The High Priestess’ Game – Chapter 4
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Chapter 4
The book felt impossibly heavy in my hands as I fumbled with the keys to my apartment, as if the weight of centuries pressed against my fingertips. Not just paper and binding, but something more—something alive with possibility and danger. The spine cracked slightly as I shifted it under my arm, its leather cover worn to a shine in places, the gold lettering faded to ghostly impressions. Whatever title it once bore had been erased by countless hands before mine.
I pushed the door open, stepping into the familiar dimness of my living room. The setting sun filtered weakly through the half-drawn blinds, casting long fingers of shadow across the faded carpet. My breath caught in my throat. The shadows seemed to move differently tonight, elongating and contracting with a rhythm all their own.
“You got it then,” said a voice at my ear.
I didn’t scream. I’d grown accustomed to Mister B.’s sudden appearances, though my heart still leapt traitorously in my chest.
“Yes,” I whispered, oddly reluctant to speak at full volume. “The Shopkeeper almost wouldn’t sell it to me.”
Mister B. materialized fully now, his form shimmering at the edges like heat rising from summer pavement. His presence filled the room with a subtle chill that raised goosebumps along my arms.
“Course he wouldn’t,” Mister B. snorted, drifting closer. “Probably thought you’d do something stupid with it.”
“Like what I’m actually planning to do?” I set the book down on my kitchen table, running my fingertips over its cover. The leather felt warm, almost feverish.
“There’s stupid and there’s necessary, Rahel.” His tone softened, an unusual gentleness from the typically sharp-tongued spirit. “Sometimes they look the same to outsiders.”
I nodded, not trusting my voice. The weight of what I was about to attempt settled in my stomach like a stone.
“Are you afraid?” Mister B. asked, his spectral form drifting to hover beside the table.
“Wouldn’t you be?” I countered, finally meeting his gaze. His eyes held no reflection, no light—just ancient knowledge that sometimes terrified me.
“Smart people know when to be afraid,” he replied. “Let me help you find what you need.”
I carefully opened the book, wincing at the brittle crackle of the aged pages. The musty scent of old paper and something else—something earthy and metallic—filled my nostrils.
“Can you even touch it?” I asked, watching as Mister B.’s translucent fingers hovered over the yellowed pages.
“Not exactly touch,” he murmured, his brow furrowing in concentration. “But I can feel it. The energy. The intentions woven into the ink.”
I began to turn the pages slowly, revealing handwritten spells in various languages and scripts. Some pages bore illustrations that made my skin crawl—hands contorted into impossible positions, eyes floating detached from faces.
“The right spell has a… vibration to it,” Mister B. explained, his fingertips tracing patterns just above the surface of the paper. “Like recognizing a melody you’ve never heard before.”
“What if I can’t feel it?” The question escaped before I could stop it, revealing the insecurity that gnawed at me. “What if I’m not—”
“You are,” he interrupted, his tone leaving no room for argument. “I wouldn’t waste my afterlife on someone who wasn’t capable.”
I smiled despite myself. Mister B.’s version of comfort always came wrapped in impatience.
“Keep turning,” he urged, leaning closer to the pages. “Slower now.”
The shadows around us seemed to deepen as I carefully turned each fragile page, my fingers trembling slightly. Was it my imagination, or were the lights dimming?
“Mister B.,” I whispered, “is the book doing something to the room?”
He didn’t answer immediately, his attention fixed on the pages before us. “Old magic recognizes intent,” he finally said. “It’s… waking up to your presence.”
A chill ran down my spine that had nothing to do with Mister B.’s ghostly aura.
“Is that dangerous?”
“Only if you’re careless,” he replied, his eyes still scanning the pages. “And you won’t be. I won’t let you be.”
I swallowed hard, strangely comforted by his confidence in me—a confidence I didn’t entirely share. The shadows continued their strange dance across the walls as I turned page after page, searching for salvation in ancient gambling magic, my last desperate hope.
The air in the room thickened, growing dense with something I couldn’t name but could certainly feel. A familiar warmth spread through the room, distinct from Mister B.’s cool presence.
“Grandpa?” I whispered, my voice barely audible.
His form materialized slowly—first as a gentle ripple in the air, then gradually taking shape until he stood beside us. The creases around his eyes deepened as he smiled.
“I thought you might need some guidance, my child,“ he said, his voice like autumn leaves rustling.
“Perfect timing,” I replied, relief washing over me. Where Mister B. was all sharp edges and impatience, Grandpa had always been my anchor.
He moved closer, peering over my shoulder at the book. His presence steadied my trembling hands.
“You remember this book, don’t you?” I asked.
“Hmm,” he nodded, his spectral fingers hovering just above the pages. “I remember its weight. Its possibilities.”
As I turned to page fourteen, Grandpa made a soft sound of recognition. “That one has merit,” he murmured, “but keep looking.”
I continued turning the brittle pages, each one filled with spidery handwriting and curious diagrams. Page sixteen earned a thoughtful nod from Grandpa. Page nineteen brought a slight frown to his face.
“What is it?” I asked.
“Nothing harmful,” he assured me. “Just… incomplete. The author understood the mechanics but not the heart.”
Mister B. snorted. “Most spellcrafters are like that. All technique, no understanding.”
I smiled at their bickering.
“I think,” Grandpa said, his voice dropping lower, “that you’ll find what you need if you keep going.”
The book seemed to grow heavier in my hands as I turned to page twenty-one. The text here was different—darker ink, more deliberate strokes. A small illustration of dice and playing cards bordered the margin.
Mister B. leaned in suddenly, his ghostly form pressing closer. “That one,” he whispered, his voice an urgent murmur in my ear. “That’s the spell we need.”
Something in his tone made me hesitate. The air in the room seemed to shift, growing colder around the edges while remaining unnaturally warm near the book.
“Are you certain?” I asked, my fingers frozen on the page.
“Absolutely,” Mister B. insisted. “Look at the components—simple, discreet, powerful. Perfect for what we need.”
I scanned the page, taking in the ritual requirements. It did seem straightforward enough, but something felt… off. The energy in the room had changed the moment we’d landed on this page, as though the very air was holding its breath.
“I don’t know,” I said slowly. “Something doesn’t feel right.”
Grandpa remained silent, his expression unreadable as he studied the spell.
“Trust me,” Mister B. pressed. “When have I ever steered you wrong?”
I could think of several occasions, actually, but held my tongue. The desperation of my situation weighed on me—the threats, the dwindling time. Maybe Mister B. was right. Maybe my hesitation was just fear.
“What exactly would this spell do?” I asked, still not committing.
“It creates a pathway to fortune,” Mister B. explained. “Not by manipulating the games themselves, but by aligning your energy with winning patterns. You’ll naturally make the right choices, sit at the right tables.”
It sounded perfect. Too perfect.
“And the cost?” I asked, because there was always a cost.
Mister B. waved a dismissive hand. “Minimal. A small offering, a bit of your time.”
The lights flickered briefly, and I sensed Grandpa’s disapproval though he hadn’t spoken a word.
“Grandpa?” I looked to him, seeking his wisdom, the steadying force that had guided me through childhood and beyond.
“Stop right there.”
The voice sliced through the room like a winter draft. Auntie materialized at the edge of my vision, her spectral form more defined than I’d ever seen it, edges sharp with indignation.
“Mister B., you ought to be ashamed,” she said, gliding toward us with purposeful strides that somehow made no sound. “Page twenty-one? You’d have her soul hollowed out before the week’s end.”
Mister B.’s form flickered with agitation. “The girl needs results, not your ancient caution.”
“And she’ll get them without sacrificing herself.” Auntie’s tone brooked no argument. She placed her translucent hand over the book, passing through it to turn the pages with a disturbance of energy rather than physical contact. The pages riffled as though caught in a wind until they settled on page seventy-two.
“Here,” she said, her voice softening as she addressed me. “This is what you need.”
I peered at the yellowed page. The script was different here—less ominous, more flowing. “How do you know this one?”
Auntie’s expression shifted, a shadow of remembrance passing across her face. “Because I used it myself, long ago. I needed to win enough to start my new business.”
I touched the page reverently. “It worked for you?”
“It did. And it comes without the…attachments…Mister B.’s suggestion would have required.” She shot him a withering look.
Mister B. huffed, his form dimming slightly. “It’s slower.”
“It’s safer,” Auntie countered. “Now hush.”
She began to explain, tracing ethereal fingers over the instructions. “First, you must cleanse yourself. Psalm twenty-three, recited twenty-one times while bathing. The water carries away misfortune, and the psalm creates a protective frequency around you.”
My heart sank. “Auntie, I don’t have a bathtub in this apartment. Just a shower stall.” The crushing weight of futility threatened to descend once more. Even when hope appeared, some mundane obstacle arose to block my path.
I glanced around my tiny studio apartment, as if a bathtub might materialize if I wished hard enough. The dingy walls seemed to close in, mocking my desperation.
“Could I…” I hesitated, mind racing. “Could I use the laundromat sink? Or maybe fill buckets and—”
Auntie’s expression softened, seeing my distress. “Child, the ritual adapts to necessity. What matters is the water flowing over you, carrying away what needs to be released.”
I bit my lip, unconvinced. “You’re sure it will work the same?”
“The form changes, but the essence remains,” she said with quiet certainty. “Besides, we’re here to guide you through it.”
My throat tightened with sudden emotion. Even in death, they were trying to protect me, guide me. I nodded, unable to speak for a moment.
“What else will I need?” I finally managed, turning back to the worn page before me.
Grandpa’s spirit drifted forward, the edges of his form shimmering slightly in the apartment’s dim light.
“Shower will work just fine, honey,“ he said, his voice carrying that same gentle cadence I remembered from childhood. “The water is what matters—flowing water takes things away. Always has. River, rain, tears, or shower—it’s all the same to the old powers.”
His calm certainty washed over me like a balm. The tension in my shoulders eased slightly.
“You really think so?” I whispered.
“I know so.” He smiled, that crinkle-eyed smile that I loved so much. „Back in the day, we didn’t have fancy bathtubs. Just creek water and prayer. And it worked then. It’ll work now.”
I exhaled slowly. “Okay. Shower it is.”
“That’s my girl,” Grandpa nodded. “No need to overthink. The universe doesn’t care about plumbing fixtures.”
Despite everything, I laughed—a small, fragile sound that surprised me.
Twenty minutes later, I stood in my tiny bathroom, steam beginning to fog the mirror as hot water drummed against the shower curtain.
“Water temperature matters,” Grandpa instructed, his presence somehow modest, positioned near the sink rather than intruding on my space. “Not too hot, not too cold. You want to be comfortable enough to focus on the words.”
I adjusted the knobs, testing the spray with my hand.
“Ready?” I called over the hiss of water.
“Remember,” Grandpa said, his voice taking on that somber tone he used for important lessons, “this isn’t just about saying the words. You have to feel them. Psalm twenty-three has power because of what it means—protection, guidance, comfort in darkness. Channel that energy when you speak.”
I nodded, stepping under the spray, letting water rund own my head and body.
“Start with a deep breath,” Grandpa coached. “Let the first words come from somewhere deeper than your throat.”
I closed my eyes, feeling water trace paths down my face like tears.
“The Lord is my shepherd,” I began, my voice uncertain at first, “I shall not want…”
“Slower,” Grandpa instructed gently. “Feel each word. It’s not a race.”
I started again, the familiar verses flowing more deliberately this time.
The Lord is my shepherd; I shall not want.
He maketh me to lie down in green pastures: he leadeth me beside the still waters.
He restoreth my soul: he leadeth me in the paths of righteousness for his name’s sake.
Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil: for thou art with me; thy rod and thy staff they comfort me.
Thou preparest a table before me in the presence of mine enemies: thou anointest my head with oil; my cup runneth over.
Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life: and I will dwell in the house of the Lord for ever.
The water pattered against my skin, and I imagined it washing away all bad energies—carrying with it the fear, the desperation, bad luck.
“…He restoreth my soul,” I repeated another time, something shifting inside me with each word. “He leadeth me in the paths of righteousness for His name’s sake…”
By the third repetition, the words had taken on a rhythm that matched the shower’s steady beat. By the seventh, I no longer needed to think about them—they flowed from some place beyond conscious thought.
“That’s it,” Grandpa murmured. “Feel the frequency of it. Let it vibrate through you.”
And somehow, I did. With each recitation, the psalm became less about words and more about the current running beneath them—ancient and powerful, like a river carving through stone.
By the fifteenth repetition, I could swear the water felt different against my skin—warmer, almost viscous, as if it were carrying away something tangible. I closed my eyes and saw darkness peeling away from me in sheets, dissolving into the drain.
“It’s working,” I whispered between verses.
“Don’t break the rhythm,” Auntie cautioned from beyond the shower curtain. I hadn’t realized she’d joined the audience to my ablutions.
I pressed on, feeling strangely lighter with each completed psalm. By the eighteenth recitation, my voice had grown stronger, more certain. The water streaming down seemed to glitter in the dim bathroom light, carrying away flecks of misfortune like black sand.
“Two more,” Mister B. urged, his voice a comforting rumble.
The spirits watched in solemn witness, their presences like smoke against the bathroom tiles. They understood what I was only beginning to grasp—that each word formed a key, unlocking something within me that had long been chained.
As I completed the twenty-first recitation, I felt hollow and clean, as if I’d been emptied of something poisonous I hadn’t known I carried.
“You look different,” Grandpa said as I stepped out, wrapping myself in a towel that felt too rough against my newly sensitized skin.
“I feel different,” I admitted, surprised by the steadiness in my voice.
Auntie nodded approvingly. “Now for the root.”
In my small kitchen, I laid out the items Auntie had specified: the High John the Conqueror Root—gnarled and dark as night—a crisp dollar bill, and a length of green ribbon that shimmered under the fluorescent light.
“Handle the root with respect,” Auntie instructed as I picked it up. “It knows its purpose.”
The root felt warm in my palm, as if it had been sitting in sunlight rather than my dark kitchen drawer.
“The dollar represents what you seek,” Auntie continued. “Wrap it tightly—your intention must bind to the root.”
My fingers trembled slightly as I encircled the root with the bill, creasing it carefully around the knobby surface.
“Now the ribbon,” she said. “Three times around, while you recite Psalm 113.”
I cleared my throat, wrapping the silky green ribbon once around the bundle. “Praise ye the Lord. Praise, O ye servants of the Lord, praise the name of the Lord.”
Another wrap of the ribbon. “Blessed be the name of the Lord from this time forth and for evermore.”
The final wrap seemed to move of its own accord, the ribbon sliding between my fingers with unusual fluidity. “From the rising of the sun unto the going down of the same the Lord’s name is to be praised.”
As I continued through the psalm, my voice found that same resonance it had discovered in the shower—a frequency that seemed to hum in the very air around me. The spirits leaned closer, their eyes fixed on the small bundle taking shape in my hands.
“The Lord is high above all nations, and his glory above the heavens,” I whispered, feeling something electric pass through my fingertips into the root. The dollar bill seemed to tighten of its own accord, the ribbon glowing faintly in the dimness.
The weight of what I was doing—what I was about to attempt—pressed down upon me. This wasn’t just some desperate gamble; it was something older, something that ran in my blood whether I’d acknowledged it before or not.
“Tie it now,” Auntie instructed. “Three knots.”
I pulled the ribbon taut, my fingertips tingling as I formed the first knot.
“One for the Father,” Auntie said, her spectral form hovering closer.
I tied the first knot, feeling a slight pulse against my fingers.
“One for the Son.”
The second knot came with an unexpected warmth that spread up my arms.
“And one for the Holy Ghost.”
As I completed the third and final knot, a shiver passed through me that had nothing to do with the dampness of my hair from the cleansing shower. The air in my small apartment felt charged, like the moments before a thunderstorm breaks.
“Can you feel it?” Auntie asked, her voice dropping to a reverent whisper.
“Yes,” I breathed, staring at the innocuous-looking bundle in my palm. It seemed to have its own heartbeat now, a subtle thrumming that matched my own. “What’s happening?”
“You’re channeling,” Auntie said with a hint of pride. “The psalm’s energy is flowing through you and into the mojo. Your grandma always said you had the gift, though you never wanted to hear it.”
I swallowed hard, remembering how I’d dismissed my grandma’s talk of inherited talents as old-world superstition. Now I wasn’t so sure.
“What do I do now?” I asked, turning the small bundle over in my palm. It felt heavier than it should, as if packed with something more substantial than a root and a dollar bill.
Auntie’s ghostly features took on an expression of maternal sternness. “Now you keep it close. Very close.” She gestured toward my chest. “In your bra, child. Right next to your heart.”
I hesitated, feeling suddenly self-conscious despite having known these spirits my entire life. “Is that… necessary?”
“You want to change your luck, don’t you?” Auntie’s voice carried that familiar no-nonsense tone. “A mojo bag works through contact, through the heat of your body. It needs to become a part of you.”
With a resigned sigh, I slipped the small bundle into my bra, tucking it securely against my left breast. The effect was immediate—a pleasant warmth spread across my chest, and with it came an unexpected surge of confidence that straightened my spine.
“Oh,” I whispered, surprised by the sensation. “That’s… different.”
A strange certainty settled over me, as if I’d suddenly remembered something important that had been forgotten. The crushing weight of Mr. Goldsteins words, the looming threats—they all seemed manageable now, problems with solutions rather than impassable barriers.
“You feel it working already,” Auntie observed. It wasn’t a question.
I nodded, my hand instinctively rising to press against the spot where the mojo bag rested. “Is it supposed to feel like this? Like I’m… stronger somehow?”
“That’s exactly what it’s supposed to feel like,” Auntie said, her usually severe expression softening. “That’s your power reconnecting with you, child. The power you’ve been denying too long.”
Mister B. floated closer, his spectral form shimmering as he circled me with exaggerated scrutiny. A mischievous smile played across his transparent features.
“Well now, don’t you look… lopsided,” he chuckled, gesturing toward my chest with a flickering hand. “Might want to get another one of those magical pouches for the other side. Balance things out a bit.”
Heat rushed to my face. “Mister B.!” I scolded, though I couldn’t help the smile that tugged at my lips. “That’s hardly appropriate.”
“Since when have I ever been appropriate?” he shot back, his laughter filling the small bathroom. “I’ve been dead for centuries, who knows how long exactly, I certainly won’t tell. Propriety isn’t exactly my strong suit anymore.”
Despite everything I found myself laughing. It bubbled up from somewhere deep inside me, genuine and unexpected. The tension that had coiled around my spine for weeks loosened just a fraction.
“I suppose you have a point there,” I conceded, catching my reflection in the mirror. I looked different somehow—still me, but with something new in my eyes. Something steadier.
Auntie clicked her tongue, pulling my attention back from my reflection. “New shoes,” she said firmly. “Don’t forget. You’ll need them before you set foot in that casino.”
“Shoes?” I questioned, glancing down at my worn sneakers. “What’s wrong with these?”
“Everything,” Auntie replied with characteristic bluntness. “You walk into a casino with old shoes, you’re walking in with old luck. New shoes bring new paths, new opportunities.” She drifted closer, her presence cooling the air around me. “The shoes matter, Rahel. They’re what connects you to the earth, to the ground beneath you. They determine which way your feet will carry you.”
“I can’t exactly afford new shoes right now,” I murmured, thinking of the appointments I had canceled.
“You can’t afford not to have them,” Auntie countered. “This isn’t about fashion. This is about creating the right conditions for change.”
I nodded slowly, understanding washing over me like the shower water had earlier. This wasn’t just superstition; it was methodology. A system with rules and requirements.
“I’ll figure something out,” I promised, feeling the weight of the mojo bag against my skin—a constant reminder of what I was embarking on. What I had to do. What was at stake.
“You will,” Grandpa’s voice added from the doorway, his spectral form nodding with quiet confidence. “You’re ready now.”
Am I? I wondered. But the doubt lasted only a moment before the warmth from the mojo bag seemed to pulse in response, as if answering my unspoken question. Yes. I was ready.
