Writetober 2025, Coven of the Quill, Day 4: The Price of Desire

The air in the bayou was a heavy drape smelling of cypress and decaying earth. Ethel leaned over the side of her canoe to observe the lake, her reflection broken by the movement of the water. She knew the creature was there.

"I know you can hear me, old one," she whispered, her voice a small thing against the repetitive drone of the cicadas.

The water barely rippled. Then, a single, enormous eye slowly rose to the surface. It was not malevolent, nor kindly—only weary. This was The Wish-Eater, the swamp's poorly-kept secret.

"You seek a wish," the creature's voice was a heavy presence. It knew what she wanted.

"I want her back," Ethel stammered, the words catching in her throat. "I want Gramma back. The way she was before, uh... everything. You know..."

The amber eye focused. Not on her face, but on the thread of memory woven into her words. "You know the cost," the Wish-Eater pulsed. "I will grant you your full desire. She will be as she was. But in that same moment, all of it will pass to me. Every memory of every empty chair, every birthday celebrated alone, every moment you realized she was truly gone. Every single loss you have ever carried."

Ethel's life was an assortment of small, sharp heartbreaks. It culminated in the vast hole left by Gramma. Her mother’s silence after her father left. The friend who moved away without a goodbye. And then, her grandmother's cold skin beneath her fingers.

She closed her eyes. The idea of losing the grief felt as terrifying as losing the love itself, as if the grief was the last link to her grandma. But the memory of Gramma's laugh was stronger. The desire for a single, perfect tomorrow with her was a gravitational pull.

"I accept," she said, her voice finally steady. "Take it all."

An inward ripple passed over the water, collapsing into itself. The creature's eye grew wide. It was a blinding burst of color—gold, then deep, screaming violet—as the memories poured out of Ethel's mind and into the creature's awareness.

But it was more than just the memories. It was the crushing ache of missing someone who would never return. It was a lifetime of her sorrow, condensed into a single agonizing wave.

The Wish-Eater sank slowly, its amber eye dimming, dulling, until it was just a dark, smooth stone receding into the depths. The water stilled completely.

Ethel opened her eyes. The swamp air felt lighter. Her mind was a polished slate. The deep ache was gone, and in its place was an almost giddy anticipation.

She turned her canoe around and paddled back toward the dock. As she stepped onto the cracked wooden planks, a familiar figure was waiting for her. She was sitting on a bench, a blue ceramic mug cradled in her hands, her white hair braided just the way Ethel remembered—the way she remembered it being when she was a child.

Gramma.

Ethel stopped, the cracked wood cool beneath her bare feet. The old woman looked up, her face creasing into a bright, easy smile—the smile that had faded from Ethel's life long ago.

"Took you long enough, sleepyhead," Gramma said, setting the mug down. Her voice was steady, not the fragmented sound Ethel had last heard. "I was just watching the light start to go. Thought you’d never come home."

She stood up. Her steps were firm. She walked toward Ethel, her hand extended. It was warm, solid, and perfect. 

written by Zoe