Madame Zoras Prophecy

I stumbled upon her at the very edge of town, a derelict caravan with flaking red paint and cryptic symbols etched into its wooden doors in an unrecognizable script. A sign swung ominously above:

“Madame Zora: She Sees What You Refuse To.”

I hesitated, a chill crawling up my spine, before stepping inside. The air was thick with the pungent scent of sage and the lingering haze of ancient smoke, clinging to every shadow like a predator. Madame Zora sat at a round table, her eyes clouded with the weight of countless years yet cutting through me like daggers. She beckoned me to sit, and I obeyed, driven by a compulsion I couldn’t comprehend. Was it mere curiosity, a restless boredom, or something more sinister lurking beneath my skin?

Without uttering a word, she seized my hand, her fingers dancing across my palm with a touch that made my skin crawl. Her mouth twitched, a deep furrow etching itself across her brow.

"Do you believe in destiny?" she demanded, her voice a harsh whisper. I smirked, masking the unease that churned within me. "No."

She leaned in closer, her breath a cold whisper from the grave.

"Then believe this. You are evil."

I laughed it off, a hollow sound in the tense silence, but her gaze bore into me, unwavering and relentless. Her grip tightened painfully on my hand.

“You were born under the Blood Moon. Marked by shadow. Something follows you. And every soul you’ve touched…” she shivered violently, “…they suffer.”

I yanked my hand away, my mind a chaotic whirlwind.

“This is a scam.”

“No,” she breathed, her voice a chilling echo. “It’s a warning.”

I stormed out, fury and confusion warring within me. Yet that night, her eyes invaded my dreams—stark, glaring, and bleeding. By morning, her caravan lay in ruin, consumed by flames. No survivors. No suspects.

Since then, a creeping dread has settled over my life. People I interact with—strangers, coworkers, even animals—they recoil. Their gazes linger too long, or tears stream down their faces. And sometimes… they never wake up. I tried to apologize to my girlfriend after she screamed and fled barefoot into traffic. I never intended for her to witness whatever horror I unleashed.

I don't want to be evil. But last night, I faced the mirror—and it blinked after I did. Madame Zora was right. I can feel it now. Something sinister stirs within me. Something ravenous. And the most terrifying revelation is that I’m beginning to savor the sensation.

I stumbled upon her at the very edge of town, where a derelict caravan with peeling, flaking red paint stood abandoned like a relic of a darker era. Its wooden doors were marked with cryptic symbols, etched in an unfamiliar script that seemed to whisper secrets of the past. Above the battered caravan swayed a sign in the wind, its creaking voice foretelling:

“Madame Zora: She Sees What You Refuse To.”

A shiver of apprehension skittered up my spine as I hesitated at the threshold before stepping cautiously inside.

Immediately, the air enveloped me in an intoxicating blend of pungent sage and the lingering haze of ancient, ethereal smoke, which clung to every shadow like a patient, waiting predator. At the center of the cramped interior, Madame Zora sat at a round, timeworn table. Her eyes, shrouded in the heavy mists of countless years, still cut through me with the precision of daggers. With deliberate slowness, she beckoned for me to sit, and though my apprehension battled within, I obeyed, compelled by a force I couldn’t quite fathom—was it curiosity, restless boredom, or something far more sinister lurking deep within?

Without a single word, she reached out and seized my hand. Her delicate yet unnerving fingers danced across my palm, leaving behind a trail of electric shivers that made my skin prickle with dread. Her mouth twitched subtly before a deep, foreboding furrow carved itself across her brow.

“Do you believe in destiny?” she demanded in a harsh whisper that seemed to echo from the darkest corners of oblivion. Masking the storm of unease swirling inside, I managed a smirk and replied, “No.”

Leaning in, her presence grew even more surreal and menacing, her cold breath brushing past me like a chilling whisper from the grave.

“Then believe this. You are evil,” she intoned, her voice resonating with a cold finality. I laughed nervously, a hollow sound swallowed by the tense silence, but her unwavering gaze drilled into me, relentless and unforgiving. In a sudden motion, her grip on my hand tightened painfully, as if to bind my very soul, and she continued,

“You were born under the Blood Moon. Marked by shadow. Something follows you—and every soul you’ve touched…” Her body shuddered violently as if overcome by a chilling premonition, “…they suffer.”

Recoiling in shock, I yanked my hand away, my mind a whirlwind of chaotic thoughts. “This is a scam,” I stammered, barely believing my own words.

“No,” she breathed, her voice a spectral echo that sent chills down my spine. “It’s a warning.”

Fuming with a tumult of fury and confusion, I stormed out, the memory of her eyes seared into my mind. That very night, her haunting stare invaded my dreams, stark and bleeding with ominous forewarnings. By morning, I awoke to find the caravan reduced to smoldering ruins, consumed by ravenous flames that had left no survivors and no clues to the truth of that dreadful encounter.

Since that fateful day, an insidious dread has seeped into every corner of my existence. People I interact with—be they strangers, coworkers, even the animals that cross my path—now recoil from me with inexplicable fear. Their eyes linger too long as if searching for a hidden darkness, and sometimes tears streak their faces uncontrollably. And in the most chilling moments, some never awaken at all. I attempted to apologize to my girlfriend after she shrieked and fled barefoot into the harsh glare of traffic, terrified by the invisible horror I had unwittingly unleashed upon her.