The Magic Eight

The magic eight is only reference in the apex of superstition. On All Hallow’s Eve, when the black cat crosses one’s path, when a child wanders beneath a ladder, when one steps on the cracks in the sidewalks, one will go out of their way to see the magic eight.

It has been here for as long as anyone remembers. Even the gray-haired, deaf, pearly-eyed cannot remember a childhood without it. It has always been there, they say, and it always will be.

There is some speculation as to when it appeared. Some say a former neighbour left it behind long ago. Others insist it has always been there, it was born from the land.

And why eight? Why not seven? Why not nine? OR the unlucky thirteen? The magical, fairy tale three?

Touching the magic eight leaves some feeling cold, others warm. But each will come away with a new perspective. New eyes. The neighbours with the strongest of practical streaks insist it is electric shock. Nothing new about it. 

Most days the magic eight is ignored. Unseen. Strangers will point and ask questions. That? Just the magic eight. No, it’s always been there. Nothing lucky about it.

Yet, when the wind blows harshly, when the waves on the shore are capped with white, when the rain lashes hard against the small rickety houses on the hill, when the knife has slipped in the kitchen and blood is running over the tiles, when death stands over one’s bedside, someone will always be sent to the magic eight.

Deep down, no one questions the magic of the eight.

Text by Lucie MacAulay

Art by Anonymous