03/31/2026
THE COLLECTOR (PART 5)
Marcel did not sleep again that night.
He sat on the edge of his bed until morning, unmoving, eyes fixed on the table across the room. The figurine remained where it had always been, small and still, as though nothing had happened. As though it had not moved. As though it had not come closer. As though nothing had touched him.
But Marcel knew what he felt.
That cold touch still lingered faintly on his skin, like a memory his body refused to let go of. Every now and then, his hand would rise unconsciously to his face, brushing the spot where something unseen had traced him. Each time, his stomach tightened.
He didn’t try to explain it anymore. There was nothing left to explain.
By the time the sun began to rise, casting a dull gray light through his window, Marcel was already dressed. He didn’t bother with coffee. The thought alone made his stomach uneasy. His mind was clear now, sharper than it had been in days—not because he was rested, but because something inside him had shifted.
Fear had replaced doubt. And fear, unlike confusion, had direction.
He left the apartment without looking back.
The streets of New Orleans were just beginning to wake up. Shop owners swept their entrances, early vendors arranged their stalls, and the distant hum of the city slowly returned. It all felt painfully normal, almost offensive in its normalcy.
Marcel walked quickly, his steps deliberate, his mind fixed on one place.
The shop.
Madame Zuri.
When he reached it, the door was still closed. The sign hung quietly, unmoving, as if it had never drawn him in the night before. Marcel stood there for a moment, staring at it, his jaw tight.
He knocked. No response. He knocked again, harder this time. Still nothing.
For a brief moment, a flicker of doubt tried to return. Maybe she wasn’t real. Maybe last night had been another hallucination layered on top of everything else.
But then—
The door clicked.
It opened slowly.
Madame Zuri stood there, already dressed, already composed, as though she had been expecting him.
Her eyes moved over him once—taking in the pale skin, the hollow look, the tension in his shoulders.
“You did not sleep,” she said.
It wasn’t a question.
Marcel stepped inside without waiting to be invited.
“No,” he said, his voice low, controlled. “I didn’t.”
The shop felt the same as before—heavy with incense, quiet, sealed off from the outside world. But this time, Marcel didn’t notice the details. He went straight to the table and stood there, gripping the edge slightly.
“It’s real,” he said.
Madame Zuri closed the door behind him.
“Yes.”
Marcel shook his head once, as if trying to steady himself.
“No,” he corrected, more firmly. “You don’t understand. It’s not just… sounds or shadows anymore. It—” He stopped, his throat tightening slightly. “It touched me.”
That made her pause. Not dramatically. Not in fear. But in recognition.
She walked toward the table slowly and took her seat.
“Tell me exactly what happened,” she said.
Marcel did. Every detail.
The weight. The voice. The words. The movement. The way the figurine had not been where it should have been—and then somehow was again.
He didn’t rush it. He didn’t exaggerate it. He spoke like a man trying to hold onto something solid while everything else slipped.
When he finished, the room felt quieter than before.
Madame Zuri didn’t speak immediately. Her fingers rested lightly on the table, her gaze lowered slightly, as though she was putting pieces together that had already begun forming the night before.
When she finally looked up, her expression had changed.
Not fear. Not surprise. Certainty.
“It has begun,” she said.
Marcel’s stomach dropped, even though part of him had expected those words.
“Begun what?” he asked.
She held his gaze.
“Interaction.”
The word sat heavy between them. Marcel let out a breath, slower this time.
“And what does that mean, exactly?”
“It means it is no longer observing you,” she said. “It is no longer testing your awareness. It has acknowledged you. It has reached you.”
Marcel swallowed.
“And the next step?”
Madame Zuri leaned forward slightly, her voice lower now.
“It claims.”
Silence.
Marcel’s fingers tightened slightly against the table.
“No,” he said quickly. “No, you’re not about to tell me this thing is going to—what—take me? Kill me? Because if that’s where this is going, I need something more than…” He gestured vaguely. “This.”
“You need truth,” she said calmly.
“Then give it to me.”
She studied him for a moment, then nodded slightly.
“You are not the first,” she said. “And you will not be the last. Objects like the ones you collect do not always lose what is tied to them. Some carry more than history. Some carry attachment. Ownership.”
Marcel frowned.
“Ownership?”
“Yes.”
She let that word settle before continuing.
“There are things that are not meant to be moved from where they were placed. Not meant to be passed from hand to hand. Not meant to sit on shelves among other objects like decoration.”
Marcel’s mind flickered back to his apartment. The table. The five items. The figurine.
He exhaled slowly.
“So one of them…” he began.
“Yes.”
“And it’s attached to me now?”
“Yes.”
He closed his eyes briefly, then opened them again.
“Then tell me which one.”
Madame Zuri didn’t answer.
That silence again. That same silence as before.
Marcel’s frustration rose instantly. “No—don’t do that. Don’t sit there and tell me something is in my home, something is touching me in my sleep, and then tell me you don’t know which one it is.”
“I did not say I do not know,” she replied calmly.
“Then say it.”
She held his gaze.
“I will not guess.”
Marcel blinked once.
“What?”
“This is not something you guess,” she said. “If I point you to the wrong object, and you act on it, you will make it worse. You will anger what is already reaching for you.”
The weight of that settled heavily.
“So what do I do?” he asked, quieter now.
“You observe,” she said. “You return to your home, and you pay attention. It has already shown you something.”
Marcel shook his head slightly. “All of them have shown something.”
“No,” she said firmly. “One of them has come closer.”
That landed.
His mind immediately went back to the night.
The floor. The angle. The distance that didn’t make sense.
His chest tightened.
“And when I find it?” he asked.
Madame Zuri leaned back slightly.
“Then we begin the real work.”
Marcel stared at her.
“And if I don’t?”
She didn’t soften the answer.
“Then it will continue.”
A pause.
“And it will not stop where it is now.”
Marcel remembered Thabo, a fellow collector, who had shared his experience in their collectors discreet online group. But he didn't pay much attention to it. It all sounded like a joke. But now it was starting to make sense. There were others in the group who had suffered after acquiring objects without knowledge of their rituals or spiritual significance. Some had died. Some had disappeared.
“This is consequence, not punishment. Every object carries a history. Every history carries a spirit. You invited it; now you must respond,” Madame Zuri said as though reading his mind.
“You cannot sell it. You cannot discard it carelessly. Its owner demands attention. It seeks return—or it will take life in exchange.”
