The Last Wish
Ask carefully. Every wish demands a price.
Closing the door, she leaned against it and sighed heavily, the sound of his footsteps growing ever more distant. Her forehead rested against the wood, left hand still gripping the knob, the right clutching a small black sphere — the magic ball.
Her gaze dropped to it. Disgust prickled in her chest. She sprinted to the fireplace and lit it. The logs caught fast, burning bright and spitting sparks that crackled tsk-tsk, like small tongues scolding her sin. She stared at the ball one last time before tossing it into the flames.
The black surface blistered, melted, swallowed by fire. She watched until it was gone, her mind drifting back to the afternoon — when she had found it in the attic.
Yesterday, they moved into this old riverside cottage — Meera and Sam. After three decades of soul-grinding work and two decades of steady marriage, they had decided to retire. As if fate had finally chosen to be kind, they had stumbled across an ad for a rustic little rental cottage.
“We’re getting it, it’s perfect,” Meera had said, her grin deepening the dimples on her cheeks.
“I know, right? But let’s walk through once — just so, you know,” Sam said, his voice carrying the measured calm of a man with gray hair, glasses, and a lifetime of double-checking before leaping.
They had toured it the next day and signed the lease by evening , ignoring Sam’s faint— just so, you know—suggestion to look at a few more places .
That was four weeks ago.
Since then, they’d wrapped up their city life and moved in with minimal stuff but overflowing plans.
Today morning, Meera had skipped the walk (a line-item from the plans) and decided instead to organize the house. Sam brought breakfast and lunch packed on his way back. After breakfast, he’d crashed on the bed, exhaustion from the move was still underpaid. Meera, restless, climbed to the attic to store the things they used rarely.
A choice that changed everything.
The ball had rolled out from somewhere when she shifted a few old boxes there — a tennis-ball-sized sphere, perfectly black. She’d taken it for a toy at first. But when she nudged it aside, it flared silver. Curiosity got the better of her.
An hour later, she sat on the sofa, drained but curious, the strange ball in her hand. “I wish Sam were awake to see this thing,” she murmured.
At once, the surface shimmered. Two words appeared — Yes in green, No in red. Brows furrowed, she hesitated, then tapped Yes. The ball went dark again. She laughed at herself and set it down.
Seconds later, footsteps approached behind her. Sam — awake.
Joy flickered, followed by unease. She said nothing about the ball.
They had lunch, praising the house and their new life — mostly to reassure themselves. Then Sam stepped into the backyard to plan his garden, another line-item.
She sneaked into the living room, sat on the sofa, holding the ball. “If I’m going to test it,” she thought, “why not wish for something big?”
“I wish for a million dollars.” Then, tapped Yes.
From outside came a loud, raw cry — Sam’s voice!
She dropped the ball and ran.
By the time she reached the backyard, it was too late. Sam lay near the fence, his leg twisted, skin discolored, foam bubbling at his lips. Under the bush beyond the bars, the leaves rustled faintly.
She called 911, her hands shaking so much she could barely speak. Within minutes, the paramedics arrived, checked his pulse, and tried everything they could. One of them finally looked up and shook his head.
Minutes later, a police cruiser pulled in, its red-blue lights dull in the afternoon sun. They asked a few questions, noted the bite marks, and said the body would go for a post-mortem.
Meera stood in the doorway, numb, as they carried him out. The siren faded. The silence it left behind was unbearable.
And then it struck her — Sam’s life insurance. A million dollars.
She walked back inside, each step heavier than the last, until she reached the sofa. She collapsed, wept until she had no tears left. Then she stopped, wiped her eyes with the palms, cleared her throat decisively, and picked up the ball.
Her fingers trembled, but her voice was steady. “I wish Sam to come back to me.” She tapped Yes.
She rushed to the door, the ball clutched tight. When she opened it — he was there. Ten feet away, at the end of the driveway.
He dragged his swollen foot, eyes blank white, mouth open in that same frozen scream, foam crusted at the corners. Under the gray evening sky, the sight was both grotesque and heartbreaking.
“That’s not my Sam,” she whispered. “Something else is wearing his body.”
A hollow ached in her stomach. Her mind raced — live with this version of Sam, or with his good memories.
With a heavy heart, she closed her eyes, “I wish Sam to go. Rest in peace.”
The red and green words blinked again. Her thumb hovered — hesitation tearing her apart.
He was two feet away when she pressed Yes.
Closing the door, she leaned against it and sighed heavily, the sound of his footsteps growing ever more distant.
Disclaimer: This story is an adaptation of the horror tale “The Monkey’s Paw,” which I read as a child and which has stayed with me ever since.
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