The Jilted Heiress And Her Karmic Revenge

Her lungs burned as she dragged in a breath of the sweltering attic air.

Alice opened her eyes. The rough, splintered wood of the floorboards pressed against her cheek. A wave of nausea hit her stomach so hard she gagged, her vision swimming in a haze of dust and agonizing pain.

The memories weren't hers, yet they were violently fusing with her own. She was Alice Morrow, a top-tier occultist who had spent decades mastering the arcane. But she was also this Alice-a battered, terrified girl who had served as a human punching bag for the Wallace family.

She planted her palms on the floor, trying to push herself up.

Fire ripped through her arms. The skin stretched over overlapping whip scars, both fresh and old. Her muscles gave out. She collapsed back onto the filthy wood, her chest heaving as cold sweat beaded on her forehead.

Heavy, aggressive footsteps pounded against the wooden stairs outside. Military boots.

The sound shattered the dead silence of the attic.

Bang.

The flimsy wooden door exploded inward. The hinges snapped. Sharp splinters flew past Alice's cheek, leaving a thin trail of blood.

Britney Wallace stood in the doorway. She wore a pristine, custom-made haute couture dress that cost more than a car. In her right hand, she gripped a silver Smith & Wesson revolver.

"You really are like a cockroach in the gutter," Britney sneered, looking down at her. "You just won't die."

Alice didn't cower. She didn't beg.

She slowly lifted her gaze. Her eyes, usually wide with terror, were now as dark and still as an abyss.

Britney's jaw tightened. That cold, dead stare infuriated her. She marched forward, her expensive heels clicking sharply against the floorboards, and shoved the freezing steel barrel of the revolver hard against the center of Alice's forehead.

Alice didn't blink. Her eyes shifted slightly, focusing on the space just above Britney's brow.

There it was. A swirling wisp of black smoke. The karmic tether.

It was a parasitic contract. Britney had been siphoning Alice's luck, using her as a sink for all her own misfortune. But the rule of the tether was absolute: any direct, malicious attack would reflect back to the sender.

Britney's thumb pulled back the hammer. The sharp click echoed in the cramped, suffocating space.

Alice's lips curved into a microscopic, chilling smirk.

In the shadows beside her leg, her right hand moved. Her fingers twisted, locking into an ancient reflection sigil. The karmic tether's absolute rule guaranteed that the attack would reflect automatically, but Alice wasn't about to leave the trajectory to chance. The sigil acted as a spiritual magnifying glass, ensuring the rebounding kinetic energy would bypass the gun's barrel and channel with pinpoint accuracy directly into the weakest point of Britney's anatomy-her wrist.

"Go to hell, you useless freak," Britney screamed, pulling the trigger.

The gunshot never came.

Instead, a sickening, muffled metallic crunch erupted from inside the revolver. The kinetic energy in the chamber violently reversed, defying every law of physics. The massive recoil blasted backward, channeling straight into the gun's grip.

Snap.

The sound of Britney's wrist bone breaking was loud and wet. Her hand bent backward at a grotesque, unnatural angle.

The gun flew from her grip, hitting the floorboards and sliding into a dark corner.

Britney let out a bloodcurdling shriek. She dropped to her knees, clutching her mangled wrist. Her perfectly contoured face twisted into a mask of pure agony, tears ruining her expensive makeup.

Alice took her time. She stood up, her movements slow and fluid. She brushed the dust off her faded hospital gown. She didn't have a single scratch on her.

"You... you're a monster!" Britney shrieked, scooting backward on the floor, her eyes wide with terror.

Alice walked over and looked down at her.

"Your stance was entirely wrong," Alice said, her voice flat and devoid of emotion. "You don't lock your elbow when firing a revolver."

Downstairs, the frantic clicking of high heels echoed. Candice Wallace's panicked voice pierced the air.

Alice ignored the sobbing girl on the floor. She turned and walked toward the corner of the attic, grabbing a worn canvas bag. She swept the original owner's few clean clothes and ID card into it. Zip. Done.

Candice burst into the attic. She saw her precious daughter kneeling in a pool of her own vomit and tears.

A piercing scream ripped from Candice's throat.

She lunged at Alice, her hand raised high, aiming a vicious slap at Alice's face.

Alice simply tilted her head. Candice's hand hit empty air. Her momentum carried her forward, and she tripped over a loose floorboard, crashing face-first onto the ground next to Britney.

Alice looked down at the mother and daughter.

"I am officially done with the Wallace family," Alice said.

She slung the canvas bag over her shoulder, stepped over the broken door frame, and walked down the stairs. She didn't look back.

"I'm calling the cops!" Candice screeched from the attic. "I'll have you locked up!"

"Whatever," Alice threw the word over her shoulder.

She pushed open the heavy front doors of the Wallace estate. The blinding afternoon sun hit her face. She closed her eyes and took a deep breath of the fresh, un-suffocating air.

Alice stood on the cobblestone driveway outside the estate gates. She reached into her pocket for her phone to check the nearest bus route.

A deafening roar of an engine tore through the quiet neighborhood.

A beat-up, dust-covered Ford F-150 slammed on its brakes, skidding to a halt mere inches from her legs. A cloud of dirt washed over her.

Alice frowned. She took a half-step back, her fingers slipping into her pocket to pinch a cold, ancient copper coin.

The truck door groaned open with a terrible screech. A massive man jumped out. He wore a faded flannel shirt covered in drywall dust and scuffed work boots. He had a heavy stubble and a hard, weathered face.

But the moment his eyes locked onto Alice, the harshness vanished. His pupils dilated, and his chest heaved.

"Alice?" he choked out, his voice trembling. He said her mother's name like a prayer.

Alice's mind raced, sifting through the merged memories.

Byron Morrow. Her third uncle. A construction worker.

Before she could speak, the heavy oak doors of the estate swung open. Richard Wallace stormed out, flanked by two burly security guards.

Richard stopped, his nose wrinkling in disgust as he looked at the dirty truck.

"Get this trailer trash off my driveway," Richard spat. "You're polluting the air."

Byron didn't even look at Richard. His eyes were glued to Alice's arms. The sleeves of her hospital gown had slipped, revealing the dark purple bruises and raised whip marks.

The muscles in Byron's jaw locked. His massive fists clenched at his sides. The knuckles popped loudly, one by one. The air around him suddenly felt heavy, suffocatingly dangerous.

"Get him out of here," Richard ordered.

One of the guards stepped forward, shoving his hand against Byron's chest.

Byron moved. It was a blur. He grabbed the guard by the collar, planting his heavy work boots firmly on the ground. With a violent surge of raw, physical strength, he shoved the two-hundred-pound man backward with both hands, driving him relentlessly until he slammed back-first into the hood of the Ford.

The metal caved in with a sickening crunch.

Richard stumbled backward, his face draining of color. "I'm calling the police! You violent thug!"

Byron turned his head slowly. He took one step toward Richard.

"Shut your mouth," Byron growled, his voice so low it vibrated in the ground.

Alice stepped forward. She reached out and gently tugged on the rough fabric of Byron's flannel sleeve.

"I want to leave," she said quietly.

The murderous rage vanished from Byron's face instantly. He looked down at her and offered a clumsy, awkward smile.

He turned to the passenger side of the truck, yanked the door open, and furiously scrubbed the already clean seat with his dusty sleeve. He gestured for her to get in.

Candice came running out of the gates, pointing a shaking finger at Alice.

"You ungrateful bitch!" Candice shrieked. "Go on! Leave with this bottom-feeding trash!"

Alice stood by the open truck door. She looked back at Candice. Her eyes were completely dead, looking at the woman as if she were already a corpse.

"Good luck," Alice said flatly.

She climbed into the high cabin of the truck.

Byron slammed the door shut. He walked around to the driver's side, shooting one last lethal glare at Candice.

He turned the key. The engine roared. He slammed his foot on the gas pedal, intentionally blowing a massive cloud of thick black exhaust smoke straight into the faces of the Wallace couple.

The truck merged onto the highway.

The cabin smelled like motor oil and stale tobacco. Byron looked incredibly nervous. He quickly reached out and snapped off the static-filled country music playing on the radio, afraid it was too loud for her.

He dug into the center console and pulled out a squished, plastic-wrapped convenience store sandwich.

"I'm sorry," he muttered, his face flushing red. "I didn't have time to get real food."

Alice took the sandwich. She didn't feel disgust. She felt a strange, unfamiliar warmth in her chest.

She looked over at him. Her eyes narrowed.

Coiled around the back of Byron's neck was a thick, pulsing mass of black energy. A curse.

Byron kept his eyes on the road, sighing heavily. "The Morrows are just blue-collar folks, Alice. We can't give you the fancy life those Wallaces did."

Alice tore open the plastic wrapper and took a bite of the dry bread.

"I don't need it," Alice said, chewing slowly. "I'm very good at making money."

Just as she spoke, her phone buzzed. A loud, retro cash register ringtone echoed in the cramped cabin.

The truck rumbled down the interstate. Alice kept her eyes locked on the writhing black mass clinging to the back of Byron's neck. The curse was feeding on his vitality, thick and aggressive. Her eyes grew cold.

Byron shifted uncomfortably in his seat, feeling the weight of her stare. He cleared his throat, desperate to fill the silence.

"So," he started, his voice gruff. "What subjects do you like at school?"

"History. Philosophy," Alice lied smoothly, leaning her body slightly forward. She closed the physical distance between them.

Byron's fingers gripped the steering wheel tighter. His knuckles turned white.

"Those bastards probably didn't let you study properly," he said, his voice thick with suppressed anger. "Don't worry. Even if I have to sell scrap metal, I'll put you through college."

A genuine pang of warmth hit Alice's chest. She reached out her right hand.

"You have some dust here," she said softly, brushing her fingers against the shoulder of his flannel shirt.

The moment her skin made contact with the fabric, Alice silently chanted an ancient exorcism syllable in her mind.

A surge of invisible, razor-sharp arcane energy shot from her fingertips. It pierced directly into the core of the black curse.

The dark energy let out a silent, agonizing shriek. It dissolved instantly, melting away like snow hit by boiling water.

Byron suddenly gasped. He rolled his shoulders. The chronic, crushing migraine that had plagued him for months vanished in a split second. The heavy weight on his spine was just gone.

He cracked his neck, looking confused. He figured slamming that guard onto the hood must have popped a kink out of his back.

Alice pulled her hand back, leaning into the worn seat. She took another small bite of the dry sandwich.

Byron glanced at her in the rearview mirror. His eyes were soft. "Like I said, we might be poor, but I swear to God, you'll never suffer again."

Alice smiled and nodded. In her head, she was already calculating how many high-paying exorcism jobs she needed to take to buy her uncle a better truck.

The Ford exited the highway, merging onto a tree-lined boulevard on the outskirts of Boston. The traffic began to thicken.

Suddenly, a metallic scent flooded Alice's nose.

It wasn't physical blood. It was the scent of a fate line snapping.

She dropped the sandwich. Her hand dove into her pocket, pulling out three ancient copper coins covered in green patina.

Byron caught the movement out of the corner of his eye. He thought she was playing with a toy. "I'll buy you the newest game console when we get home," he chuckled.

Alice didn't answer. She cupped the coins in her hands and shook them violently three times.

She tossed them onto the rough denim of her jeans.

The coins settled. The hexagram was absolute. Absolute death. A bloodbath.

Alice's head snapped up. Her eyes locked onto the massive intersection a hundred meters ahead.

The traffic light was green. Byron's foot shifted, pressing down on the gas pedal to speed through.

"Brake!" Alice screamed, her voice cracking like a whip. "Now!"

Byron jumped in his seat. The sheer authority in her voice shocked him. He turned his head, his mouth opening to ask why.

Alice didn't wait. She lunged across the console, her hands clamping onto the steering wheel. She violently jerked it to the right, aiming the truck toward the shoulder.

Byron panicked. Fearing the truck would flip and hurt her, he slammed his heavy work boot down on the brake pedal with all his strength.

The tires shrieked against the asphalt. The massive truck violently lurched forward, stopping less than three feet from the intersection's white line.

Horns blared behind them. Drivers screamed curses out their windows.

Byron's heart hammered against his ribs. He turned to Alice, his face red with anger, ready to scold her for grabbing the wheel.

He opened his mouth.

A massive, heavily loaded dump truck blew through the red light from the left. It was doing speeds well over the legal limit, its engine roaring with an unnatural, mechanical fury.

It didn't even brake.

The truck plowed directly into the intersection, violently T-boning three sedans that were crossing perfectly legally.

The sound of tearing metal was deafening. One of the sedans was pushed sideways, its gas tank rupturing as it scraped against the asphalt, sending a shower of sparks into the air that ignited a terrifying fireball.

Right in the exact spot where Byron's truck would have been.