Margie watched Peter walk into the agency. In just a few days, shooting would begin on the movie that was giving him his first lead role. His dream was coming true. Peter was beaming, and Margie looked happy for him.

For a near-rookie, Peter had beaten out all the competition—not just the other clients at his own agency, “Morning Star Show Business,” but the hundreds of hopefuls sent by dozens of rival agencies. Then again, everyone was desperate to be in the new Roger Bergspiel film.

Margie, the agency’s do-it-all secretary and resident veteran, had been there for over thirty years. She’d gotten hired when she was barely eighteen by convincing the Big Boss, Mr. Baltimore, himself. In thirty years, she had seen it all. Now, she was watching the rise of a new star: Peter Black.

Peter adjusted his hair and smiled at Margie. It was one of those smiles that took your breath away.

“Could you step over here for a second?” Margie asked, her face turning red.

“Sure.” Peter stopped in front of Margie’s desk. Her eyes kept darting around the room, left and right, completely ignoring Peter as he waited for her to speak.

“Well?” Peter asked, annoyed by her behavior.

“I need to tell you something important…” Margie said, her voice barely a whisper, finally breaking the tension.

“Tell me, then. I don’t have all day.”

“Not here. Let’s go grab a coffee downstairs,” she said, with a boldness that surprised even herself.

Peter nodded, his face showing zero enthusiasm. “Make it quick, Margie. A fast one.”

They walked down the stairs in total silence. Once outside, the coffee shop was only a few dozen yards away.

“Damn it!” Peter snapped. He almost sprained an ankle on an uneven patch of sidewalk.

“Are you okay?” Margie asked, grabbing his arm. She was a petite, delicate woman.

Peter grimaced but kept walking, albeit with a slight limp.

They slipped inside the coffee shop. Margie took charge, picking a secluded booth all the way in the back.

“Margie, if I didn’t know you, I’d think you were getting some weird ideas into your head,” Peter said, his tone cocky and obnoxious. He regretted it instantly, forcing a stupid, apologetic grin onto his face.

“Peter, you’re in danger,” Margie said, cutting straight through the awkward silence.

Peter laughed. “I’m not joking,” Margie shot back.

“It’s organized crime, right?” Peter smirked.

“No. I’m talking about Paul and his little girlfriend, Patricia,” Margie said, referring to two other actors at the agency.

“Spell it out for me.”

“They’re going to try to take you out. They’ve already started.” Margie’s eyes began darting around the room again.

Peter watched her, speechless. He had never seen her nervous before.

“They put a curse on you. Paul wanted your role. You have to be careful. If you can, you need to do a counter-ritual to break it,” Margie added.

“What the hell are you talking about? I don’t believe in that crap, and I never would’ve guessed you did. I always thought you were rational and smart,” Peter snapped. Convinced he was wasting his time, he stood up.

“Wait, Peter… think about it,” Margie said, sliding a slip of paper toward him.

“And what’s this supposed to be?”

“The address to my place in the country. In case you need it. I’ll be there, I took a few days off.”

Peter shoved the paper into his pocket and walked out of the coffee shop, his face dark. Margie followed him at a distance.

At the first intersection, a car ran a red light, nearly plowing right into Peter. Margie witnessed the whole thing and ran to him. He was still shaking. Across the street, Paul and Patricia were standing there. They looked right at them, waving with idiot smiles plastered on their faces.

“Well, look who’s across the street,” Margie said, dripping with all the sarcasm she could muster.

In that exact moment, the thought crossed Peter’s mind that Margie might actually be right. But he rejected it instantly. It was too insane. He said a rushed goodbye to Margie, completely ignored Paul and Patricia, and went straight home.

When he opened his front door, a nasty surprise was waiting for him: a massive, motionless spider on the floor. It looked exotic, maybe a tarantula. Girding his loins, he trapped it under a beer stein.

“How the hell did this monster get into my house? With the money from this movie, I’m buying a proper apartment,” he muttered to himself. He stripped down, throwing his clothes onto the couch and chairs.

Walking around the house in his underwear, he paced slowly from the entryway, through the living room, and into the kitchen. He opened the fridge and poured himself a glass of white wine. He sipped it slowly, savoring it.

Then, an image flashed in his mind. Something he had just looked at but hadn’t truly processed. He poured more wine, chugged the glass down in a hurry, and ran back to the living room. His beloved aquarium had become a graveyard. Dozens of fish were floating lifelessly at the surface.

“What the fuck happened? I just fed them this morning,” he said bitterly. He was devastated; he’d been attached to those little guys. He went back to the kitchen and drank the rest of the bottle straight. His phone rang.

“Hey man, how’s it going?” Paul’s voice boomed.

“Why do you ask?”

“Back on the street… Patricia and I wanted to congratulate you, but you just ran off!”

“I had an errand to run,” Peter replied in a low voice.

“Patricia and I are in the neighborhood, we wanted to drop by. Can we? So we can congratulate you in person.”

Peter swallowed hard, a lump forming in his throat.

“I promised Margie I’d go visit her. Sorry,” Peter said coldly, hanging up immediately before Paul could talk back.

He paced back and forth in the kitchen, then headed to the bedroom to find some clean clothes.

“Margie’s right… unbelievable… those bastards actually cursed me,” Peter muttered as he threw on a shirt and pants. He pulled the slip of paper from his jacket pocket and read the address. “Alright. If I drive fast, I can be at Margie’s in forty-five minutes.” He left the house and headed to the garage.

During the entire drive, Peter’s phone wouldn’t stop ringing. Paul and Patricia took turns calling him. Then, he heard the notification pings. The two assholes had left him voice notes.

Peter reached Margie’s place. A beautiful little house in the countryside. It looked deserted; the lights were all off. He knocked on the door, and it swung open.

The moment he stepped inside, every lock clicked shut.

He shouted Margie’s name at the top of his lungs. No answer. Peter finally decided to play Paul’s voice note.

“Peter, please pick up! Patricia and I are worried… There are things about Margie you don’t know. John, the actor you know, is her son, and she’s a fucking witch. We don’t have hard proof, but we’re certain that Henry… you remember poor Henry? I was saying, about Henry… he fell victim to one of her spells. And you want to know why? Because he took the role that was meant for her son, John. Not to mention what happened to Phil. Bottom line, Peter, answer the goddamn phone and do not go to Margie’s!”

But it was already too late.