Chapter 4: The Countdown Above Their Heads

My mother-in-law was sobbing, urging me to pay immediately.

Janice’s mascara streaked down her cheeks. “Do something, Caleb! Call your folks—take out a loan—sell your car, I don’t care!”

I asked how much—it was thirty thousand dollars. She stared at me, clearly expecting me to pay.

She shoved the estimate in my face, her eyes wild. “Thirty grand, Caleb! I know you have savings—don’t lie to me!”

But I only had fifteen thousand in my account—not nearly enough.

I checked my banking app, the number mocking me. Fifteen thousand. Not enough for even a deposit. The room spun.

I thought, the most important thing now is to dispel the evil for Natalie; putting her in the ICU would just make things harder.

A hospital is no place for exorcisms, and an ICU is the last place you want to try magic. I had to act fast, before the curse could settle deeper.

I asked if we could wait and observe for a day, and pay tomorrow.

I tried to explain, “Maybe it’ll pass—maybe we can wait until morning, see if the doctors know more—”

My mother-in-law exploded, hitting me as she shouted:

She actually slapped me—right across the face. The sting was sharp, but the shame was worse. “You only care about your bank account! My baby’s dying!”

"You care more about money than about life!"

She sobbed, voice cracking, “What kind of man are you?”

"How did my Natalie end up with someone like you!"

She glared, as if I’d personally caused every bad thing in her life.

"Hard times really show a person’s true colors. Why don’t you just marry your money!"

She flung the deposit slip at me, the paper fluttering to the floor.

She started crying about how hard it was for a single mom and her daughter to be stuck with a useless man.

Janice started muttering in Spanish, listing every sacrifice she’d ever made. I stood there, wishing I could disappear.

I hurried to calm her, explaining that I didn’t have enough money and needed to borrow from my family.

I promised I’d find the money—call my dad, sell my truck, anything. She sniffed, arms crossed, not buying it.

Then I quietly went to Natalie’s bedside to check on her.

I slipped past the nurses, pretending to check her IV. My hands hovered over her, searching for any sign of the curse.

Natalie was unconscious, the black shadow even thicker now, and I could vaguely see shadowy things leeching the light from her body.

It looked like smoke, tendrils digging into her skin, draining her color. For a second, I saw something that looked almost like faces—hungry, angry, waiting.

When they saw me, they all scattered.

My Ferryman aura flared, and the shadows recoiled, hissing away. Natalie’s breathing eased a little, but I knew it wouldn’t last.

I took out the Ghost Granny’s medical record folder and the life-buying bill, burned them in a metal trash can, and traced a symbol in the air above the bed, whispering:

I found a battered trash can near the nurses’ station and slipped the folder and bill inside, lighting them with a cheap Bic lighter I kept for just such occasions. The smoke curled up, acrid and foul. With my finger, I drew a sigil in the air—a mark only the dead could read.

"In this wide world, nothing stands in the way.

Come and go as you please, free as the wind.

If you wish to die, then die—don’t drag anyone else down."

I whispered the words in a mix of English and the old tongue, feeling the room grow lighter with each syllable. It was a release—a command that even the oldest curses had to obey.

As the black energy around Natalie dispersed, I quickly called for the doctor to check on her.

The darkness faded, like a storm blowing over. Natalie’s skin lost its gray tinge. I ran to get the doctor, trying to act surprised, even though my heart was still pounding.

When the doctor arrived, Natalie was already sitting up in bed, scrolling through her phone. After an examination, all her vitals were normal—even her cough had disappeared.

She was texting her best friend, confused but happy. The doctor blinked, then re-checked the monitor. “Well… sometimes miracles happen,” he said, scribbling a new note in her chart.

The doctor called it a medical miracle, quietly tucked away the critical notice he’d just written, and said she could be discharged.

He looked sheepish as he handed me a folder. “Never seen anything like it. Guess you folks can go home.” I tried not to smile.

My mother-in-law, seeing this, first scolded the hospital for just wanting money, then glared at me:

She launched into a tirade about America’s broken healthcare system, then turned on me. “You see? Natalie’s just fine. Next time, show some backbone, Caleb.”

"Luckily our Natalie is blessed. You really can’t be counted on."

She gathered her things, muttering about guardian angels. I trailed behind, grateful she hadn’t noticed the scorch marks on the trash can.

I trailed behind, carrying the bags, nodding and admitting fault the whole way, promising to reflect deeply.

I made sure to look as apologetic as possible, giving Mrs. Rivera the “yes ma’am, absolutely ma’am” routine. I carried everyone’s stuff, even the leaky water bottle.

But as I looked up at the tops of their heads, my heart nearly stopped.

It was like the world tilted—suddenly, the numbers were back. A faint, glowing countdown hovered above Natalie and her mom, visible only to me.

Though Natalie looked healthy, above her head floated a life countdown—three days left. My mother-in-law had the same.

The numbers hovered, flickering in bloody red, a private apocalypse only I could see. Three days. Less than a long weekend.

From the color of the numbers, both would die a violent death.

The hue was unmistakable—blood red, the color reserved for the worst fates.

It could be a car accident, a fire, or some lunatic or pervert.

I remembered all the ways fate could twist—hit by a drunk driver, a freak apartment fire, or something even uglier. I shivered.

This is what we call the kind of death you see on the evening news—gunshots, fires, freak accidents, the stuff that keeps you up at night.

Because these deaths are extremely painful and full of resentment, after death, the soul will suffer in the City of Lost Souls—a place even the dead are afraid to talk about.

It’s a place no soul wants to go—a limbo where regrets gnaw at you for eternity, every pain replayed until you forget what mercy feels like.

But hadn’t I just broken the evil life-borrowing curse?

I thought I’d done everything right. Burned the bill. Broke the spell. But some things are stickier than ash and ink.

Suddenly, I recalled what the Ghost Granny had said to Natalie:

Her words echoed, louder now—"If you refuse, your whole family dies."

"If you refuse, your whole family dies."

It hit me—this wasn’t an ordinary life-buying curse.

I broke out in a cold sweat. This was deeper, nastier—a curse with claws.

This was the most sinister, family-destroying, life-robbing spell.

I clenched my fists. No way was I letting that happen—not to Natalie, not to anyone I loved. It was time to fight back, Ferryman style.

I watched the numbers tick down over their heads, and realized—I had seventy-two hours to rewrite fate, or lose everything.