In our town, there’s a saying: Luck isn’t always good luck. People whispered it to each other like a warning, and it was always accompanied by a shiver down the spine. I never gave it much thought, though, not until the day I found that cursed token.
On a particularly cold morning, I was walking down Main Street when something caught my eye. Glinting in the gutter was a coin-like token, burnished with age and inscribed with symbols I couldn’t recognize.
Lucky day, I thought, picking it up. It was surprisingly heavy, and as my fingers wrapped around it, I felt a weird tingle run up my arm. I stared at it for a moment, captivated. Without really thinking, I slipped it into my pocket.
As the day went on, strange things began to happen. At first, they seemed like mere coincidences. A sudden gust of wind blew a ten-dollar bill straight into my path. The coffee shop gave me a free drink because they’d “made an extra by accident.” Everything was going my way, and I felt invincible.
By evening, my elation began to morph into confusion. At the local pub, I played the darts game of my life, hitting bullseye after bullseye as if some unseen force was guiding my hand. When I went to collect my winnings from a bet, the bartender hesitated, a look of concern crossing his face.
“You’ve got something there,” he said, nodding at my pocket where the token rested. I pulled it out, showing it to him. His face paled.
“Where did you find this?” He whispered, glancing nervously around the room.
“Just on the street,” I replied, suddenly feeling a cold dread in the pit of my stomach.
He leaned in, his voice urgent. “You need to get rid of that. It’s not what you think. It’s… it’s cursed.”
I scoffed. “Cursed? Come on.”
But he was adamant. “Listen to me. Everyone who’s ever had that token has met a horrifying end. It gives you luck, yes, but it’s not the kind of luck you want.”
As he spoke, I noticed the other patrons were giving me wide berths, their eyes filled with a mix of pity and terror. I felt a bead of sweat trickle down my temple.
That night, I was restless. Every shadow seemed to elongate, twisting into grotesque shapes. The wind outside howled like tortured souls, and I could hear whispers that seemed to come from within the walls of my house.
Just your imagination, I told myself. But deep down, a gnawing sense of dread had taken hold.
The next morning, I decided to return the token where I found it. As I retraced my steps, the town seemed different. The streets were empty, the buildings derelict. It was as if the very life had been sucked out of the place. And then, I heard it – the distant, eerie sound of children singing:
Keep the token, pass it on,
Or your luck will soon be gone.
Take a chance, make a bet,
Death’s a debt you won’t forget.
The singing grew louder, and I started to run. But no matter how fast I moved, the sound seemed to be right behind me, the voices echoing in a nightmarish chorus.
I reached the spot where I’d found the token and threw it into the gutter, hoping it would end the madness. But as soon as it left my hand, I felt a sharp pain in my chest. Gasping for breath, I collapsed onto the ground.
As my vision blurred, I saw figures emerging from the shadows: ghostly children with hollow eyes, their mouths open in a silent scream. They circled around me, their fingers pointing accusingly.
And then, as the darkness closed in, I heard one final whisper: Luck isn’t always good luck.
I woke up in a cold sweat, panting heavily. It was pitch black, and the oppressive weight of silence pressed down on me. The memories of the past day – the token, the bizarre luck, and the ghostly children – flooded back.
Struggling to my feet, I tried to make sense of my surroundings. I was in an old, abandoned building, its walls crumbling and covered in moss. The air was thick with dust, and a sickly green light filtered in through the broken windows.
As I explored, I realized I was not alone. The ghostly children were everywhere, their eyes following my every move. They didn’t speak, but their silence was more haunting than any scream. And amongst them was the bartender from the pub, his face twisted in eternal torment.
“Why are you here?” I asked him, my voice trembling.
He pointed to the token, which was now embedded in my palm. The pain was unbearable, but I couldn’t remove it.
“You’re one of us now,” he whispered. “Bound by the curse of the token. We were all once like you, tempted by its promise of luck. But the price is too high. It feeds on our souls, trapping us here forever.”
Despair washed over me. Was there no escape? I had to find a way out. As I searched for an exit, the ghostly children began to close in, their hands reaching out, eager to drag me into the depths of the curse.
The only way out was a rotting wooden door. I raced towards it, pushing it open with all my might. But beyond was not the world I knew. Instead, I found myself on the edge of a vast, swirling vortex. The very fabric of reality seemed to be unraveling, and I felt myself being pulled towards its center.
“No!” I screamed, trying to fight against the force. But it was too strong.
As I was sucked into the vortex, a deafening roar filled my ears. The last thing I saw was the faces of the ghostly children, their eyes filled with a mixture of pity and malice.
Time and space lost all meaning as I tumbled through the vortex. Images from my life flashed before my eyes – moments of joy, sorrow, love, and regret.
Then, just as suddenly as it began, I was thrust into another realm. I was standing at the edge of a vast, pitch-black abyss. In the distance, I could see a faint, flickering light – the only source of illumination in this bleak void.
A booming voice echoed through the darkness. “You have been chosen by the token. Will you accept your fate, or will you gamble for another chance?”
I looked around, desperately trying to find the source of the voice. “What do you mean, ‘gamble’?”
The voice chuckled. “The token offers you a game. A game of life and death. Win, and you may return to your world. Lose, and you will be condemned to this void for all eternity.”
Desperation gripped me. “What’s the game?”
A pair of dice appeared before me, floating in mid-air. “Roll the dice,” the voice commanded. “If you roll a seven or eleven, you win. Any other number, and you lose.”
My heart pounded in my chest. This was it. My one chance at redemption. Taking a deep breath, I reached out and grabbed the dice.
They felt cold and heavy in my hand. I could feel the weight of my fate resting on this one roll.
Closing my eyes, I whispered a silent prayer and released the dice. They tumbled through the void, their clatter echoing ominously.
Time seemed to stand still as I waited for them to come to rest. When I finally dared to open my eyes, I saw the numbers facing up: a three and a four.
A seven.
The void erupted in a blinding light, and I was enveloped in a warm, comforting embrace. When the light finally faded, I found myself back on Main Street, the familiar sights and sounds of my town surrounding me.
The token was gone, vanished without a trace. But the memories remained, a haunting reminder of the price of luck.
I don’t know why I was chosen, or what force governed the token’s dark power. But one thing was clear: luck isn’t always good luck. And sometimes, the cost is too high.
From that day on, I avoided any form of gamble or risk. The terror of that experience was forever etched into my soul. And every time I walked down Main Street, I couldn’t help but glance at the gutter, half-expecting to see the cursed token glinting back at me.
But it was gone. Or so I thought…
Because one day, as I was leaving the pub, a young man approached me. In his hand, he held a familiar, burnished token.
“Hey,” he said with a grin. “Want to try your luck?”
And as I stared in horror, I realized that the cycle was beginning anew. The token had found its next victim.