User blog comment:SOMEGUY123/300 Word Long Stories/@comment-26030957-20150125030900

The Netflix Account

Did she even stop to think for a moment that she was making a deal with a dark and ancient God that would enslave her soul and abuse and torment her flesh for three hundred years?

No.

She thought: ''Tom can’t leave me for her. I mean, after all, we have the same Netflix account!''

So, on that moonless night in late October, when the veil between the living and the dead is at its thinnest, she set out for a forest of virgin Fir.

The elderberry wine, steeped in mugwort, detura, blood from her menses and dandelion root was dark as she filled her chalice.

Ancient, unholy prayers on her lips, she dipped her finger into the brew and drew a pentagram upon the DVDs they had once shared- So This Is Forty (they could always agree on a comedy), Annie Hall (old Woody Allen-her choice), and Die Hard (action adventure- him).

She recited the invocations in backward Latin: bubezleeb, sucinaimad – and brought forth the foul broth to her lips, the acrid taste of earth and herbs mixing with the sweet wine.

From a burlap sack, she pulled a squirming kitten. Spreading her arms to the dark moon she called to the ancient Gods of the night for power over her lover- to bring him back to her at any cost or peril to her soul -and she ran her dagger against the throat of the kitten.

Then, in the dark earth she buried the Netflix DVDs.

That night he returned.

He gave three knocks.

“I know what you have done,” he said. “But my account is only streaming now.”

She screamed in horror, knowing all she had done was for naught, and that now she would be the servant of the dark one for three hundred years.