The Black Magic Woman
By Olivia Salter
Word Count: 1,486
Noah’s apartment reeked of failure—stale smoke, old whiskey, and the dust of unopened sheet music. The piano stood silent in the corner, its keys yellowed under the dim light. He hadn’t played in weeks, not since his last gig ended in awkward claps and pitying stares.
His fingers itched for the keys, but every time he sat down, silence swallowed him whole. What was the point? No one cared about his music, not anymore. He’d faded into the background, just another dreamer stuck in the city’s endless grind.
Tonight, he sat by the window, chain-smoking as he stared at the flickering neon sign of the Blue Note Lounge across the street. The city hummed with life, but inside, he felt dead.
Then he heard it—a voice that slithered through the cracks of his window, low and honeyed, wrapping itself around his chest.
It wasn’t the polished, hollow perfection of a pop singer. This voice was raw and unfiltered, soaked in pain and promise, as though it carried the weight of every heartbreak, every longing.
Noah straightened, the cigarette slipping from his fingers and hissing out on the floor. The voice wasn’t just singing; it was speaking to him, through him, like it had always been there, waiting.
He leaned closer to the window, straining to catch every note, but the voice only grew fainter, teasing him with its fleeting beauty.
“Who…?” he whispered, though no one was there to answer.
The thought struck him like lightning: it was coming from the Blue Note.
Rising from his chair, Noah crossed to the window of his shabby apartment. The neon sign of the Blue Note Lounge flickered across the street, casting intermittent red shadows over the unopened sheet music littering his floor. His yellowed piano keys sat silent in the corner, untouched since his last failed gig had ended in pitying applause. But now, as that voice wound through the night air, his fingers twitched with a familiar hunger.
Without bothering to grab a coat, Noah ran down to the street. The city pulsed around him—couples laughing, cars honking, the promise of rain heavy in the air—but he heard none of it. His world had narrowed to that siren song pulling him forward.
The Blue Note's interior hit him like a wave: cigarette smoke creating halos around dim lights, ice clinking against glass, hushed conversations floating beneath the music. And there, on stage, stood its source. She was tall, elegant, her dark skin gleaming with an otherworldly sheen under the spotlight. A crimson dress clung to her figure, and her thick coils of hair framed features that were both beautiful and somehow wrong—too perfect, too sharp. But it was her eyes that held him, bottomless and ancient, reflecting nothing while seeing everything.
As the last note of her song faded, those impossible eyes found his across the room. Her lips curved into a knowing smile, and Noah's heart stuttered in his chest. He couldn't tell if it was fear or desire that made his pulse race.
She was waiting at the bar when he approached, as if she'd known he would come. "I saw you staring," she said, her speaking voice as hypnotic as her singing.
"I wasn't—" Noah started, then caught himself. "I mean, I was. You were incredible."
"Flattery suits you." She turned to face him fully. "But I don't need it. You're a musician."
It wasn't a question. "How did you know?"
"You have the look," she said. "And the hunger. I'm Nadira."
"Noah," he replied, taking her offered hand. Her skin was cool, and she held on a moment too long.
"You want more than what you have," she continued, leaning closer. "You want the sound that will make them remember your name."
His pulse quickened. "Yes."
Her smile widened, revealing teeth too perfect to be real. "Good. Because I can help you."
That night marked the beginning of Noah's resurrection—and his doom. Under Nadira's influence, music poured from him like blood from a wound. Dark, beautiful melodies that left audiences breathless and critics raving. His agent called it his best work. The venues got bigger, the crowds more adoring. But always, Nadira watched from the shadows, her eyes never leaving him.
That night, Nadira didn’t just change his life—she consumed it. Her presence became his compass, her voice the key that unlocked melodies he hadn’t known were trapped inside him.
Noah found himself returning to the piano, each note flowing effortlessly under her watchful gaze. She didn’t have to say much; her mere existence seemed to pull the music from him, dark and beautiful.
The songs came fast and raw, the kind that clawed at your soul and left you breathless. His agent was ecstatic, calling it his best work yet. Audiences packed into every gig, and for the first time, Noah felt seen.
But Nadira was always there, in the shadows of the stage, her eyes never leaving him.
“Don’t stop,” she whispered one night as he played for her alone in his apartment. Her voice slid through his veins like fire.
He didn’t stop. Not even when his fingers ached, not even when he began to feel like a stranger in his own body.
Noah’s music soared, but so did his nightmares. In his dreams, Nadira wasn’t human. Her voice was a storm, her body dissolving into shadows and feathers, her eyes burning with an unearthly light.
He woke each night in a cold sweat, her name on his lips. But when he saw her, the dreams seemed to fade, and he let himself believe they didn’t matter.
The first time he heard the scratching, he thought it was the wind. But when he looked toward the window, he saw them: a pair of crows, their black eyes gleaming in the dim light.
The next time, there were three. Then five. By the end of the week, his windowsill was lined with them, their screams had a relentless mournful song.
He mentioned it to Nadira, expecting her to laugh or dismiss it. Instead, she tilted her head, her expression unreadable.
“Crows know the truth before we do,” she said simply.
“The truth?”
Her gaze softened, almost pitying. “You’re meant for something greater, Noah. But greatness always comes with a price.”
A chill slid down his spine, but her hand on his arm burned away the fear. “Do you trust me?” she asked.
He nodded, even though the answer should have been no.
Then came the nightmares: Nadira's form dissolving into shadows and feathers, her voice becoming a storm that tore at his soul. But in daylight, her presence burned away his fears. "Don't stop," she would whisper, and he couldn't, even as exhaustion hollowed him out.
Desperate for answers, Noah sought out anyone who might know who—or what—Nadira was. Most people dismissed his questions.
It was an old man at the Blue Note who finally spoke the truth. The old man at the Blue Note stiffened at the mention of her name.
“She’s not real,” he whispered, his voice shaking. “Not in the way we are. She’s a muse—a cursed one. Every man she touches burns bright and dies young, leaving their songs behind like tombstones.”
“That’s ridiculous,” Noah said, though his stomach churned.
The old man grabbed his arm. “You think it’s a coincidence your music came back? She’s feeding on you, boy. And when she’s done, she’ll move on to the next poor fool.”
When Noah confronted her, Nadira didn't deny it. "I gave you what you wanted," she said simply. "Fame. Success. Immortality."
"Not like this," he protested, but her eyes had softened with an ancient sorrow.
"I was like you once," she said. "Hungry. Desperate. And I paid the price. Now, it's your turn."
Noah tried to escape. He smashed his piano, burned his music, swore never to play again. But the melodies wouldn't leave him. They clawed at his mind, screamed in his dreams, forced his hands to play invisible keys on empty tables. In the end, he surrendered to them.
His final piece was his masterpiece—a quiet thing that seemed to contain all the beauty and pain of the world. As he played, he felt his strength draining, his very soul flowing out through his fingers. Nadira stood behind him, her eyes heavy with tears. "I'm sorry," she whispered as the last note faded. Noah slumped forward, his head resting on the keys.
The next morning, the world hailed Noah's final composition as a work of genius. His name became legend, his music immortal. That night at the Blue Note, Nadira performed as always, her voice weaving its spell over the crowd. Among them sat a young guitarist, his eyes wide with wonder. When he approached her after the set, she smiled and offered her hand.
"I'm Nadira," she said. "And you are?"
