Natasha and her husband, Dmitry, had just left the restaurant where they had celebrated his birthday. The evening had been delightful, filled with family, friends, and colleagues. While Natasha had met many of Dmitry’s guests for the first time, she trusted his judgment in inviting them.
Natasha was the type of person who avoided conflict, preferring to agree with her husband rather than voice her own opinion, even when it meant suppressing her own desires. She didn’t mind; it seemed simpler that way.
As they walked out of the restaurant, Dmitry asked, “Natasha, did you put the apartment keys somewhere safe? Can you grab them?”
She rummaged through her handbag, but as her fingers brushed against something sharp, she felt a jolt of pain and instinctively jerked her hand back. The handbag fell to the ground with a soft thud.
“Why did you cry out?” Dmitry asked, concerned.
“I pricked myself on something,” Natasha replied, brushing it off.
“It’s probably just the clutter in your bag,” Dmitry said casually, and she didn’t argue. She picked up the bag and retrieved the keys, focusing on getting home. The incident seemed minor, so she put it out of her mind.
Later that night, after returning home and settling into bed, Natasha felt a sharp pain in her hand. Her finger was swollen and reddened, and that’s when she remembered the strange incident. Curious, she opened her handbag to investigate, carefully pulling out each item. At the bottom of the bag, she found a large rusty needle. Puzzled, she couldn’t understand how it had ended up there. She threw it away, thinking it couldn’t be important, and treated her finger with a bandage before going to sleep.
By the time lunchtime came the next day, Natasha had developed a fever. Her head throbbed, her body ached, and she felt weak. She called Dmitry.
“I’m not feeling well, Dima. I found a rusty needle in my bag, and I think I pricked myself on it. Now I’ve got a fever and headache,” she explained, her voice filled with concern.
“Maybe you should see a doctor,” Dmitry replied, his voice worried. “I’m afraid of tetanus or some kind of infection.”
“Don’t worry, Dima,” Natasha reassured him, though she was starting to feel more concerned herself. “I treated the wound. It’ll be fine.”
But as the day wore on, Natasha’s condition worsened. She struggled through the rest of her workday, finally calling a taxi to get home, too weak to take public transport. At home, she collapsed onto the couch, exhausted.
That night, as she slept, she had a vivid dream. Her grandmother, Marfa, who had passed away when Natasha was very young, appeared before her. Natasha couldn’t explain how she knew it was her grandmother, but the feeling was unmistakable. Marfa looked frail and bent with age, but there was a warmth and familiarity in her presence that comforted Natasha.
Her grandmother spoke softly, leading her through a field of herbs. “You must gather these herbs, Natasha,” Marfa said. “Make an infusion and drink it. It will help you fight the darkness that’s consuming you. Someone has cast a spell on you, and time is running out.”
Natasha awoke with a start, drenched in sweat. She glanced at the clock—it had only been a few minutes. But the dream felt so real, and the fear and urgency lingered. The door slammed, and Dmitry walked in, looking alarmed.
“What happened to you? Look in the mirror!” he exclaimed.
Natasha stumbled to the mirror. Just yesterday, she had seen a healthy, happy woman. But now, her hair was tangled, dark circles under her eyes, her skin pale, and her eyes empty.
“This isn’t right,” she muttered.
And then, she remembered her dream. “I saw my grandmother,” she told Dmitry. “She told me what I need to do.”
Dmitry looked at her with growing concern. “Natasha, you need to see a doctor. You’re not well.”
“I won’t go to the hospital,” she replied firmly. “My grandmother said the doctors can’t help me.”
A fight broke out between them. Dmitry, desperate to help, tried to drag her to the hospital. In the struggle, Natasha lost her balance and fell, injuring herself. Dmitry, in his frustration, grabbed her bag, slammed the door, and left.
Alone, Natasha could barely muster the strength to call her boss and let them know she wouldn’t be in. She was too weak to think clearly. Hours passed, and Dmitry returned late at night, apologizing for his actions.
The next morning, Natasha looked sickly—her skin gray, her body drained of energy. Dmitry begged her to go to the hospital again, but Natasha refused. Instead, she asked him to take her to her grandmother’s village, the one she hadn’t visited since her grandmother’s funeral.
As they made the drive, Natasha barely spoke, exhausted from the fever. She drifted in and out of sleep, but as they neared the village, she suddenly stirred.
“Turn right here,” she instructed.
Dmitry pulled over, and Natasha staggered out of the car. She collapsed on the grass, but as she did, she knew she had reached the place her grandmother had guided her to. With great effort, she gathered the herbs her grandmother had shown her in the dream. Dmitry helped her prepare the infusion, and Natasha began drinking it slowly, feeling a bit of relief with each sip.
Later, when she went to the bathroom, she noticed her urine was black. But instead of being scared, she murmured, “The darkness is leaving.”
That night, her grandmother appeared to her again in a dream. This time, Marfa was smiling. She spoke softly, “The curse was placed on you with a rusty needle. The infusion will help, but you need to find the person who did this to you. Your husband is involved somehow, though I cannot tell you exactly how. If only you hadn’t thrown away the needle, I could have seen more. But don’t worry. There is still a way.”
Her grandmother explained that Natasha should buy new needles and perform a ritual. “Say the spell over the biggest needle: ‘Night spirits, once alive. Hear the prophets of the night, show the enemy!’ Place the needle in your husband’s bag. Whoever pricks themselves will be the one who cursed you.”
The dream faded, and Natasha awoke with a sense of purpose.
She followed her grandmother’s advice. That evening, she placed the enchanted needle in Dmitry’s bag. When he came home later, she asked him about his day.
“Good, why do you ask?” Dmitry responded, his tone casual.
But Natasha’s heart skipped when Dmitry continued, “Funny thing happened today. Irina from the office tried to help me get the keys out of my bag, but when she found a needle, she pricked herself. She was really mad.”
A chill ran down Natasha’s spine. The needle had been in Dmitry’s bag after all.
That night, she dreamed of her grandmother again. Marfa revealed that Irina was behind the curse, hoping to take Dmitry for herself. But Irina’s magic was unsuccessful, and she had fallen ill. Natasha knew what she had to do.
The next day, Dmitry told Natasha that Irina’s condition had worsened, and the doctors couldn’t help her.
Natasha, guided by her grandmother’s spirit, asked Dmitry to take her to the village cemetery. She placed flowers on her grandmother’s grave and apologized for not visiting sooner. As she sat by the grave, she felt a soft touch on her shoulders. She turned, but no one was there—just a light breeze.
The feeling was unmistakable. Her grandmother was still with her, watching over her, and Natasha knew that she was never truly alone.
