The Collecter - November Entry

The psychic should be worried about her own future.

The Collector

          Sami, or rather, Madame Felicia, considered herself a connoisseur of human weakness. From her nondescript office nestled within the steel and glass canyons of downtown Manhattan, she operated a lucrative empire built on the desperate yearning of the rich and famous. They craved connection, insight, a glimpse beyond the veil of their gilded lives, and Sami was more than happy to oblige--for a price.

          At twenty-six, living a solitary life in a sprawling, perpetually half-packed New York apartment, Sami had mastered the art of deception. She had learned early, watching her mother pore over supermarket tabloids, that the world was riddled with the gullible, eager to believe in anything that promised an escape from their mundane, or in her clients' case, their utterly privileged existence. A shrewd mind, an eidetic memory, and an utter lack of scruples had proven to be a potent cocktail.

          Her process was meticulous, a finely tuned machine of digital espionage and psychological profiling. Once a potential client reached out, usually through an elaborate referral network that ensured exclusivity, Sami would vanish into the digital shadows. Every tweet, every forgotten college yearbook entry, every disgruntled former employee's blog rant, every public scandal and private rumor would be unearthed. She'd construct their lives like a detailed blueprint, identifying their deepest fears, their unspoken desires, their hidden vulnerabilities. By the time they sat before her, she knew them better than they knew themselves.

          Her office was designed for plausible deniability. No neon signs, no twinkling stars on the door. Just a frosted glass panel etched with the elegant, enigmatic "Madame Felicia." Inside, it was a carefully curated blend of mysticism and minimalism. Dim lighting, rich velvets, a heavy scent of sandalwood and frankincense, a well-worn deck of Rider-Waite tarot cards, and a polished crystal ball that caught the ambient light like a frozen galaxy. It was just enough to suggest the esoteric without veering into outright kitsch. Her clients, discerning individuals, appreciated the subtlety.

          Today, a new name had landed on her encrypted server: Evelyn Thorne. The name alone sent a ripple of anticipation through Sami. Evelyn Thorne--the reclusive art collector, the enigmatic socialite, a woman whose wealth was so vast it was almost mythical. Thorne rarely made public appearances; her acquisitions were whispered about among the art elite. Her name commanded top dollar, the highest fee Sami had ever quoted. This was her white whale, her masterpiece of manipulation.

          Sami leaned back in her ergonomic chair, a cynical smile playing on her lips. "Evelyn Thorne," she murmured, typing the name into her custom-built search engine. This was going to be fun.

          The initial phase of research usually involved a satisfying cascade of information, not with Thorne. Her digital footprint was not just minimal; it felt actively suppressed, a conscious erasure. Public records were sparse, and social media was nonexistent. There were grainy photographs from decades ago, society pages mentioning her ancestors, but Evelyn Thorne herself was a ghost.

          Sami frowned. This was a challenge, but challenges invigorated her. She delved deeper, bypassing the usual channels. She tapped into private forums where art dealers gossiped, where ultra-wealthy families exchanged guarded secrets. She accessed confidential archives, paid off a few dark web informants, and even managed to get her hands on some heavily redacted corporate documents. Slowly, painstakingly, a fragmented portrait began to emerge.

          Evelyn Thorne descended from old money, a lineage steeped in obscure European aristocracy with a peculiar penchant for collecting "artifacts of power," as one cryptic forum post put it. There were whisperings of strange disappearances associated with the Thorne estate over the centuries, tales dismissed as local folklore by most, but now, a chill began to prickle Sami's skin. One specific detail kept surfacing: a personal assistant, a young woman named Clara, who had vanished without a trace three years earlier, just weeks after starting work for Ms. Thorne. The official report cited "voluntary departure," but the police investigation had been unusually brief.

          Sami discovered Thorne's current residence: a sprawling, isolated brownstone in the West Village, purchased decades ago but rarely seen occupied. It was less a home and more a fortified vault, full of priceless, often unsettling artifacts from forgotten cultures. A fragment of an ancient Sumerian tablet, a ceremonial dagger from a Pre-Columbian civilization, a collection of painted skulls from Oceania. Each item has its own shadowed history.

          The more Sami dug, the less she felt like a clever con artist and more like an archaeologist unearthing truly ancient, malevolent artifacts. The usual thrill of discovery was tinged with a growing unease. Yet, Sami, ever the professional, pushed the feeling aside. It was just the darkness of the past, the aura of old money and morbid curiosity.

          Then, she found it. A single, almost invisible detail buried deep within a medical journal from the late 1960s, documenting a rare pediatric congenital condition. Evelyn Thorne, as a child, had suffered from a unique form of hyperosmia, an extreme sensitivity to odors, often accompanied by heightened sensory perception in other areas. The article mentioned a particular aversion to the smell of decaying organic matter, and an unusual affinity for certain rare herbs. This was the hook. Intimate, unprovable by anyone but Thorne herself, and deeply personal. Perfect.

          The day of the reading arrived, shrouded by a persistent drizzle that coated the city in a slick sheen. Sami, dressed in a flowing, midnight-blue velvet robe that made her look both regal and ethereal, checked her office one last time. The incense burner puffed out a steady stream of calming smoke, the low lamps cast long, dancing shadows, and the crystal ball shimmered with an almost liquid light.

          At precisely 3 PM, a discreet black town car pulled up to the curb. A moment later, a woman stepped into Sami's reception area. Evelyn Thorne.

          Sami had imagined a formidable, elderly woman. Instead, Thorne appeared ageless. Her face, though lined around the eyes, seemed carved from polished stone, her skin unnaturally smooth. Her silver hair was pulled back in a severe bun, and her eyes, a startling shade of pale blue, held an unnerving stillness. She wore an impeccably tailored black suit that absorbed the light.

          "Madame Felicia," Thorne's voice was a low, resonant murmur, like stones tumbling in a deep well. "Thank you for seeing me."

          "My pleasure, Ms. Thorne. Please, come in." Sami gestured towards the interior room, her professional composure firmly in place, though a shiver traced its way down her spine. There was an almost imperceptible scent about Thorne, not of perfume, but something earthy, ancient, like dry leaves and forgotten crypts. Sami, remembering her research, wondered if it was her own heightened imagination playing tricks.

          They sat opposite each other at a small, round table. Sami began her usual patter, her voice a soothing balm, her gaze fixed on Thorne's unblinking eyes. She spoke of Thorne's family legacy, of the whispers surrounding her collection, of the deep well of ancient knowledge she sought. Thorne listened, her expression unreadable, her hands clasped serenely in her lap.

          Sami then moved to the "personal" details. "I sense a deep sensitivity in you, Ms. Thorne," she began, her tone gentle yet authoritative. "A unique awareness of the world around you, especially through the senses. In childhood, a particular sensitivity to odors? An aversion to the unpleasant, a connection to the rare fragrances of the earth?"

          A flicker. So slightly, Sami almost missed it. A tightening around Thorne's eyes, a barely perceptible tremor in her clasped hands. Sami cheered inwardly. She had her.

          "Indeed," Thorne replied, her voice softer now, with a hint of something Sami couldn't quite decipher. "A heavy burden, sometimes. A gift, others might call it." She paused, her gaze piercing. "You see much, 'Madame Felicia.' But do you feel?"

          Sami kept her expression serene. "To see is to feel, Ms. Thorne. The threads of fate are not merely seen but resonated with." She reached out, taking Thorne's hand in hers. It was cold, strangely dry, like old parchment.

          As their skin touched, a jolt, sharp and electric, shot up Sami's arm. It wasn't static; it was something far more profound. A wave of icy dread washed over her, and for a split second, the room seemed to dissolve. She saw a flicker in her mind's eye: not a future, not a memory, but a rapid, swirling vortex of dark energy, an ancient, complex symbol etched in shadow, and a brief, agonizing scream that wasn't hers.

          Sami pulled her hand back, feigning a slight cough. Her heart hammered against her ribs. She attributed it to a combination of stress, the strong incense, and a touch of dehydration. It was a new sensation, unsettling, but undoubtedly not real.

          Thorne was watching her, a faint, knowing smile playing on her lips. "Yes," she whispered, her voice barely audible. "You feel. You always have." Her eyes seemed to bore into Sami's very soul. "Tell me, Madame, what do you see when you look at yourself?"

          Sami's carefully constructed fade began to crack. Thorne was not merely a client; she was an enigma that defied Sami's carefully honed skills. The air in the room grew heavy, thick with an unseen pressure. The sandalwood lost its comforting aroma, replaced by that faint, ancient scent from Thorne, now stronger, more oppressive. The incense smoke, usually a placid stream, seemed to writhe and coil, forming nebulous shapes that danced at the edges of Sami's vision.

          "Your future, Ms. Thorne, is one of continued... acquisition," Sami stammered, trying desperately to regain control, to steer the session back into predictable territory. "A path of profound insight, a deepening of your understanding of ancient mysteries..."

          Thorne merely shook her head, a slow, deliberate movement. "You speak of futures, of connections. But what of the past that binds us? What gifts do you deny?" Her gaze never left Sami's face. "The true mysteries are not out there, Madame Felicia. They are within."

          Sami felt a cold dread bloom in her stomach. Thorne was speaking in riddles, yet every word seemed to resonate with an unnerving truth. The crystal ball on the table, usually a passive prop, seemed to swirl with actual images now, not vague refractions, but horrifying, vivid flashes. Sami saw contorted faces, ritualistic sacrifices, and an array of unspeakable suffering, all flickering and dissolving faster than her mind could process. It was like seeing the accumulated horror of centuries compressed into searing seconds.

          Panic surged. Sami tried to end the session. "I'm afraid I'm feeling a sudden exhaustion, Ms. Thorne. This reading... it's proving draining. We could conclude for today?"

          Thorne did not move. Her stillness was absolutely terrifying. "Draining, indeed," she mused, her voice dropping to a whisper that somehow thrummed through the entire room, vibrating in Sami's bones. "You were always meant for this, Sami. Deny it as you might. You sense the desperation, yes, but also the echoes. The threads. You merely chose to profit from them, rather than understand them."

          Sami froze. Sami. Her real name. No client had ever known her real name. How...?

          The horror intensified. The tarot cards, spread innocently on the table, seemed to rearrange themselves, forming an ominous pattern Sami didn't recognize, symbols of sacrifice and cosmic alignment. The shadows in the room deepened, stretching and twisting into predatory shapes.

          "You are not merely a fraud, Sami," Thorne stated, her voice now clear and resonant, filling the room with an authority that left no room for doubt or denial. "You are gifted—a beacon. Every fear you exploited, every desire you preyed upon, every secret you unearthed, they were not just data. They were resonant. A chord struck in the vast symphony of human longing, amplifying what was already dormant within you."

          Sami stared, paralyzed, her mind reeling. "What are you talking about?" she whispered, her voice hoarse.

          Thorne smiled, a slow, predatory unveiling of perfect, unnaturally white teeth. "Your 'research,' your 'exploitation' - it was a form of crude, unconscious empathy. You weren't just gathering information; you were absorbing the psychic debris of their lives, strengthening your dormant abilities, acting as a magnet. You drew me to you, Sami. Not for a reading, but for... activation."

          Sami remembered the missing assistant, Clara. The "disappearance." Her stomach knotted. "Who... who are you?"

          "A collector," Thorne replied, her eyes gleaming with an ancient hunger. "Not just of art, but of energies. Promising talents. You see, true psychic ability is rare, volatile. It needs... cultivation. A catalyst. Your cynical practice, your constant immersion in the desperate minds of the gullible, has made you ripe."

          Thorne rose, her movements fluid and silent, circling the table. The air around her shimmered, turning the low light into something palpable, oppressive. "The visions you felt earlier, the dread, the symbols..." Thorne's voice was a comforting lullaby of terror. "Those were not your imagination, Sami. Those were the echoes of your true gift awakening. The past, the present, the hidden suffering of countless souls. All accessible. All yours."

          Sami felt a burning pressure behind her eyes, her skull screaming. Her mind was being flooded, overwhelmed by a torrent of raw sensory input: the wailing of a forgotten ghost, the scent of fresh blood, the taste of ash, the cold terror of a child lost in a forest, the joyous relief of a mother reunion, all at once, overwhelming, searing. She was hearing, seeing, feeling everything, without filter, without control. It was not a gift; it was torture.

          Thorne stood directly behind her, her breath cool on Sami's neck. "And now, Sami, you're ready for true collection."

          Sami opened her mouth to scream, but no sound came out. Her throat was constricted, her lungs burning. The visions intensified, flashing faster and faster, a kaleidoscope of human experience, joy and pain, life, and death, all pouring into her mind, shattering it from the inside out. Her carefully constructed reality imploded. She was no longer a cynical fraud; she was a conduit, a vessel, her very essence being taken, or transformed.

          From outside, the persistent drizzle continued to fall on the indifferent streets of New York. The lights in the small, nondescript office building flickered. For a brief, chilling moment, the interior light in Madame Felicia's office pulsed with an eerie, emerald glow, casting a strange, ancient symbol onto the frosted glass of the window, before the darkness swallowed it once more.

          In the silent, indifferent heart of New York, another light had been extinguished, and another darkness had been born.

Word Count: 2,419
Prompt: