I peered in the fortune teller’s window, not knowing or expecting what may lie inside. Aside from lilac, sun-faded curtains and a garish tree made from costume jewelery and crystals, there was not much to see in the little display; if one could see anything past the dirt. I took a step back to have a look at the name above the door. Margot Morgana – Fortunes for the Bold, it proudly read.
            Good old Margot may be bold, but her shop frontage was practically decrepit, especially when it was bounded by a natty style hipster coffee shop one on side, and a co-working space called Collab-Vault on the other. Perhaps she could put up a sign and take a couple of days to smarten the place up. Closed – due to unforeseen circumstances. Sneering at my own private joke, I crossed the Rubicon, and turned the brass knob which opened the door.
            Inside, recovering from the gluttony of wind chimes I had set off above me, clacking against the door, I was surprised to see that the fortune teller’s business was a glorified second-hand bookshop. I think I had expected the parlour of Margot Morgana to be akin to a theatrical séance-like set-up. I spied the odd mystic keepsake here and there; a rather unsettling painting of bats pouring from a secluded tunnel-mouth, a bust proudly wearing a chintzy gold medallion of some sort, and an Indian head-dress.
            Then, she appeared, and I was immediately lost for words.
            I had, of course, anticipated a devil-may-care, free-as-a-bird Stevie-Nicks-a-like, with dark brooding eyes a man dare not stare at for too long, and all the rest of it. Margot Morgana was quite the opposite: she had short, clipped blonde hair, and was wearing a light grey business suit. She looked more like a lawyer than a fortune-teller, incongruous to the image of her place of business; and I found that all the more intimidating.
            Feigning interest in a gathering of books on astrology, she immediately called me on my prevarication. “I doubt you’re here for the books, sir. Would you like to sit and have a chat?” she purred.
            Stumbling over my own embarrassment, I attempted unsubtle humour. “Ah, the old crystal ball working then.” My smile suffered instant evaporation, curdling in the heat of her withering look.
            “Take a seat, and do tell me your name,” she said warmly. Despite my best efforts to make the encounter as awkward as possible, she was polite and professional. She had a little poser table set up with two bar stools against the one wall of the shop not festooned with books and spiritual accoutrement. I, all six feet two and gangly legs, mounted the stool with a distinct absence of grace. She joined me, gliding like an emissary-dove with the prig of peace in its beak. We shook hands.
            “Would you like some tea? I have a lovely selection of green and chamomile options.”
            “Kind of you to offer, but I’m fine thanks.”
            “As you wish. So, sir, please, let me have your name.”
            “Robert Strang. Robbie, please.”
            “Well Robbie, pleased to meet you. Please call me Margot.”
            She stopped for a moment, sizing me up.
            “Your mother’s favorite film was The Sting.”
            My jaw hit the floor. She was right. Where in the hell did that come from?
            “Well, yes, it was. How on earth …?”
            Margot laughed. “You’ll need to forgive me Robbie, that’s my little attempt at poking fun. I like to have a guess about a personal detail and throw a person off. Sometimes it works, sometimes it doesn’t. In your case, I seem to have hit the mark. An educated guess.”
            “Okay – I’ll bite. How do you figure?”
            “You introduced yourself as Robert but the corrected that to Robbie. I speculated that your mother would have been at an impressionable age around the time Robert Redford was in his pomp, and took a stab that she might have named you after him. I then took a further stab that she was a fan of The Sting. I suppose I could just have easily said Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid.”
            “Well … I appreciate the light-heartedness, but could we move away from parlour games? I’m … I’m hoping you can help me. I do need some. Help, that is.”
            “Of course, Robbie. Just a little fun on my part. I can sense you are nervous. Let’s set to that one side, and I’ll see what I can do. Please, do tell me who sent you, and why you’re here with me now.”
            “I have a worry. A concern. It has been impacting my life and I need some guidance. I was considering a counsellor but my friend Jonas Harrod told me to see you instead.”
            “You’re skeptical I can assist.”
            “Of course. With all respect, you seem a very polite and attr … affable woman, but it’s all hokum; all this crystals, and tarot malarky. I don’t mean to offend.”
            Margot laughed. She had a splendid smile.
            “Not at all. But I think you’re here because you know I can offer more than healing crystals and playing cards, Robbie.”
            This was the time I felt the switch; our exchanges had been pleasant, polite. Now, I knew she was getting into serious business with me. I could never have imagined just what she about to propose; or that I, a gentle sceptic, would buy it.
            “You are here because you have a fear, Robbie. Something is terrifying you. Whether you choose to believe it or not, I discovered I have a somewhat unusual talent some years ago, an ability – let’s call it a perception. And, from time to time, people find me, and I tell them what I can do.”
            At this, she eyed me up, assessing whether I would be a good sport or not. I felt like a zebra being watched by a stalking lioness; low in the tall grass, with the eyes of a killer.
            “I can take your greatest fear – extract it shall we say – and leave you unencumbered.”
            I swallowed. This was what I heard from Jonas, my erstwhile friend. He had explained her help had been like some sort of addiction therapy; but that she was more clinician than sorceress. Jonas had struggled with booze all his life. When he met Margot Morgana, she had promised to take his fear away: the fear that he would never shrug off the horrid need to clutch the bottle. I’d heard of hypnosis therapy, and I could even grasp how such a thing might work. Jonas had shrugged my analysis off like a raincoat on a warm summer’s day. “It’s more than, that, Robbie. You won’t ever understand unless you go to her.”

            Two weeks ago, I’d had a really big scare. I’d fainted and fallen from a subway platform, almost died. Thankfully, the driver hit the brake in time. When I saw my wife and daughter in the hospital, my mind simply couldn’t comprehend what would happen to them, had I been killed. The worry was crippling me, and I had started having panic attacks. And so, I took a chance and opened myself to her, offering Margot my explanation as to why I was here with her at all.
            “That’s my biggest fear. Not being here for them. The worry of it … it’s paralyzing me. I just can’t get past it. If you help me, please … please help me.”
            Margot took my hand, to soothe me. Her skin was velvet, and her willowy fingers had an elfin, gossamer touch, almost as if she were only partly real.
            “I can do more than you understand, more than perhaps you will believe. Don’t you think I can sense your hesitation? I can smell your denial; forgive me for my bluntness Robbie, but you reek of it. Yet, I see you are afraid, that you have been truthful with me, and you are here.”
            She paused, as if giving me a chance to decry her. I found I could not. For better or worse, I felt a little … enchanted. She withdrew her hand.
            “Fear is like energy, Robbie. You can never truly get rid of it, you can only transform it; or perhaps pass it from one place to another. That’s what I do. I’ve found a way … an incredibly old way, of excising your fear; extracting it. Think of it like a transplant, and I am the scalpel. That’s what I did for your friend, Jonas. He’s finally at liberty, free of his addiction. His drinking came from his fear to step into the world. Tell me, how is your friend these days?”
            “He’s great. In fact, he’s the best he’s been in years. He somehow landed a new job over in New York, advertising. I hardly hear from him now.”
            Margot nodded and smiled again. She was beguiling.
            “I’m pleased for him. Now, let’s talk about you; and the rules we must lay down. You must understand that by lifting this fear from your heart we cannot extinguish it; we can only release it, perhaps to scatter it to the winds, perhaps to have a more focused transference. Now, if you accept all of that, I want you to take a drink of this green tea. I want you to hold it in your mouth, and think of that fear – please be specific. Then, swallow it all back.”
            Reason was clawing at me; logic was whispering in my ears. Margot saw the doubt flashing in my eyes. “You need not believe me,” she said, “but do you believe Jonas?”
            I did believe Jonas, he was my oldest friend. Above all else, I knew I’d come prepared to make an ass of myself if it gave me a glimmer of hope to get past my dalliance with death and subject panic attacks. I needed to be a husband again, a father again.
            As it was, I was a man crushed by the paralysis of the unknown. My mind was made up; I took the tea, swilled it in my mouth and swallowed. As I did, she leaned over and kissed me directly on the mouth.
            She grabbed my face with those elfin hands and forced my mouth open; and I felt a rush of blood throughout my body. My eyes were open in surprise, and being this close to her, my nostrils filled with the scent of her sweat; sandalwood and honey. I swear I saw a flash in her eyes, like an old-fashioned camera-bulb; and then, we were apart.
            It took me a moment to collect myself. “I didn’t consent to that,” I murmured.
            “Would you have let me kiss you if I’d told how that’s how this works?” she asked coyly.
            “I think not.”
            “Well then. But now, our exchange is complete.”
            “So, what – that’s it? You’ve sucked the fear out of my body? What happens to it now? You’ve not asked me for a fee,” I ventured, wondering if I was about to be scammed.
            “There is no fee. How I dispose of the negative energy you have passed to me is my business Just know this; when you leave here, you’ll shed the fear like a snake sheds it’s skin. It may take a couple of days, but you’ll eventually wriggle free. The transfer is not instantaneous. And there is one more thing you need to know, Robbie.”
            Here it comes, I thought. The kicker. The clincher. She looks like a lawyer, she may as well act like one and hit me with the small print.
            “I have learned that the old ways respect one rule more than anything else: balance. That balance is your payment, and whatever fate wills, you have already paid it. I have taken your fear from you; and will vest it elsewhere at my choosing. And one last piece of advice, Robbie. You may experience elation once the fear leaves you, but you must remember that each of us owes a death. There is no magic fountain, no mystic waters; in short, you are mortal.”
            “Somber words.”
            “Wise words, to underline your commitment. Now, we are done. I suggest you go on, forget all about this, forget all about me, if you must, and enjoy your wife and family.”
            I stood, and shook her hand for the last time. “Well, it’s been interesting. Good luck to you, Margot.”
            “Good luck to you, Robert.”
            Using my full name, she glanced a smile at me, one which was enough to make my stomach flutter. It was time for me to go.

            Stepping from her shop, and forgetting her advice, I expected some sort of Damascene revelation; for the scales to fall from my eyes, or to be struck by a bolt of glorious lightning. Instead, I was gusted by the exhaust fumes of the No. 57 bus, as it harrumphed past me. Coughing, I paced away, though I could not help but sneak one last look at the shop front of Margot Morgana.
            She certainly left an impression.
            Over the next two days, I felt no change. I had laughed at myself a couple of times for being such a fool, allowing a confidence-woman to take me in. Yet, I also understood the power of placebo. If she had convinced me to think I was no longer paralysed by my fear, perhaps that was enough.
            It was on the third day I realised that something had changed; it was as if the colour had returned to the trees, the sky, and I could at least hear the sweet melody of life. Margot had reminded me I was not eternal; and I realised that it was my duty to make the most of every single day I had with my beloved wife, and to make the world as beautiful as I could for my little daughter. In short, I felt free, unencumbered. The panic attacks were gone.
            Those next few days were perhaps the best of my life; and I had hoped that it would continue like that for decades to come, to see through my own days, to be there to witness my daughter become an amazing woman like her mother.
            It was my wife’s birthday; the three of us had paid a visit to a lovely bistro on Ashton Lane. We had made our way down to the subway without trepidation; and though we stood chatting in the place where I had endured my dizzy spell, I was amazed to find not a shred of concern to befuddle me. It was liberating, and I was able to smile and laugh with my two girls.
            But then, from the other end of the platform, a commotion. I looked over and saw a man in a dark grey suit with a light orange tie, which he was tearing from his neck. People started clearing out of his way, but then he screamed, grabbing the top of his head with both his hands. I took a defensive step forward, in front of my wife and daughter, as others did the same. He was screaming, tearing at his scalp. Behind him, I saw the ongoing lights of the train as it thrust it’s way through the tunnel, and the accompanying noise reverberated around the station like pained metal.
            “Don’t you hear them coming?” the man cried out.
            “They’re in my hair, help me, help me!” he shouted.
            A surly, middle-aged man in work overalls grabbed at the man taking fright, but he skipped past and was bounding about the platform, bumping into the frightened passengers.
           

“The bats, dear God, don’t you hear them, wings all over me, wings all over me!” he screamed again, now running full tilt towards the end of the platform. I could see the wind of the tunnel, could see the two head-beams of the oncoming train. It played out before me like a scene on a stage; and somehow, somehow, I knew I had a connection with the poor man; a nexus.
            He was pulling at his suit, his hair. He took off his glasses and threw them to the platform floor, smashing them with his brogues for good measure. He stood with his back arched; searching round for an escape. His eyes met mine and I … I saw something there. It was a dark flash, dank and damp, like an old-fashioned press-man’s lightbulb. It was the same flash I had seen in the eyes of Margot Morgana, as she kissed me.
            Then, the man turned. In a split-second, he had thrown himself like a long-jumper, deep into the tunnel, and before the onrushing train. It was an awful scene; a horror. Screams and shouts abounded, and a young student doubled over, emptying the contents of her stomach.
            In but a few moments, security had appeared, and two women were jumping down to the tracks to try to help him; through it was clear he was beyond saving. The poor man was dead.
            My wife turned her head into my shoulder. “Oh Robbie,” she cried. “How awful, how awful.”
            I stepped towards the scene of the death as most others moved towards the stairs which led up and out. I leaned over, and saw what was left of the man.
            One of the security officers, on her knees, looked up at me. “What happened to him? Did you see? Did he jump?” she asked.
            “He, he was hallucinating I think. He was shouting about bats,” I said, my voice sounding like it had come from someone other than myself. Another passenger stepped towards the edge of the platform, an old lady dragging a leather trolley on wheels behind her.
            “He was feart,” she said, solemnly. “He was feart oot of his mind. Daft bastirt thought he wis being attacked by bats, as the man here says,” she offered.
            As her words landed in my ears I stepped back, retreating to my wife who was taking our daughter up the stairs, and away.
            It was only now I truly understood. I had not cheated fate, I had allowed Margot Morgana to act as my broker, offering the fates my fear, offering to somehow transpose it to some other poor bastard, to the man who now lay mangled below the subway train. Her smart suit and short hair now made sense; she was no fortune-teller, she was a deal-maker. She had made a bargain with the fates on my behalf. And as I looked around the hubbub of the platform, absently watching paramedics run past me, I wondered what her cut would be. Like any agent, she would have a percentage. But a percentage of what?
            She had called herself a scalpel, but the reality was that all she had done was suck the fear out of me like one would suck on a snakebite; or perhaps, I realised, like a siphon. That’s what she was; an unholy siphon, able to suck the fear from one person, and deposit it in another. She was using fear as currency, and I shuddered to think what her cut might be.
            For every person she had helped, those like my friend Jonas and others, there was a counter; some other poor bugger into whom that fear had to be released. And there, lying below the train, was the corpse of my counter. The bargain I had struck meant I could live unencumbered; but without really knowing the consequence, another had paid the price.
            My wife and daughter appeared, and dragged me up the steps to the daylight of Byres Road. As I looked at their faces I realized, without shame, that I,I was happy to be alive. That I was alive, and he was dead. How could I wish it to be the reverse, and consign my family to the black depths of grief? And then, I knew, at the last, after the race had been run, that I had accepted a blackness into my heart.

I cursed her then, that foul beast, that demoness. She had taken my fear, and filled the gap with the slow drips of a foul black tar; I had allowed myself to be sullied, dirtied, to become a person who had taken relief and delight in another man’s misfortune.
            Yet, as I held my daughter’s hand and watched my wife flag down a taxi to take us home, I knew it was a bargain I would strike again.
            For their sake, of course.
            For them.
            Then, reconciling myself to the fate I had chosen, I glimpsed her across the road; that alluring smile, the flash of those eyes, and she disappeared into the west-end crowds. The smile, the eyes … of Margot Morgana.

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J.S. Apsley is an author based in Glasgow, Scotland. He won the Ringwood Publishing short story prize 2024 for his debut fiction submission, “Immersion.” So far in 2025 he has placed over 30 short fiction/flash stories in literary journals and magazines all over the world and these can be seen at http://www.jsapsley.com.