For a simple curse, take a piece of chalk and draw a pentagram on the floor of your enemy’s house and place a candle at each end. Place three tokens belonging to three generations of their family at the centre. Dust your hands with coal and pour a bottle of mulberry wine over the tokens till it is half empty. Then snuff out each of the candles in quick succession. Once you’re done, powder a piece of crow bone and drink the other
half.
Once the ritual is completed, your enemy shall be cursed for three generations, if any of them survive till then, that is.
- The Devil’s Handbook of Little Maladies
If I were to offer you a job today, a job I say is filled with adventure and fantasy and drama and romance, a job where you have depths of untold knowledge at your fingertips, and if I were completely honest about it, would you refuse?
Azu-aita, my great-grandmother, used to call them faerie truths. A kernel of honest fact wrapped up in silver foils of deception, a truth we wish on so much that it’s nearly a lie. Something honey-coated and full of traps that later comes to bite us in the ass.
You would think someone like me, raised on fairytales and mythology and the odd bit of witchcraft would know better than to accept such an offer. I did. I do. But human curiosity is a dangerous thing, human desperation even more so. I was pursuing a degree in English literature and German Folklore, an academic approach my immigrant Indian parents were steadfastly refusing to finance, and my very bigoted landlord had recently upped the rent in an effort to get rid of the ‘brown scum.’ So when Mr. Richards, the town councillor, offered me a job at the local library, of course I said yes.
I suppose this is where I say things go awry.
It didn’t. The job was boring and the money was just enough to get by, but it wasn’t anything I hadn’t expected. I knew the rules, you see. No one could corner me if I jumped down the rabbit hole myself. Everyone who has ever coveted a rose has suffered a thorn or two, but if I looked for say, daisies or peonies instead, then I wouldn’t need to worry. The trick was to make my wants smaller, to be ordinarily content instead of disgustingly happy, so the universe doesn’t think I’m destined for either great things or great pains, and even a skeptic like me knows that those two things are rarely distinct.
But here’s the other side to this coin: even if you conceal yourself in a cottage in the middle of the forest, doing honest labour for your gains and thinking you’re safe, the universe comes knocking with a basket of shiny red apples.
Like the grimoire.
You would ask me how it is that I found a grimoire, an actual grimoire with actual spells that actually works in a dusty old library in a run-down town. Answer: quite easily. Too easily, in fact. See this is what happens when you are a stickler for the rules; the universe drops the bait directly in your lap.
It had been a rainy, rather depressing morning, the sort that really screws up your work ethic by making you sleep in for an extra hour and then rush to your workplace with your hair unbrushed. The head librarian, a kind old English lady named Joanne, greeted me with her customary ‘good morning love’ and smiled at me like I wasn’t dripping water all over the hardwood floor with snarls of wet hair framing my face. Joanne is sweet like that, the kind to pat you on your shoulder after a particularly tiring day, or quiz you exclusively about your personal life. A lot of people find this off-putting, but that’s one of the many perks of being raised Indian; you get used to elderly ladies poking into your business at a very young age.
“Morning Joanne,” I replied and then smiled back, because she liked that. “What can I do today?”
She pointed at a cardboard box a few feet away. “The January shipment arrived early. Could you unpack them for me?”
“Sure,” I dragged the heavy box to a corner where I could keep an eye on the clock (for breaks) and began unpacking. Most of it was uninteresting; old books that had needed new editions; Austen and Brönte and Hawthorne. I sorted through them slowly, checking them against the list, and was about to rise for an early break when I spotted it.
It was a slim volume bound smartly in red leather, and most definitely not in the list. The title, embossed in fancy gold lettering, read:
The Devil’s Handbook of Little Maladies
You can guess what I did next. Me, with my sensibilities and pragmatism and myriad of rules, who has survived worse temptations than this to not recognise a textbook trap.
I smuggled it home under my coat.
To reverse someone’s loyalties:
To corrupt any kind of bond; be it platonic or romantic, soak some pomegranate seeds in sour milk and rosewater. Air them under the light of the full moon, and then collect scraps of your victims’ clothing. Stitch them into your own, preferably a handkerchief, and then collect the pomegranate seeds in it. Sew off the top with black thread, so it becomes a sort of pouch, and keep it close.
Fashion some pins out of bone or coffin wood. For jealousy and insecurity, poke a tiny hole in the cloth with the tip. For hatred and disgust, stick the pin halfway in. For one of them to exit from the other’s life in a more permanent fashion, stab it all the way through.
- The Devil's Handbook of Little Maladies
Oh, you think you know how this story ends, don’t you?
My fault, really. I’m horrendously predictable, the sort of girl that colours inside the lines, follows every rule. I suppose this would make me reliable, but it hasn’t. People prefer to trust those who’re trusted by the universe, and the universe only trusts those it tests.
No thank you.
It doesn’t come as a big surprise, then, that I don’t have many friends. Being the only Indian girl in a town full of white folks either makes you a little starlet or a social outcast, for me it’s blessedly the second. That doesn’t mean though, that the occasional fool doesn’t try.
“Hey Natasha,” the petite blonde girl behind the counter greeted me chirpily when I stepped inside Sophie’s, one of the only two cafes in town. “I haven’t seen you in a while. How’re you?”
“Hello Avery,” I said dully. “I’m fine. The usual please.” I didn’t have much of a coffee preference, being more of a chai person, so I usually went for black.
“Coming right up. Anything else...?”
“No thanks.”
I settled on an abandoned loveseat in the corner, and surreptitiously took out the Devil’s Handbook. In hindsight, it was a remarkably bad idea, but the cafe was mostly empty and nobody really paid attention to me. Except of course.
“Is that for college?”
I shut the book carefully, concealing the title with my hand. “No.”
Avery set down my order, tucking a few errant curls behind her ear. “Catching up on your summer reading?”
“Something like that.”
“Good for you. I’m way behind. My mom has been bugging me for ages to get a library card, but it’s been slipping my mind-—"
“Come by tomorrow,” I said to ward her off.
“Oh okay, so like ten-thirty or eleven-ish? I have choir practice but I can squeeze in a few extra minutes in between—"
“Sure.”
“Oh alright. See you tomorrow, then?”
“Yeah, yeah.”
I was being rude, wasn’t I? Reading the Devil’s Handbook does that to you.
Though I can’t fully blame the devil. I was, by nature, largely apathetic, so even if I could see my emotions at play, I lacked the urge to curb them.
Like the fact that I was slowly being possessed.
Contrary to popular opinion, possessions are all consensual. Forcing someone’s will damages the soul, and demons don’t like corroded vessels, they’re picky that way. Vessels also needn’t necessarily be humans. Azu-aita had told me of an exorcism back home, where they’d had to force a pret out of a peepal tree. The pret had been reluctant to leave, understandably, so they had had to offer the pret the hand of the local headman's youngest daughter in marriage. But the girl wouldn't marry a tree, and since no young man would offer up their body for possession, the pret decided to bide the time in a goat's body until an appropriate vessel presented itself. But the girl was unimpressed (as you would be too if you had been presented with a goat and a tree as suitors), so she slaughtered the goat altogether and made herself a lovely meal out of it.
Regardless, one thing was universal: all demons work with bargains, trickery. They sniff out your wants and string them along like pearls round your neck, so the nameless, shapeless things buried deep inside you are now labelled with clear cost.
Once you know you know the what of something, you only worry about the how of it.
Go ahead, ask me.
Why would I do something so decidedly wrong? How could I resist the countless subtle temptations only to walk into this obvious trap?
Why, why, why.
A day later, in the relative safety of an apartment, I opened the grimoire and chanted a spell.
What?
I said you could ask questions. I didn’t say I would answer them.
To bewitch someone:
There are plenty of spells that can be classified vaguely as love spells. Amulets with both you and your paramour’s birthstones bound together, splitting a wishbone with them underneath a moonless night, knotting a crimson thread around your right pinky and on their left.
However, these spells only strengthen love. To make someone fall in love with you, or something akin to it, you would have to possess them.
- The Devil’s Handbook of Little Maladies
When I was nine, Azu-aita told me the story of a xodagaur, or a merchant.
The xodagaur was a rich man, with few quarrels and of robust health, as happy as a person could be. However, he didn’t hoard his riches for himself. A pious, God-fearing man, he frequently organised feasts for the priests and gave alms to the poor. He never strayed from his path, never did anything that could make the Gods pay a little too close attention to him.
One day, as the xodagaur was walking by a seaside when he spotted a chest full of gold coins that had washed by the shore. He was very much tempted, but he also knew the cost of taking something from the universe without giving, so he left it there and walked on, feeling very pleased with himself for having passed the test of greed.
But he couldn’t stop thinking about it, so he went back the very next day, early in the morning. The box was there, but in the hands of his rival merchant, who took it home without consequences and used it as capital for his next venture. The business took off, and the rival ended up twice as rich and thrice as obnoxious, and told the xodagaur many times over the years, that if he had been just a day early, all this wealth could have been his.
Sometimes, there are traps, sometimes there are tests, and sometimes even if you clear both of them, the universe might just poke you in the eye for the fun of it.
I realised, to my intense dismay upon walking into the library next morning, that getting rid of the grimoire was going to be significantly harder than usual.
“Good morning!” Avery greeted with her usual terrible cheer.
Avery. Library card.
Fuck.
“’Morning,” I snuck a glance at Joanne, who was beaming at Avery like a sunflower gazing up at the sun, while I hovered gloomily in the periphery, like an approaching rain cloud.
“Joanne, could you issue Avery a card?” I asked.
“Oh I did,” she assures me. “But she insisted upon waiting for you. Isn’t that sweet?”
She gave me a Look, and I rolled my eyes heavenward.
“Right. Thank you. I’ll see you later?”
Please take the hint.
“Oh I thought I could help with the boxes?” she said. “Joanne told me some of the shelves are not up to par, and I’m pretty good with a hammer.”
“That is so kind of you darling.”
“It’s my pleasure,” said Avery. “Natasha, could you show me where the toolbox is?”
To Joanne, it must have sounded very much like an excuse for canoodling in the corners, and judging by the smile she shot at me, she more than approved of it.
Once we were out of earshot, Avery grabbed my arm with surprising strength and dragged me into a darkened aisle.
“I know,” she informed me abruptly before I could say anything.
“About what?”
“The grimoire.”
I blinked. “Geller, don’t tell me you believe in such bullshit—"
“I found it three months ago, in a thrift store,” she admitted. “At the time, I didn’t think much of it. But then I saw you with it yesterday...”
My first thought was that I was a fool to think this girl a fool. My second was annoyance that the universe couldn’t even get me fresh bait.
“I’m not using it,” I said hastily. “No, I’m not, really.”
She didn’t look convinced. “So what’re you going to do?”
“Well, as long as I have it, it can’t be passed on to anyone else. So I guess I’ll just hold on to it.”
“You will?” she asked doubtfully. Can you?
She wasn’t wrong to doubt me. Girls like Avery Geller would take one look at the grimoire and walk right past it, uncaring. The world tilted differently around them. Girls like her went on to become celebrities, presidents, astronauts, Olympic divers or something equally exciting and amazing, where they weren’t starved of glory but drenched in it, beautiful and radiant and utterly bewitching. Those girls were already a little bit magic. But girls like me; girls who sat at the back of the class and dream of faerie princes spiriting them away, girls who looked at a clear sky and wished of thunder and lightning and torrents of rain, girls who donned the shadows like a cloak and hungered for our own stars— we might just open our front doors to dare the devils to step in.
“What choice do I have?” I shrugged. “Unless I can find some mad witch to open a door to hell so I can blast this fucker into—"
Avery looked at me. Then raised an eyebrow. And waited.
I groaned.
Of all the people in the world, it had to be Avery Geller.
“I’m not in any coven,” she assured me hurriedly. “I mean I used to be, but now I am not."
I didn’t ask why. Covens were supposed to be safe spaces for witches, but they were also incredibly narrow-minded. You were a witch first, above all else, and your coven was your one true family. It must have been big in the medieval times, when witches needed to band together to save their own skins, and loyalty was paramount. Granted, the witch community is still incognito for the most part and magic is still a joke for most millennials, but the covens trying to force them all into one tiny box seems horribly regressive.
I think of walking into Sophie’s one day and not seeing Avery. The thought pinches me like a bad shoe.
“Well then,” I extended my hand towards her. “Shall we?”
To summon the Devil:
There is no spell to summon the Devil, no ritual to call him down, unlike lesser demons. No offerings sway him, nor any kind of sacrifice, not even your own. It’s only God that demands such things, and that’s why most saints are martyrs.
No, the Devil will come after you only when he has something you want.
- The Devil’s Handbook of Little Maladies
The very first time I saw a devil, he had been peering at me through Azu-Aita’s eyes.
It was an open secret in the village that my grandmother had been born with a weak heart, and many feared she wouldn’t live past infancy. She collapsed into terrible bouts of illness, slept for days and days, and woke up in the middle of the night, coughing and weeping. Like the browned leaf clinging to the sullen winter branch, they knew it was just a matter of time before a particularly strong gust of wind blew her away.
So you can imagine everyone’s surprise when the girl stumbled out of bed one morning, hale and hearty, looking as if she had only been napping this whole time. My great-grandfather, overjoyed, paraded his daughter around the village on his shoulders, proclaiming it a miracle.
This is a popular tale in our family, told so many times that the wonder has been worn down to nostalgia. They never do talk however, of how grandmother often beds down in the hay as if it were a mattress, or how once I saw her plough through an entire uruka dinner that could have fed roughly twelve people, in one go, and still go out for rabri afterwards. They never speculate on how great-grandfather’s newest addition to the stable, a small brown calf yet to be weaned, vanished over the course of a night.
“It had to be done,” Azu-Aita confessed to me years later. “The calf was dying anyway.”
I kept my mouth shut. There were faerie truths, and then there were just lies.
Yes, yes, yes. This is where things start to go awry.
Despite my insistence, Avery was adamant on letting her apartment be the launching pad to hell. “Any garden-variety witch can open a door to hell,” she told me. “But it takes an entire coven to close it. Since we’re doing this under the radar, it’s better we portal. As only your subconscious will be travelling, it’s better to be in a familiar place, so I can pull you back at a moment’s notice.”
I would be travelling alone, that we had decided beforehand. Avery couldn’t travel without essentially cutting off our tether to the mortal world.
“Natasha,” she asked me as I prepared to descend. “If you aren’t sure— I could ask a few friends at the coven, discreetly, of course—"
"No, it’s alright,” I wasn’t particularly fond of chivalrous acts at the cost of my own life, but I knew covens could be vicious, I didn’t want Avery to be anywhere near them.
That... was a strange thought.
“Natasha,” she said again, and suddenly, I didn’t want to hear what she might say next, because I was thinking of something preposterous that might just be a possibility, and I didn’t think I could walk into hell if it was confirmed right now.
“I’ll be fine.” I said again, and then plunged.
People have varied ideas about hell, more than they have of heaven. Understandable, since most of us end up there anyway. Some say it’s full of scorching fire that burns through our souls, some say it’s a frozen wasteland, so cold that even the memory of warmth is iced in our minds.
"We all end up in hell, majoni,” Azu-Aita had said. “Queens and assassins and spiders and foxes. The Lord of Hell is also the God of Death, and he has never been one to discriminate.”
Suffice it to say there’s more than one hell, or seven. There’s a hell where our hearts are weighed against a feather and found wanting, there’s a hell where devils sit on thrones of gold and bone and cackle over wicked souls boiling in cauldrons of hot oil. There’s also a hell where dark thoughts pass through like ghosts, where secret desires grow roots and flourish, and regrets buzz on your tongue like the aftertaste of some rare, splendid vintage.
“Welcome, Natasha.” I couldn’t see the devil, only felt their presence in my head, like a hand dipping in cold water; shuffling through my thoughts with uninvited ease, shaking them like glitter jars. I reached for the grimoire. In my mind it was oil slick and then coal soft, changing its shape according to the space it occupied in my thoughts. With a sigh, the devil plucked it out, where it was trying to wedge itself in a corner, the size of an ant, its allure decreasing to near-nothing every passing moment.
“What did you do with my precious gift, Natasha?” the devil complained. “If you hadn’t liked it, you might’ve just passed it on to another.”
“And make your work easier?”
“Very. It’s a pity about my handbook,” they clicked their tongue. “There were some utterly delectable treats in there.” Their voice curled around the word delectable, as if they could taste it in the air. “Perhaps I might offer you another gift, to compensate?”
“No.”
“Oh Natasha,” said the devil. “Do you really think I’ve nothing to tempt you with?”
Of course there were. Just because I’ve never bought the double chocolate glazed blueberry cheesecake and apple cream meringue at Sophie’s doesn’t mean I haven’t peered at it through the glass. Abstaining from vice doesn’t imply its absence, and this devil knows it too well.
Stars exploded in my mind. I was slicing into an apple, then a hand, then a heart. There was someone’s hip pressing into my palm and my finger against their lips, and when I brought it to my mouth, I tasted salt, tears. It was me and not me, it was a me that shoved a gun down a man’s throat while a coral snake twisted up my leg. It was a me who slipped ropes of pearls round Avery’s throat and pulled it tight as a noose. Someone was saying something to me but I was too far away, on a ship, in the skies, over the moon— the world was so small and vast and not enough that I felt like tearing a new one from between the stars.
“Natasha.”
I was drowning.
“Natasha.”
I couldn’t possibly want this much. I couldn’t possibly have this much.
Could I?
“Natasha.”
I snapped my eyes open.
“You have everything I want,” I told the devil firmly, pushing them out of my head. “But I don’t want anything you have.”
I’m not really sure what happened next. I’m sure the devil must have retorted, they do like to have last word, must have said something like a witty warning, but what I remember is lying facedown on the floor of my apartment while Avery leaned over me, gold in her hair and silver in her eyes, fingers soft against my pulse.
“Natasha,” she breathed softly. “You’re alright.”
There’s always a moment in your life when your whole axis shifts in place, when you realise you can never see someone the way you used to see them before.
“Yeah,” I sat up. “I heard your voice.” Saying my name.
I couldn’t forget her voice, anymore than I could forget the flick of a forked tongue behind my knee, or the brightness of stars behind my eyelids.
“I felt you slipping,” she said. “I tried to pull you back as fast as I could, but it was like—"
Like I was possessed.
“I’m alright,” I repeated, then realised that she was still holding my wrist. She slackened her grip, but brought her hand up to my shoulder, my cheek, and looked at me strangely, as if I could be magic too.
Her lips were so very red, like apples.
Do you really think there’s nothing I can tempt you with?
I thought of the xodagaur with his chest of gold. I thought of the myriad of ways the universe had tried to tempt me, test me. I thought of the taste of regret on my tongue.
What if I stopped walking away, looking away, what if I curled my fingers in the fabric of the world and pulled its stitches free, one by one?
“Geller,” I said, giving in. “Would you mind terribly if I kissed you right now?”
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