poor unlucky lucy
When Lucy died—at that precise moment—everything changed.
She used to say she was just a k away from lucky, that was always the joke though all things considered it wasn’t particularly funny. No one ever wanted to point out that what she really meant she was unlucky.
I had a three AM conversation at the bottom of a bottle of whiskey with someone who told me in a whisper her theory that Lucy’s death unleashed all that unluck out on the rest of us again. It sounded reasonable at the time but questionable in the hungover morning light.
Other people say she’s a classic vengeful spirit, bitter and annoyed by her passing to the point of harassing the living about it out of spite.
It probably doesn’t matter what the cause is, though, since there doesn’t appear to be a solution.
We leave her notes and pearls and almond cakes, but nothing works.
There’s talk about needing larger sacrifices. It must be done, they say, but so far no one has volunteered.
About flax-golden tales. Photo by Carey Farrell. Text by Erin Morgenstern.