She Peels A Soul

She Peels a Soul

The first day it stared at her.

The second day it smirked.

The third it spoke.

She hated that thing. He had brought it home from one of his “so-called” business trips. Said he needed it to watch her. To make sure she did as she was supposed to. But only cheating men worry about what their women do.

She cut her thumb on a granny smith that was meant for the deep-dish cobbler. Red blood trickled into the mixing bowl. It giggled behind her.

“Do you even know what you’re doing?” It spoke as if it had just found its voice—staccato, self-assured, mocking. Its rasp grated through her, like metal on ancient bone, and for a moment she stood paralyzed.

When the pressure relented, she gasped loudly and turned around—peeler in hand, “Shut up!” But she wouldn’t dare touch it. She knew better than to risk it absorbing her soul.

Even her husband had worn gloves when he placed it on the shelf.

“It’s beautiful,” he had said that day, as its black eyes of death had rolled in their sockets. His eyes, though, had been misty grey. The color that reminded her it was mating season, and she should be satisfied with his unwanted gifts while he satisfied himself in his lust.

No wonder he had lost so many wives.

Later that night—after he had dressed and walked out into the night—she had convened with the Voodoo Priestess. It had not been easy; it had fixated on her the moment he had brought it home. But the Priestess had her own mysterious ways.

“Guard your heart, my child.” Her voice had crackled like fire. “Dis ‘ting knows what’s inside you, and it will take what’s yours.”

She cracked another egg into the bowl.

It whispered behind her now. “Come closer.” Its voice heavier, older, warm. “Let us speak as women do.” It sounded like her Grandmuhma.

She looked up from the cup of sugar she had just poured into the bowl, and in her periphery, it crept closer. The measuring cup slipped from her hand and half its contents spilled onto the floor.

“I want to help you.” Its voice crackled like the Voodoo Priestess, and the hair of her neck stood up. She caught her breath but turned the oven to 425.

The spoon hovered mid-air, filled with vanilla extract, when it spoke again. Louder this time. “I will take what is yours.” It paused, as if patiently waiting. “And you will give it to me. You will give to me heart and soul.”

She whirled around. “I will not,” she screamed—sickened by the suggestion, and the fact that this voice was her own.

“You will,” it hissed through jagged teeth, and then it thrust a mason jar onto the ceramic floor. 

She looked around the room wildly. Was there nothing she could use—a broom or a mop handle, something she could use to knock it from its prideful perch and smash it to smithereens just like it had done to the jar?

But no, he would know. And then she would be disciplined.

Besides, the light of the sun that shone through the kitchen window kept it at bay. It would never cross the light.

She looked up from the floor and caught it smiling at her, like a woman who understood things she had yet to realize.

Perhaps it could read her mind.

She turned back to her pie, unable to meet its stare.

Tonight, she would sleep with the door closed and locked. Even though she loved the way the blue moon shone into her bedroom. She would lock her door tight; she wasn’t sure that moonlight would be enough. That thing would not creep in. Neither would her husband. 

The Priestess had given her roots and berries as protection. “We must guard ourselves from that which is unclean, my child.” She had anointed her with oil and a kiss and said a gift—heart and soul—would save her.

Her heart?

She had already given everything—her hopes, her dreams, her wishes—but he would not stay. And now her heart? But her hands were making cobbler—a dish that he loved. She could have owned a bakery, but once more she found herself giving what was in her heart.

No, she could not have owned one. That was not her wifely duty. Or so he said. Her duty was to care for him when he was sick and cater to him when he was well.

She had thought he might be kind if he were well. Yet, their bathroom was filled with prescriptions she didn’t understand and medicine that he would not explain. It did not make him kind. It made him strong, though not for her bed.

Although, she did not want that either. She wanted to dissolve, like the rest—gone without sound, without trace.

It dragged its nails against the wall ripping the paper as it did, and a chill clawed up her spine.

She glanced at the sunlight between them.

“Allspice,” it whispered—so clear, so direct, it could have been him.

She always used cinnamon, nutmeg, and ginger. Never allspice. She didn’t even keep it in the house. But he was always right—and she didn’t have the strength to fight. Not with the weight of its words crushing her. Besides, the spice was already at her fingertips, and he’d be home soon—long enough just to eat—and the cobbler needed seventy minutes in the oven.

He came home at 5:15, a few minutes early but smelling of that woman who lived just two streets away.

Her shoulders tightened as he entered; the scent of the Priestess’s roots filled the air. Tea sat within her grasp—that thing stared from the far side of the room.

The sun had started to set.

He rushed to take his medicine. 

She rose and served him.

The cobbler put a smile on his face; apple was his favorite. Heat rose from it with such ferocity that even the freeze of vanilla bean would not soothe it. He dug in deeply, though he said he would only have a couple bites—he had to return to work for a meeting. But surely, he was going back to see that woman.

Somewhere between the second bite and the third bite, his throat closed.

He stood up, eyes wide, and stumbled back. His arms thrashed wildly as he struggled for the air his lungs chose to deny him.

“What have you done?” His eyes seemed to scream.

He fell back and hit the shelf. It toppled, and that thing landed on top of him.

It grinned wide.

She screamed sharply.

His pupils dilated in terror, and he reached out to her. She did not reach back.

Under the light of the moon, she rushed to the Voodoo Priestess.

“It has eaten my husband!”

But the Priestess wrapped her arms around her. “Hush, child. It’s taken what was yours. But dat part? You shoulda given it long ago. Dat part shoulda never been in your heart or soul.”

When she returned home, she found neither it nor her husband. Only a slice of apple cobbler remained, soothed by the cool of the vanilla bean.

And a prescription with a medical warning.

She burned it with the candle, then made herself that cup of tea.