO!” Tom yelled, forcibly dragging Austin to his feet and pushing him toward the exit. The brothers scrambled toward the open door, covering their faces from the spewing sand as a decaying, mummified hand rose out from the sarcophagus and gripped the edge of the casket. Emerging unscathed from the pyramid, Tom and Austin caught their breath while looking trepidatiously toward Hole Eighteen and the rattlesnake head awaiting them.

“…What’s this thing going to do?” Austin asked, nodding at the listless snake as it stared on with a frozen ferocity from behind a steel cage that prevented golf balls from escaping.

“…Don’t know, but at least we have these,” Tom answered, holding up his pickaxe—which had now converted to golf clubs. “What the hell!?”  Austin looked down at his hands, which were also now clutching a golf club as if it were a weapon.

“…What?” He sputtered. “That doesn’t make sense!?” A quizzical expression crossed Tom’s face as he checked the pockets of his jeans, pulling out two golf balls colored red and yellow.

“What just happened?” Tom asked aloud to no one in particular. “Did we just…Did we just hallucinate all that?”

“I don’t know,” Austin answered skeptically.

“You saw all that, too, right?” Tom pressed.

“Yeah, Tom,” Austin confirmed nervously. “I did. Should we even bother with Eighteen?”

“I don’t know,” Tom grimaced, checking his surroundings. “…The radio stopped again.”

“Yeah,” Austin responded miserably. “Let’s finish the game—I don’t want whatever that was in there following us home or whatever.”

“Go ahead,” Tom agreed, tossing the red golf ball to Austin before fishing his phone from his pocket to check the time. “We’ve been here over an hour; I’m going to try and call Mom again—let her and Dad know we’re ok.” Austin nodded as he placed his ball down onto the tee box and lined up to take his shot.

“HEY, NICE HOODIE!”  Someone called out from behind the younger brother. Austin froze. He turned to look with a harrowing expression firmly planted on his face. Two golfers around the same height as the brothers were standing together around Hole Ten. One golfer wore a grey sweatshirt while the other wore a blue T-shirt under a lightweight jacket—the same outfits Tom and Austin were currently wearing.

“…Tom!” Austin stammered.

“Just give me a second, Austin. I—” Tom started.

“TOM!” Austin interrupted, prompting the older brother to look up from his phone. “Look!”

“What the hell,” Tom muttered with an extreme case of Déjà vu. The golfer in the grey sweatshirt looked identical to Austin from a distance; the golfer with the blue T-shirt and lightweight jacket had a striking resemblance to Tom. The four golfers stared unsettlingly at each other. A minute passed, and then two minutes while Tom and Austin contemplated the scene in front of them.

“What is this?” Asked Austin. “What’s happening!”

“I don’t know…” Tom replied warily. Abruptly, the speakers came back to life, prompting the brothers to yelp in surprise once again. Tom and Austin quickly looked in the direction of the nearest speaker with a startled expression in their eye while a new song began to play. The brothers shifted their attention back to Hole Ten, seeing nothing as if what they had just seen was simply a mirage.  

“Was…” Austin lisped, rubbing his forehead. “Was that us?”

“Just hit the ball,” Tom retorted with exhaustion and a dry mouth. “I’m freaking done with all of this!”

The brothers proceeded to take their shots toward the rattlesnake’s mouth—neither one of them caring that both balls missed their target. Tom and Austin made their way back to the clubhouse, not noticing the piled skulls below the snake’s head or the remainder of the snake’s body, which was hidden by some bushes, extending past the steel cage: two humanoid lumps were struggling against the reptile’s flesh.

“Gentleman!” Littlewood greeted Tom and Austin as they limped their way through the open door. “How was the game—who won?”

“We, err…” Tom stuttered. “We lost track of the score.”

“Everything ok?” Littlewood asked concernedly.

“Yeah…” Austin replied unconvincingly. “Something weird happened on the Back Nine. The crocodile, the statues, and that mummy on Seventeen all came to life and attacked us.”

“…attacked you?” Littlewood repeated, furrowing his brow as he collected their clubs.

“Y-yeah,” Tom confirmed. “And then we saw ourselves over on Eighteen, and again on Ten…”

“Ok…” Littlewood responded suspiciously. “Have you two been drinking?”

“No!” The brothers asserted in unison.

“You know what, forget it,” Austin continued with a growing migraine. “We must have just been…I don’t know. You don’t have any ‘special effects’ here, do you?”

“Well, the camel spits water,” Littlewood explained, unnerved. “And the hippos used to dip their heads in the pond like they were drinking before the mechanism failed—I’m still waiting on the repair man to come fix it.”

“…But…but,” Tom stammered, attempting to make sense of everything that had happened to them.

“Tell you what,” Littlewood offered, reaching into a drawer below the counter. “Here’s a coupon for half-off your next round at any of our locations.”

“Thanks,” Austin murmured unenthusiastically, taking the coupon from Littlewood.

“Enjoy the rest of your night, gentleman!” The cashier nodded.

“…You too,” Tom waved. Littlewood tapped his fingers along the desk as he watched the brothers leave the mini golf. “…I don’t think you could pay me to play one of these courses again…”

“Yeah, I’m sorry,” Austin apologized as he and Tom made their way up the boardwalk. “We should have just played the castle course.”

“Do you still have that ‘sinking feeling?’” Tom asked.

“…I do,” Austin replied. “How about that ‘pit in your stomach?’”

“I still have it,” Tom advised. “It feels…I don’t know, empty.”

“Let’s go grab something to eat before trying to go find Mom and Dad,” Austin suggested. “It may make us feel better.”

Littlewood waited a few seconds more before walking outside himself, approaching the fortune teller’s machine. Under the purple veil, the fortune teller’s emotionless acrylic blue eyes stared back at Littlewood with an equally stoic smile. With her fingers encased with diamond and emerald rings hovering over the glowing crystal ball, the fortune teller wore a jeweled Ankh necklace over her purple cloak. As the nearby rollercoaster screamed by, Littlewood inspected the Byzantine mosaic design of the dark green box containing the fortune teller, noting the exterior’s scratches and blemishes along its side.

“FORTUNES & FEARS” was sprawled along the glass in big, bold red letters, while a small blue curtain draped behind the fortune teller.

“We had a deal,” Littlewood sternly spoke. A slight whirring sound penetrated the air as the machine printed a card and discharged it out of a slot next to where quarters could be inserted, prompting the cashier to look down. He picked up the card.

“The deal was that you would satiate my hunger,” the card read. “Someone is not holding up their end of the contract—and it’s not me.”

“How much more do you want!?” Interrogated Littlewood. “How many more people have to have their souls ripped apart before I can see my wife again!?” Another whirring sound emanated from the printer. Littlewood picked up the card as it was spit out of the machine.

“Until I say so,” the card read. Littlewood chuckled to himself.

“No,” the cashier seethed, pulling his phone from his pocket. “I’m done playing your game!” The machine released another card:

“You don’t want to see Clara again?” The card taunted.

“Oh no,” Littlewood snapped assuredly. “I am. It just won’t involve you.” The fortune teller began bleeding from its acrylic eyes before violently twitching and rattling within her box. Yet another card was printed:

“That is a mistake, Orson,” the card warned.

“You may have been able to feed off those kids, but you’re not getting damned near anything from me!” Littlewood argued, bringing the phone up to his ear after dialing a number. “Fear is only a four-letter word!”

“If that’s true,” another card read after being printed as a scowl cracked over the emotionless face of the fortune teller. “And you’re not scared, then why are you calling them?”

“Because I’m not the one who should be scared,” Littlewood countered as the phone rang. “You should be.” The rattling and twitching abruptly stopped as the fortune teller’s bloodied eyes stared on with dread.

“‘Meridian Surveying Technologies,’” a feminine voice with a British accent answered Littlewood’s call. “This is Edith. How can we help?”

Photo by Kayla Farmer on Unsplash