The Devil Made Me Do It

Veronica and Candee shared a sleek apartment and an even slicker hunger for each other. Long afternoons dissolved into open-mouthed kisses on the balcony; midnight found them knotted together beneath silk sheets, legs hooked, breath shared. Candee’s modeling kept their accounts fat; Veronica handled the domestic details. When the money stopped feeling like enough for her, jealousy curled in like smoke—thick, insistent. Candee bustled from shoot to gala; Veronica watched, idle, until the resentment hardened into something darker. She wanted her freedom back, the guiltless days before shared rent and shared beds, even if it meant Candee gone. One twilight she cleared the marble kitchen island, set the battered Ouija board at its center, and dragged a single red candle into place. Fingertips on the planchette, Veronica whispered wishes the board swallowed whole, praying the silence that followed would end with one of them six feet under.