Souvenir (Short Story)

I really love this story. I still think it’s a great idea. I never submitted it like my other spooky stories but it’s probably my favourite that I’ve written of that genre. Five hundred words, a shaggy dog story…what’s not to like?

Souvenir

By Christopher Stanley

   ‘Thanks, it’s, er, lovely…’ I could see Vicky making a face, the one she always made when Nadia brought back another hideous holiday gift. This year Nadia had been trekking in Central America, and had come back dressed in multicoloured raffia and goat’s wool.

   ‘Well, it’ll keep the kids away at Halloween at least,’ I joked. It was bloomin’ ugly, I had to agree with Vicky. Like a Picasso carved out of bark, it was a bad tempered figure dotted with wisps of used cotton wool, with a piece of blue twine punctured right through its forehead.

   ‘It’s a Guatemalan luck warrior. The locals call it Miztak’

   ‘What a ‘miz-tak’ it is, too,’ I replied, before Vicky punched me on the arm. Luckily, Nadia didn’t get sarcasm.

   The gist of it was that if you looked upon Miztak with positive energy, he’d bring you enough luck to get what you wanted. These trinkets were Nadia’s stock in trade; she’d probably brought back one for herself.

   ‘I’ve got one at home,’ she told us, right on cue. ‘And he’s already brought me good luck. Reader’s Digest wrote to me and told me I’d won a prize draw! What’s that if not proof?’ Vicky and I exchanged glances. One day, Nadia was going to give all her savings to some internet scam in Nigeria.

   I tossed Miztak on the sofa once Nadia had gone. I argued we should put it in the bin, but Vicky wanted to keep it, so she could wheel it out whenever Nadia came round. I’d never liked her friend; I couldn’t take her earth-chants and midnight solstices. The feeling was mutual; Nadia thought I was a barbarian killing Mother Earth. That may have been true, but at least I get to drive a decent car.

   After we made up, Vicky put Miztak in the middle of the mantelpiece, where he stayed for a couple of weeks without causing any fuss. Then, on a whim, Vicky brought a lottery ticket. She didn’t usually bother, but she reckoned something had compelled her.

   Shaking my head, I put the ticket under the figure. ‘Go on, Miztak old son, see what you can do with that.’

   Four numbers later, and Vicky had won close to ninety quid. It had to be a coincidence, but it was strange. Vicky got a promotion at work. My pub team got to the top of the league. Every Saturday for a month, more and more lottery tickets were placed under Miztak’s bark legs.

   And then, five weeks to the day after taking possession of Miztak, the good luck stopped. I went into a 50/50 tackle and came out with a leg broken in three places. It was agony, and even Nadia came to see me. Miztak was now in the drawer.

   ‘Take him,’ I said. ‘Useless piece of junk.’

   ‘I’d be happy to,’ said Nadia. ‘Mine fell off the wall and I accidentally trod on it. And what use is a one legged doll?’