1                                                                      

I was restocking the pasta aisle when Margo invited me along on her graveyard outing. “I’m gonna cast a spell for good luck,” she said. Margo, an aspiring pagan with dark red hair, was one of the most dazzling women I’d ever met. Her invites, though, were never personal. It was never about us doing something together, but about her doing something and me keeping her company. “You’ll come, yeah?” she said. Her posture was pushy, like I owed her money. I slotted fettucine boxes into their row and considered telling her I already had plans. Margo knew better, though. Apart from trying to write a novel, I had no life outside work. I broke down and told her I’d go. Hissing in triumph, she said to meet her at the cemetery at seven, then rushed off to baked goods.

2

After work, in my meager apartment, I drank hot tea and thought about my dumb life. I was thirty and deeply depressed. The novel was slow, stupid, punishing work. I’d been in love with Margo since last autumn—a full, frustrating year. It was like caring for a pet who never cuddled you. I rarely laughed and cried on the regular. Maybe tonight, though. Maybe tonight, in the dark intimacy of the cemetery, things would heat up between us. I sipped tea and savored the burn.

3

Margo was waiting at the cemetery entrance when I arrived. “Ready for some fun?” she said. I followed her into the dusky graveyard. Margo’s red hair slithered in the light breeze. At an open space, she started chanting, then took out a flask and splashed fragrant liquid all over the ground. “Can you feel it?” she whispered. This is the cruddy part of the story, the part that torments me. Because I did feel it. The air tasted foul, like festering animal shit. But instead of asking why, I just nodded. “It takes time to fully manifest,” she said. “Let’s get drinks, then come back later.”

We headed back to the entrance. Night had fallen, leaves crunched underfoot. Margo’s dress, black and gauzy, swished as she walked. I took a deep breath and asked her, not for the first time, if we could have dinner sometime. “Sorry, kiddo,” she said. “I like you, but not to date.” I winced. It was her most blatant rejection yet—the first one to feel final. I told her I was going to quit the gourmet market. She smirked. “To do what? Write?” She said “write” the same way you’d say “suck.” When I didn’t reply, she said, “Well, there’s always McDonald’s, right?” Growling, I told her I’d piss in her fries. Margo snorted. Her expression was elusive. I couldn’t tell if she was amused, or annoyed, or pissed. “You never could take a joke,” she said finally.  

4

The bar was dark and glum and decorated for Halloween. In the restroom, in a rusty stall, I cried like an inmate and wondered if I’d ever have guts enough to go live in the mountains. Back in our booth, I sipped root beer while Margo chattered and guzzled wine. She’d never done a luck spell before; if it worked, and the ground lit up glowingly where her potion had landed, good fortune would accrue to her forever. I grinned sadly. On the wall beside me there was a spider-web made of orange tinsel. In the center a plastic spider, black and shiny, hovered menacingly.

5

Back at the cemetery, Margo and I stood around restlessly. I said I felt like Linus waiting for the Great Pumpkin. “Funny,” she said. “Just wait, it’s gonna glow.” And just before midnight, it did. Margo squealed in delight. But then the glow, coarsely violet, shot up from the grass. I stumbled. Margo was unfazed. “Something’s amiss, but don’t worry,” she said, taking my hand, to calm me or to keep me there. The glow thickened into a stenching solid. I said we had to leave right now. She shook her head. The solid became demonic. I took Margo’s arm and tried to pull her away, but she pried free and told me not to be a pussy. I flipped. “Margo, it’s called survival! Let’s go!”

But she wouldn’t. So I left her. I hauled ass toward the cemetery entrance, dodging trees and graves. When Margo called out for me, I turned and saw that the cackling demon had pinned her to the ground and was clawing into her flesh. Its smile was unspeakable. I felt a sick misery but kept moving. “You’ll regret this!” Margo screamed. “You’ll be sadder than ever.” Even then, I knew she was right. The hideous future loomed. Reaching the entrance, I took a last look and saw that it was already over. The demon had vanished. Margo was a twitching, mauled corpse. Shock enveloped me. Even now, months later, I’m lost. The shock has faded, but my depression has worsened. Though I’ve tried everything—therapy, meds, hard drugs—it clings viciously, like an evil koala. I’ve recounted the night endlessly, to cops, to coworkers, trying to convince them that it really happened, and that I absolutely tried to save her, though okay, I probably would’ve stayed and died with her if she were my girlfriend. Local pagans, none of whom knew Margo, have varying takes. Some say she perhaps believed she was powerful enough to banish a stray demon. Others feel it was all a setup that backfired—that her plan was to summon a demon and sacrifice me to it. I’m so tired of thinking, explaining, arguing. To survive is to suffer. Fuck you, Margo. I’m wrecked. Not even sleep is safe. The nightmares! That smile, that unspeakable smile.

Mark Benedict is a graduate of the MFA Writing program at Sarah Lawrence College. He has previously published in Columbia Journal, Hobart, Menacing Hedge, Rue Morgue, and Tor.com. His publications include short stories, author interviews, and book and movie reviews. You can read more of his writing at markbenedict.net.