Today is my birthday, and the father of my child is going to die. Just like all of the others.
The sun had barely risen when I awoke, my breath heavy, my skin damp with sweat. It wasn’t the excitement of the day—after all, birthdays used to bring me joy, long ago. Before the curse began. Now, they were only a reminder of the darkness that followed me, the death that clung to those I loved.
My first husband died on my 30th birthday. We had just celebrated, candles glowing, laughter bubbling through the air. But by midnight, he was gone—his face twisted in a silent scream, his eyes wide open, staring into an unseen abyss. No explanation, no warning. It was as if something had reached into his soul and snuffed out his life. And it didn’t stop there.
Each year since then, the pattern repeated. Lovers, friends, anyone close to me on this day would perish by the stroke of midnight. The doctors couldn’t explain it, nor could the priests. The town whispered behind my back, calling me cursed, a witch.
But this year was different.
I had fallen in love again, despite everything, despite the fear. I told myself it would be different this time, that I could fight it. I had to, for the sake of my unborn child. He didn’t know—my lover. He thought we were celebrating, just another birthday, another year older. But in my heart, I knew the clock was ticking.
The day passed in a haze. Every smile he gave me was like a knife to the chest, every touch a reminder of what was to come. I couldn’t bring myself to tell him the truth. What would be the point? I had tried to warn the others, to save them, but it never worked. The curse was relentless, inevitable.
As the evening drew closer, I could feel it, the presence lingering just outside my reach. It had always been there, waiting in the shadows, feeding off my fear. I watched the clock, each tick louder than the last, counting down the hours, the minutes. Midnight was coming.
We sat together, his hand on my belly, talking about our future, our child. My heart broke with every word. He saw the tears in my eyes, but I brushed them off, blaming hormones, stress. I didn’t want him to know—didn’t want him to see the fear that gnawed at my insides.
11:58. I could feel it now, the air around us thickening, the lights flickering. He noticed it too, frowning, glancing around as if he could sense something was wrong. I stood, my hands trembling.
“I’m sorry,” I whispered. “I’m so sorry.”
The clock struck midnight, and for a moment, there was silence. Then, the lights went out, plunging us into darkness. I heard him gasp, his body convulsing, and I reached for him, my fingers grasping at empty air. But it was too late. The curse had come for him, just like all the others.
And I was left alone. Again.