Sisyphean Attempts at Self-Improvement

Hocus Pocus

"It's just a bunch of hocus pocus," Martin assured his daughter as he tucked her into bed.

Sarah clutched her stuffed rabbit tighter. "But Grandma said the words. She said them three times."

"Grandma likes to tell stories. That's all they are. Stories." He kissed her forehead and turned off the light.

Martin found his mother in the kitchen, grinding something with a mortar and pestle. The smell made his eyes water.

"Mom, you have to stop filling Sarah's head with that nonsense."

She didn't look up from her work. "It's not nonsense. It's protection."

"Protection from what? Imaginary witches?"

His mother finally met his eyes. "From things that shouldn't be invited in."

Martin grabbed a beer from the fridge and headed to the living room. His mother had been getting worse lately. Salt lines at the doorways, herbs hanging from the windows, and now teaching Sarah ridiculous incantations. He'd have to talk to his siblings about getting her evaluated.

The house settled into quiet. Martin dozed in his recliner until a soft voice woke him.

"Daddy?"

Sarah stood in the hallway, her rabbit dangling from one hand.

"What's wrong, sweetheart?"

"I said the words backwards."

"What words?"

"The ones Grandma taught me. I wanted to see if they worked backwards."

Martin's mother appeared behind Sarah, her face pale. "What did you do?"

"It was an accident," Sarah whispered.

The lights flickered.

Martin stood up, annoyed. "Great. Now the power's acting up."

"Martin." His mother's voice was steady but strained. "Get Sarah. Now."

"Mom, enough with the—"

The words died in his throat. Sarah was looking at him, but her eyes had rolled back, showing only white. When she smiled, her mouth stretched too wide.

"Sarah?"

"She invited us in," his daughter said in a voice that wasn't hers. "Such a polite little girl."

Martin lunged for his daughter, but she moved with impossible speed, scuttling backwards and up the wall like an insect. His mother threw something at Sarah; a handful of the ground mixture. Sarah shrieked, dropping to the floor.

"The words, Martin! Say them correctly!"

"I don't know them!"

Sarah's body contorted, bones cracking as she bent in ways that shouldn't be possible. More voices poured from her mouth. Dozens of them, all speaking at once.

His mother began chanting, but Sarah laughed—a sound like breaking glass.

"Too late, old woman. The child opened the door from the inside."

Martin grabbed his daughter's convulsing form. "Please! She's just a child!"

Sarah's head snapped toward him, vertebrae popping. "Yes. And children are so much easier to hollow out."

His mother's chanting grew louder, more desperate, but Martin could see it in her eyes.

The words only work the right way.

Backwards, they became an invitation that couldn't be revoked.


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460 words

PROMPT: “It’s just a bunch of hocus pocus.” — from Hocus Pocus (1993)

Written for ""13" - 2025 Edition"