The Golden Strand

The Golden Strand by Susan Buffum



Dave Forbes found himself standing once more at the well-worn wooden counter of the narrow, dimly lit shop on Beggars Row. Ye Olde Apothecary, it was called. The counter was U-shaped, going around all three sides of the shop ahead, to the left and right as one entered. Behind the counter, on those side and back walls, were floor to ceiling cabinets, cupboards and open shelving crammed full of dust-furred boxes, small vintage tins, smudgy glass jars, vials, and translucent stone pots full of mysterious ingredients with strange names all written in a spidery hand in brown ink that appeared to be disappearing into the brittle, yellowing labels. Dusty sunlight from the skylight set into the slated ceiling above the entrance door fell across the back counter. On the counter, a dulled with age brass call bell waited, shoulders hunched against the inevitable strike of the next customers hand. The store was silent except for the muted ticking of a clock, although there was no clock hanging on the wall. There was a strange miasma of mingled scents perfuming the air—fading rose petals, crumbling eucalyptus, dried lavender, all floating above a curious odor like that of old copper.

Agnes Hartford was not in the shop front so he gave the bell a brisk tap. The clang of the bell was surprisingly loud in the small shop.

The deep purple curtain hanging across the doorway leading to the back room was moved aside as the petite, wizened, white-haired proprietor slipped around the fringe of worn gold tassels along the edge of the material. She turned her faded blue gaze upon him, giving him an enigmatic yet expectant smile. “Have you brought me something?” she inquired.

“I have,” he replied after nervously licking his lips. From the right hand pocket of his suit jacket he removed a folded handkerchief that he laid on the scarred countertop.

She came to stand opposite him, reaching out a small, claw-like hand to slide the handkerchief closer to her. Carefully, she unfolded it before bending closer to examine what lay on the tightly woven material. Opening a drawer on her side of the counter, she rummaged around, metallic items clattering together for a few moments before she produced a pair of tarnished silver tweezers. She used the tweezers to pick up the single golden strand of hair that had lain enshrouded in the folded linen square. Holding it up to the pale yellow rays of light streaming through the skylight, she nodded. “This will do,” she said. “Come back tomorrow at four o’clock.” Her eyes slowly lowered until they met his. “Four o’clock, but no sooner than that.” He nodded, turned and walked to the door. The bell jangled. Pausing before stepping out onto the old brick sidewalk, he glanced back over his shoulder into the store, but the old woman had already vanished behind the purple curtain.

 The following day, he could hardly wait until four o’clock. Glancing across the office, his heart began to beat rapidly as his eyes fell upon Jennifer. She was the most beautiful girl he’d ever seen—tall, shapely, her golden hair shining like the summer sun on even the gloomiest of days. She had the bluest eyes that he’d ever seen. They were the color of sapphires!

 He’d been in love with her ever since Marcus had hired her five months ago after Leslie had abruptly quit. Marcus had told him that he’d felt bad for Jennifer. She’d just graduated from college and moved to the city to look for a job. She had moved in with her older sister, Jessica. Jennifer had still been job hunting when Jessica had been killed one night while crossing a street on her way home from her job as a seamstress and costume maker in an off Broadway theater.

Jennifer wore some amazing outfits. He’d heard from several of the other office girls that Jennifer’s late sister had had an incredible wardrobe. She’d made most of her own clothes. The girls didn’t doubt that Jennifer had taken possession of all of her sister’s clothing to supplement her own wardrobe. She had the figure of a model. You could dress a girl like her in scraps and rags and she’d still look like a million bucks.

Yesterday, he’d gotten onto the elevator ahead of her. He’d turned to face the doors and smiled at her as she’d gotten on. She’d smiled back before turning her back to him to watch the digital numbers on the panel as the car had descended to ground level.

That’s when he’d done it, when the car had given that little jolt as the mechanism that operated it had brought the car to a halt. He’d seen a glimmer of gold on her navy blue sweater. Quickly, he’d plucked the strand of hair off, then snapped his handkerchief open and laid the single strand inside, hastily folding it in a small square and tucking it into his jacket pocket. Glancing around, he had been relieved to see that no one had observed him steal the hair. They had all been focused on the illuminated screens of their cellphones. Jennifer had sailed off the elevator, heels clicking on the marble floor tiles. Even she had been unaware that he had swiped the strand of hair. He’d stepped off the elevator, relieved that he hadn’t had to pluck it from her head, which would have been hard to explain, although he had been prepared to say that the button on the sleeve of his jacket had gotten caught in her long hair as he’d moved his arm.

He’d then gone directly to Beggars Row and dropped the strand of hair off at the shop as directed the previous day. He’d seen the ad last week in the local alternative newspaper. Ye Olde Apothecary specialized in potions, tonics, elixirs, poultices, amulets, charms and cures for all of life’s many afflictions, be they of psyche, body, heart, health, or romance.

Miss Hartford, who ran the shop, had listened to his romantic woes and then advised him to bring a strand of hair from the head of the object of his affection. She would use that strand of hair from the head of his one true love to concoct a special potion that would guarantee that the object of his heart’s desire would be his for all eternity. She’s given him a bit of a sassy wink for a woman of her age, but he’d smiled, convinced that if anyone could make Jennifer fall hopelessly in love with him forever, it would be her.

Now, he paced the uneven brick sidewalk in front of the shop waiting for the bell tower at Holy Trinity to toll four o’clock. He didn’t want to be early, but he was anxious, checking his watch, looking at the time on his cellphone, his ears straining for the peal of that first bell, and the three peals that would follow.

Finally, it happened! BONG! rang the bell. Three more solemn strikes of the clapper in the hollow throat of the bell rang out. He paused, his hand on the door latch, until the last vibrations of the bell ceased to float upon the air in the narrow lane. Now it was a few moments past four o’clock.

Miss Hartford was behind the counter, the slanting rays of the afternoon sun giving her cottony fluff of hair a snowy brilliance. “Here you are,” she said, producing a small silver cup embossed with strange symbols from beneath the counter. “Drink this down without pause and your one true love will come to you tonight at the stroke of midnight. I guarantee that she will never leave your side. I give you my word on that.” She slid the little cup across the counter until it was right before him.

He peered down into the murky contents of the cup for a moment, discerning a sort of golden glow at the very bottom of the vessel. “Down the hatch!” he said with a shrug as he lifted the cup to his lips, opening his mouth, taking a quick breath and then quickly drinking down the potion, letting the last drop rest a moment on the back of his tongue before swallowing it. He imagined that that drop was the one that held the mysterious golden glow, the radiant golden essence of the lovely Jennifer.

He set the cup down, took out his wallet, withdrew the crisp one hundred dollar bill that he’d gotten at the bank at lunchtime. He set it on the counter and then slid it across to Miss Hartford. “It’s real,” he assured her, but still she snatched it up, snapped it taut between both hands and then held it up toward the skylight, scrutinizing it before giving him  a curt nod. “Our business is completed.”

“Thank you,” he said.

“Have a long and happy life, young man,” she replied as he turned and left the shop, giddy with the knowledge that Jennifer would be his as of midnight that very night.



He’d taken a shower, run the electric razor over his cheeks, chin face and all along and under his jaw. He’d applied a splash of after shave, brushed his teeth, gargled with mouthwash, trimmed his fingernails and toenails, examined his nostrils for any offensive stray nose hair using a small flashlight. He’d then examined his reflection in the mirror. He was thirty-years old. There were just a few faint wrinkles, laugh lines actually, at the corners of his eyes. He liked to laugh. He liked to go out and have fun. He hoped Jennifer was the kind of girl who liked to go out and have fun, too.

He smiled at himself, and then he grinned. Soon he’d be going out to the clubs with the gorgeous, golden-haired Jennifer on his arm. She’d be his and his alone. He’d never have to worry about some other guy stealing her from him. Miss Hartford had assured him that the potion would bind then as a couple forever.

He slid into bed, the stereo playing soft music. He’d lit several pillar candles, the seductive flames casting just enough light in the room so that he’d be able to see her when she appeared. He wasn’t completely certain how Jennifer would manifest at midnight. He supposed it would be by some sort of magical teleportation. He’d just have to relax and believe in Miss Hartford’s skill. He had to trust her completely.

In the distance, the church bells at St. Peter’s and at the First Congregational Church began to toll midnight. He ran his hands nervously over his dark hair, worried that he’d mussed it up by turning his head too many times on the pillow during the past hour to glance at the clock on the bedside table.

Nine…ten…eleven…twelve! The bell towers had struck midnight!

A strange energy had begun to build in the room as the bells had tolled. He could see blue-white sparks snapping in the air above the bed. He could feel the weight of a body pressing into the mattress beside him, could see a form taking shape beneath the covers. Jennifer, the breathtakingly beautiful desire of his heart was slowly materializing at his side.

When he heard a soft gasp, he turned his head, a smile of welcome lifting the corners of his mouth as his eyes readied to drink in the golden glory of her at his side.

For a few moments he continued to smile, although his eyes widened with a look of alarm. The girl whose head rested on the pillow beside his had long, golden hair, but she was not Jennifer! This girl’s jaw was crooked and gaping, revealing broken teeth, gashed lips. Her nose was flattened and askew. Her eyes were dull, vacant…dead eyes. He jumped as they shifted toward him and a ghastly smile exposed more of the damage to her teeth and jaw.

She stretched as arm toward him. The sharp ends of broken bones protruded through the torn flesh of that arm. She was trying to speak as he scrambled wildly out of bed with a shriek of terror and loathing. “You’re not Jennifer!” he shouted accusingly at her. “Who the hell are you?” He had grabbed his clothes and was dressing hurriedly, hopping on one foot and then the other, shoving his arms into the sleeves of his shirt and trying to button it with fingers that refused to work. “Who are you?” he cried as she pushed aside the covers and slowly, like a marionette whose strings had become crossed and tangled so that her movements were disjointed, foreshortened, and awkward, got out of bed. He clamped a hand over his mouth at the sight of her gruesome autopsy wounds, the large stitches binding her mottled flesh together in a long Y-shape. The sickly sweet-rotting meat smell of death now permeated the room. As she lurched toward him, he turned and fled.



Ye Old Apothacary was dark, yet he pounded on the door repeatedly, hoping that Miss Hartford was in the back room, praying that she was still there. “Miss Hartford!” he cried. “It’s Dave Forbes! Open the door! Please! For the love of God, open the door! The potion…it’s…she’s…it’s not Jennifer!” His mind was whirling, spinning like a top, making him dizzy. His heart felt as if it would explode. “Let me in! She’s not the right girl! She’s not the one!” He heard uneven footfalls at the corner of Beggars Row. Turning his head, he saw a shadowy crooked figure shambling down the sidewalk. Pound harder on the door, rattling the glass, he shouted, “You have to make her go away! My God! She’s dead! You have to send her back to the grave!”

But the door remained resolutely closed as the ghastly golden-haired girl staggered closer and closer yet. How could this be? He’d plucked the long, golden strand of hair off Jennifer’s sweater himself!  How could this have happened? Who was this gruesome girl?

And then, in a sudden glimmer of awareness, he understood. Jennifer had inherited her sister’s wardrobe. She must have been wearing one of Jessica’s sweaters the other day. It must have been a strand of the deceased Jessica’s hair that he’d plucked from the sweater, not Jennifer’s!

“No!” he screamed as the horrible apparition reached for him with her broken arms. This was not his one true love! There’d been a mistake, a terrible mistake!

“She will never leave your side,” Miss Hartford’s voice echoed in his memory. “I guarantee that.”

He turned his head, looking wildly at the door and screamed in terror as a cold hand grasped his wrist. The flaking gold letters painted on the glass read ‘Joseph Yarmitsky—Cobbler and Leather Goods; Shoes shined while you wait.’