I have taken inspiration from the master of dark tales himself, Mr. Stephen King. And to all who tricks or treats …or does both, Happy All Hallow’s Eve.
The story takes place in the Italian town of Pisa, home of the Gypsies and their curses. Do you believe?
“With customary expertise, he’d gotten the waitress’s name and number. Another easy lay. But then, for Charles Weston, it never was difficult. He was Adonis in the flesh with luxurious blonde hair and a perennial tan. It also didn’t hurt that, as top salesman, he had access to any sportscar of his choosing.
Yes, for Charles Weston, it was a typically perfect day as he steered the white Ferrari down the highway, checking his reflection in the rear-view and running his comb through those thick, gorgeous locks.
He noticed the Gypsies up ahead in their horse-drawn wagons, with three strings of goats and a loose gaggle of children. He was gearing up to whiz past when, suddenly, a small, pink form darted right into his path, followed by a snot-nosed Gypsy boy.
“Dammit!” Charles jerked the wheel and locked his brakes. He barely missed the boy but caught the mutt head on, flinging it up into the air and onto his hood. Blood splattered against the windshield. Screeching to a halt, Charles watched, transfixed, as the dog slid across the glass and then thudded back onto the asphalt.
He jumped out, furious, as the boy, and then the others, gathered around.
“Dammit, kid! Look what your mutt did to my car! If there’s any damage I’m coming for you folks, and you’ll pay. You can bet on that–you’ll pay!”
The boy had retrieved his small, bloody mongrel. It was almost hairless and already stank. He clutched its bruised, limp body to himself.
Charles turned up his nose. Damn thing’s got the mange.
“You killed him. You killed Fluffy!” The kid was standing there in shameless tears.
“Fluffy? Kid, a few more weeks and you’d a had to call him Slick!” Charles turned to go. “And I meant what I said about my car, too.”
He was bent over, about to crawl back behind the wheel, when he felt a tiny hand upon his head. He was suddenly immobilized by a slow, hypnotic voice. “My grandfather told me how to deal with people like you. I invoke the curse. I curse you!” The last word was a long, drawn out whisper:
Charles Weston woke early the next morning and stepped in for a cold, brisk shower. He wanted to be packed and out of the hotel before sleeping blondie, whatever her name was, awoke. Before he finished, however, the drain had clogged, standing him in an inch of water. He reached down and pulled out a wad of thick, luxurious blonde hairs.”