Curse of the Black Dog by J Webb Garrett

Author:J Webb Garrett [Garrett, J Webb]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2018-11-02T00:00:00+00:00

Once more, I open my eyes. This time, however, I have actual eyes to open. Sadly, I don’t discover anything good. I’m still naked, laying on a cold glass floor. There are glass walls too, rounded ones. Close. Good thing I’m not claustrophobic, or else this would be a very unusual vision of hell. Ceiling… is copper? With a bunch of holes poked in it? Is this a jar? Am I in a giant jar? No, it only looks big because I’ve been shrunk! Someone has turned me tiny! Dammit, I was already short enough!

The jar isn’t the only thing that’s proportionally gianormous. Beyond my glass prison, there’s a large stained wood floor with a huge black plastic log with big, colorful buttons. A remote. A t.v. remote as long as a big-rig trailer. There are also giant candles the size of trees set all around the jar, and a handkerchief as big as a full living room rug running beneath me and my see-through prison, an elaborate circle lined with a multitude of geometric patterns - the foundation for a summoning spell - drawn on it in what I hope is hot sauce.

I guarantee it’s not hot sauce.

A summoning spell? I was summoned? Is that even possible? It’s the only thing making any sense, given what I’m looking at. Shit. But who could--

The jar shakes, a six-point-zero earthquake knocking me off my feet even as I use the side of the glass for support. A sharp, stabbing pain races through my arm as I fall. My wound is still there. Dammit, so much for hoping going all Trianic - major geek reference there - would make it go away. I’m still under the black dog’s curse. Worse, it’s bleeding again thanks to my lack of bandages and that spill I took. I clutch my wrist, my hand trembling like a flag in a tornado. Fuck me, it hurts!

Another quake shakes the jar, followed by another, with more following in an increasing, rhythmic pattern. I can make a good guess as to what these quakes are. Next will come a giant, bellowing ‘Fee-fi-fo-funt, I smell the blood of an Irish cunt.’ Altered for accuracy. The quakes keep coming until their sources reveal themselves. Appearing from around the divide leading to a familiar stairway comes a gigantic version of Jenny with an equally enormous Trish behind her.

Jenny’s eyes fall on my prison-jar as soon as she enters the room. She laughs, excitedly. “It worked!” she cheers, her voice trumpeting with the ferocity of an angry storm god. “See?” she asks her awestruck lackey. “Are you seeing this? I told you it was her!”

Trish is dumbfounded, her dark eyes locked onto my now miniscule form. Recalling my nakedness, I cover myself as best I can. She continues to stare, her mouth agape. “I don’t believe it,” she whispers, a shout to my tiny ears, “you… you were her all along?” Her hands come to cover her lips as she speaks. She’s shaking.

She knows who I am.

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