Chapter 1: The Wish That Backfired
The air in Mark’s bedroom was stale, thick with the smell of old pizza and unwashed laundry. A single red lava lamp bubbled sluggishly on the desk, casting long, undulating shadows across posters of bands Mark liked but couldn’t play, and athletes he admired but could never emulate. He was sprawled on his bed, a gangly tangle of limbs and frustration.
“It’s statistically impossible,” Jason declared from the floor, not looking up from his phone. His tone was the same one he used for explaining why a play in Madden would fail. “Between the two of us, we have approached, what, seventeen girls total? And the combined result is zero dates, one phone number that turned out to be for a Chinese food place, and two instances of being openly laughed at.”
“You’re counting Melissa Jenkins?” Mark groaned, pushing a pile of comics off his pillow. “She laughed because you tripped over your own feet and spilled a Slushie on her shoes.”
“Emotional trauma is still trauma. The point is, we’re cursed.” Jason finally looked up, his athletic frame seeming to fill the cramped space. He gestured with his chin toward the desk. “That thing is our only hope.”
Mark’s eyes followed the gesture to the monkey’s paw. It was a shriveled, ugly thing, resting on a biology textbook like some failed experiment. His weird uncle had left it behind after a visit, mumbling about careful wishes. It looked like something you’d find in a gutter.
“It’s a dried-up piece of junk, Jason.”
“It’s not junk. It’s a documented paranormal artifact. There are forums. People swear by it.”
“People on forums also swear they’ve been probed by aliens shaped like ottomans.”
Jason got up, grabbed the paw, and dropped it onto the bed between them. It landed with a soft, leathery thud. In the glow of the lava lamp, the curled fingers seemed to tense. “One wish. Each. That’s the rule. You just have to be really, really specific with the wording. No loopholes.”
Mark picked it up. It was cooler than he expected, and rough, like old bark. A low hum of excitement, mixed with a sharp ribbon of fear, tightened his chest. This was stupid. This was so profoundly stupid.
But then he thought about Chloe Finley’s smile in AP History, a smile that never quite reached her eyes when he talked to her. He thought about the endless, grinding pressure in his gut, the jokes in the locker room, the feeling of being a ghost in his own life, watching everyone else move on. Touch. Connection. Just… not being so alone in his own skin.
“What would you even wish for?” Mark asked, his voice quieter.
“Dunno. Maybe for, like, a thousand bucks. Or a car. Something tangible.” Jason’s eyes gleamed. “But you… you should wish for a girl. The girl. Your dream girl. Right here, right now. Just poof. Problem solved.”
The idea was so audacious, so catastrophically simple, it short-circuited Mark’s usual anxiety. A horny woman. The words formed in the deepest, most resentful part of his brain, born from a million silent, lonely nights. Not a girlfriend. That seemed too complex, too fraught with emotional requirements the paw might screw up. Just… the physical proof. An end to the question. A solution to the ache.
He laughed, a dry, brittle sound. “Yeah. Right. ‘Dear magical paw, please send me a horny woman.’ That’d go great.”
“Do it,” Jason urged, leaning forward. “Be specific. Say you want a horny woman, right here in your room, who is totally into you. What’s the worst that could happen?”
The list was endless. But in that moment, with Jason’s confident grin pushing him, the paw feeling oddly heavy in his hand, the worst thing seemed like not trying. Like another night of nothing.
“Okay,” Mark breathed. “Okay, fine.” He clutched the paw. It felt warmer now, almost pulsing. The room seemed to grow darker, the lava lamp’s blobs slowing as if sinking through syrup.
“I wish,” he stammered, then cleared his throat. “I wish for a horny woman. Right now. In this room. Who… who wants me.”
The final word hung in the air. For a second, nothing happened. Jason’s smirk widened. “See? Told you it was just a–”
Jason’s voice cut off in a wet, choking gurgle. His eyes bulged, not with humor, but with pure, uncomprehending terror. He clawed at his own throat as his body began to tremble.
“Jason?” Mark scrambled back on the bed.
A series of sickening cracks echoed in the small room, like someone stepping on a bundle of twigs. Jason’s frame collapsed in on itself, then surged outward in new, wrong directions. His shoulders narrowed, his hips flared with a sound of tearing denim. His familiar face, all sharp angles and stubble, seemed to melt and reform, features softening, lips swelling into a glossy pout, jawline refining. His short, spiky hair streamed out, darkening, lengthening into a cascade of chestnut waves that spilled over newly formed, bare shoulders.
His football jersey and jeans dissolved, not vanishing, but transforming. The fabric slithered and rippled, darkening into the sheer black of stockings, tightening into a painfully short red sequined dress that clung to every insane new curve. A stiletto heel, materializing from nowhere, slammed down onto the carpet with a definitive thud.
Where Jason Miller had been, now a woman knelt, one hand braced on the floor, breathing heavily.
She was, objectively, stunning. A knockout. The kind of woman who existed only in the sticky pages of magazines Mark hid under his mattress. The red dress barely contained her, the neckline plunging, the hem riding high on her thighs. She shook her head, the waves of hair swaying, and looked up.
Her eyes were the same shade of hazel as Jason’s. That was the only anchor Mark had.
Those eyes focused on him, and the sultry, knowing smile that spread across her face was nothing Jason had ever possessed. It was a smile of pure, predatory appetite.
“Well, hello there,” she purred. Her voice was a low, smoky thing, but underneath the bedroom huskiness, the cadence was… familiar. It was how Jason sounded when he was mocking a bad pickup line.
She rose in one fluid, practiced motion. The sequins caught the lava lamp’s light, scattering red dots across the walls like warning beacons. She took a step toward the bed, her hips rolling with an exaggerated, hypnotic rhythm.
“You look… tense.” She giggled, a sound that was both girlish and deeply knowing. It was Jason’s laugh, pitched higher. The dissonance was terrifying.
“J-Jason?” Mark whispered, his back pressed against the headboard.
“Who?” She blinked, then her smile returned, wider. “I’m Jasmine. And you, you lucky boy, are exactly what I need.” She placed one knee on the mattress, the springs creaking under her weight. The scent of cheap, overpowering perfume and something else, something musky and primal, washed over him.
“Wait, stop,” Mark babbled, holding up his hands. “This is wrong. You’re Jason. You’re my best friend!”
“Mmm, I’ll be your best anything you want,” Jasmine cooed, ignoring his words. She crawled over him, pinning him down with a strength that belied her new form. One hand planted itself next to his head, the other tracing a fingernail down his chest. Her eyes were glazed, drunk with a desire that had no anchor, no history, no reason beyond the wording of a wish. “You wished for me, didn’t you? I can feel it. I’m so hungry.”
Her mouth descended toward his neck. Mark turned his head, squeezing his eyes shut. He could feel the heat of her, the press of her body. This was everything he’d ever fantasized about, and it was a horror show. This was Jason. His friend. Trapped inside this… this thing he’d created.
“The paw!” he gasped, twisting his face away from her seeking lips. “On the floor!”
Jasmine—or the thing wearing Jason’s memories—paused. She followed his frantic gaze to where the dried paw had fallen, looking small and innocuous on the grubby carpet.
“Silly,” she whispered, her breath hot in his ear. “We don’t need that. We just need each other.”
But for a fraction of a second, her hungry expression flickered. A shadow of confusion passed through those hazel eyes. A wrinkle formed between her perfectly sculpted brows. It was the look Jason got when he was trying to remember a play, a brief lapse in total confidence.
It was enough.
With a desperate heave, Mark bucked her off. She tumbled to the side with a surprised “Oof!” that, again, sounded utterly like Jason missing a tackle.
Mark didn’t hesitate. He rolled off the bed, snatched the monkey’s paw from the floor, and held it up like a crucifix. “I wish this wasn’t happening!” he yelled, his voice cracking.
Nothing.
The paw lay inert in his hand.
Jasmine sat up on the bed, smoothing her dress. The momentary confusion was gone, replaced by a pout. “Rude.” Then the pout melted back into that smoldering smile. “I like it.”
She began to crawl toward the edge of the bed again, her eyes locked on his.
Mark stumbled backward, his mind racing in pure, animal panic. The wish. He had to undo the wish. But the rules… one wish each? Could he wish for Jason back? What were the exact words? ‘I wish for a horny woman. Right now. In this room. Who wants me.’
His eyes darted to the bedroom door. The house was silent; his parents were asleep down the hall. If he screamed, if she followed him out there…
Jasmine’s stiletto hit the floor with a sharp click. She took a step toward him.
Think. Think.
The specificity. The loopholes Jason had warned him about. He couldn’t just wish her away. He had to wish for what he really wanted.
He gripped the paw, his knuckles white. Jasmine was inches away now, her hand reaching for his waistband.
He shut his eyes tightly, trying to block out her scent, her heat, the terrifying familiarity in her eyes.
“I wish,” he hissed, the words tearing from his throat, “I wish my best friend Jason was back to normal, right here, and that he remembers none of this!”
A final, soft pop of air, like a suction seal releasing.
The heavy perfume vanished, replaced by the smell of sweat and cheap body spray.
Mark opened his eyes.
Jason stood before him, blinking rapidly. He was back in his jersey and jeans, his own familiar, lanky-but-athletic build restored. He looked down at himself, then at Mark’s terrified face and the grotesque thing in his hand.
“Dude,” Jason said, his voice fully his own, brimming with confused irritation. “Why are you holding that gross thing and staring at me like you’ve seen a ghost? And why do I have a splitting headache?” He rubbed his temples. “Man, I must have zonked out. I had the weirdest dream. There was this… dancer?” He shook his head, dismissing it. “Anyway, you never made your wish. You chickening out?”
Mark stared at his friend. The hazel eyes were clear, annoyed, completely unaware. The paw in his hand felt icy cold. He looked from Jason’s impatient face to the single, red sequin glittering on the carpet next to Jason’s sneaker.
He slowly lowered the paw.
“Yeah,” Mark whispered, his body trembling with a relief so profound it felt like sickness. “Yeah, I chickened out. It’s a stupid piece of junk.”
“Told you,” Jason shrugged, heading for the door. “I’m grabbing a soda. You want one?”
“No,” Mark said, his voice barely audible. He waited until the door clicked shut behind Jason. Then he slid down the wall onto the floor, clutching the monkey’s paw to his chest, staring at that one, impossible red sequin winking in the dim light. It was real. All of it was real.
And Jason still had his wish to use.
The silence after Jason left was absolute, broken only by the hum of the old desktop computer and the frantic drumbeat of Mark’s heart. He stared at the sequin, a tiny, blood-red eye on the carpet. Proof. He scrabbled for it, pinching it between trembling fingers. It was cold and sharp.
The monkey’s paw in his other hand began to grow warm.
Not just warm. It pulsed, a slow, deep throb that traveled up his arm. The dried, leathery skin softened. The clenched fingers unfurled, one by one, with a series of faint, fibrous pops.
A sickly green-gold light emanated from the seams of the desiccated flesh, illuminating the whorls of his own fingerprints. It was the most wrong thing he had ever seen.
“No,” Mark whispered. “No, no, no. I took it back. I fixed it!”
The light intensified, pooling in the center of his cluttered room. It didn’t chase away the shadows; it painted them in toxic, neon hues. From down the hall, he heard the fridge door slam. Jason was coming back.
The paw grew hotter. It wasn’t a request. It was a law, executing itself.
The bedroom door swung open. “Dude, they only have diet root beer, which is a crime against–”
Jason stopped. The can of soda slipped from his hand, hitting the carpet with a dull thud and a hiss of fizz. He wasn’t looking at Mark. He was staring at the glowing paw, his face bathed in its unnatural radiance. His eyes widened, not with terror this time, but with a dawning, awful understanding. “My wish,” he breathed. “I never… but I was thinking…”
“What?” Mark yelled, scrambling to his feet. “What did you think, Jason?”
“In the kitchen… I just thought… ‘I wish I knew what it felt like.’” Jason’s voice was hollow, mesmerized by the light. “To be wanted like that. To be the one who just… knows what to do.”
The law glowed.
It happened faster this time. There was no scream, just a sharp, inhaled gasp from Jason that hitched, then melted into a low sigh. The sound was a wave that rolled through the room, thick with promise.
Jason’s body shimmered, like a mirage. His form softened, curved, inflated in places and streamlined in others. His jersey and jeans dissolved into a second skin of iridescent sapphire blue—tight, shiny spandex disco shorts that cut high on the thighs, and a matching spandex tube top that strained over the full swell of new breasts. Her hair was the same chestnut cascade, but now tousled with purpose. Jasmine stood there, panting slightly, her body alive and ready for sex.
She turned her head, those familiar-unfamiliar hazel eyes locking onto Mark. A slow, confident smile spread across her glossed lips. She took a step, her movements a liquid glide that had nothing to do with Jason’s athletic stride.
“You’re still here,” she purred, her voice a husky echo of Jason’s from moments before. “Good.”
She closed the distance and sat down next to him on the edge of the bed, the spandex whispering. The heat from her body was immense. Mark could see the tight peaks of her nipples, hard and obvious through the thin fabric. A scent rolled off her—sweet, musky, deeply animal—that made the air thick and hard to breathe. His body reacted instantly, traitorously, a tight ache pressing against his jeans.
“See?” she murmured, leaning in. Her breath was warm against his ear. “You do want me. I can feel it.”
She kissed him. It wasn’t a question. Her lips were soft but insistent, her tongue finding his with a practiced ease that shattered every clumsy fantasy he’d ever had. A jolt, equal parts electric pleasure and stomach-churning horror, shot through him. His hands stayed frozen at his sides.
Her hand slid into his lap, palming him through the rough denim. He jerked, a strangled sound escaping his throat.
“Shhh,” she whispered against his mouth, her other hand tangling in his hair. “Just feel it. This is what you wanted, right? Both of you.” She rubbed him slowly, firmly, the pressure maddening through the layers of fabric. “No thinking. Just feeling.”
She pulled back just an inch, her eyes gleaming. With a single, fluid motion, she hooked her thumbs in the edges of her tube top and pulled it down. It snapped over her curves, revealing full, heavy breasts. The areolas were a dark, flushed pink.
“Suck my tits, Mark,” she commanded, her voice dropping to a gritty whisper. It wasn’t a request. It was a challenge, and underneath it, he heard the ghost of Jason daring him to do a keg stand.
Paralyzed, he stared. His mind was a screaming chorus of this is Jason this is Jason this is Jason, but his body was a live wire, every nerve ending screaming from her scent, her touch, her overwhelming presence. The musk was in his mouth, in his lungs. He was painfully, shamefully erect under her grinding palm.
He leaned forward. He did it. He took one stiff peak into his mouth. The taste was salt and perfume and skin. She moaned, a sound that vibrated through his skull, and her fingers tightened in his hair.
“Yeah,” she hissed. “Just like that.”
She shifted on the bed, swinging a leg over him to straddle his lap, grinding herself down against the bulge in his jeans. The shiny spandex of her shorts was slick and hot. He could feel the firmness of her body, the incredible, wrong specificity of her. A small, dark spot of moisture began to bloom on the inside of the blue fabric, right at the apex of her thighs.
She rolled her hips, a slow, circular torture, her head thrown back. “You have no idea,” she breathed, “how long I’ve been waiting to feel this. To not have to think. To just take.”
Mark’s hands finally moved, not to push her away, but to grip her spandex-clad hips. To steady her. To pull her closer. The rational part of him was dissolving, drowning in a flood of sensation he’d only ever imagined. The paw lay on the rumpled comforter beside them, dark and inert again, its work done.
Jasmine looked down at him, her expression triumphant and hungry. She captured his mouth again, her kiss deeper, consuming. She reached between them, her fingers fumbling with the button of his jeans.
The click of the metal button giving way was the loudest sound in the world.
It was also the sound that broke the spell.
This is Jason.
The thought cleaved through the fog. Not his friend Jason. Something wearing him. Something the paw had made from his deepest, most secret want. A thing that just took.
Mark tore his mouth away, turning his head. “Stop.”
Jasmine stilled, her fingers on his zipper. She let out a frustrated, hot sigh against his neck. “Don’t be like that. We’re just getting started.”
“Get off,” he said, the words raw. He pushed at her hips, his own arousal now a sickening point of shame.
Her face hardened. The sultry mask slipped, and for a split second, he saw something else—a flash of Jason’s impatience, his frustration when a game wasn’t going his way. “You don’t mean that.”
“I do!” He shoved harder, and she rocked back, her balance precarious on his lap. Her eyes narrowed, calculating. The hungry desire was still there, but now it was mixed with something colder, something predatory that recognized resistance as part of a game she was determined to win.
She smiled again, slower this time. She leaned in, her breasts pressing against his chest. “Okay,” she whispered, her voice a dangerous promise. “Okay. We can slow down.” Her hand, which had been on his zipper, slid up to his chest, over his pounding heart. “But I’m not going anywhere, Mark. A wish is a wish. And I’m yours.”
Down the hall, the floorboard creaked. A parent, waking for a glass of water.
The sound was a lifeline. Mark seized it. He looked past Jasmine’s shoulder, his eyes widening in feigned panic. “My dad,” he hissed.
Jasmine’s head snapped toward the door, the instinctive caution of a teenager in a forbidden situation overriding everything else. It was all the distraction Mark needed.
He bucked forward, throwing her off balance. She toppled sideways onto the bed with a yelp. He scrambled off, zipping his jeans with fumbling hands, his face burning.
She propped herself up on her elbows, her hair a mess, the tube top still down around her waist. The hungry smirk was gone. Now she just looked pissed. “What is your problem?”
“You are!” he spat, backing toward the door, his hand groping behind him for the knob. “You’re not real. You’re a… a glitch!”
He found it, yanked the door open, and stumbled out into the dark hallway, pulling the door shut behind him. He stood there, breathing like he’d just run a mile, listening.
Silence from his room. Then, the soft, unmistakable sound of someone settling back onto his bed. A sigh. The rustle of sheets.
She was waiting.
Mark slid down the wall and sat on the hardwood floor, his head in his hands. The house was quiet again. The paw was in there with her. Jason was in there, buried inside that thing.
And he had no idea how to fix it this time.