The Last Card
The candles flickered in the cramped living room as Madeline shuffled the worn tarot deck. The cards felt heavier tonight, their edges soft from years of use, but there was something else—a weight that seemed to press against her palms like a warning she couldn't quite decipher. She glanced across the small table at her client, a man who had introduced himself simply as "Thomas" when he'd knocked on her door twenty minutes earlier.
He sat perfectly still in the mismatched chair she'd pulled from her kitchen, his pale hands folded in his lap with unnatural precision. Everything about him seemed deliberately unremarkable—average height, thinning brown hair, clothes that looked like they'd been purchased from a department store clearance rack. But his eyes held a quality that made Madeline's skin crawl, a flatness that reminded her of stagnant water. When he'd asked for a reading, his voice had been soft, almost gentle, but there was something underneath it that made her want to lock her door and pretend she wasn't home.
Still, she needed the money. The psychic business wasn't exactly booming in a town of three thousand people, and her day job at the grocery store barely covered rent on the tiny house she'd inherited from her grandmother. The same house where Nana had taught her to read the cards, where she'd learned that sometimes the universe spoke in symbols and shadows. More often than not, though, it was just random cards and vague statements from her that made the customers feel good.
"What would you like to know?" Madeline asked, struggling to push aside the sense of unease that was filling her. She began laying out cards in the Celtic Cross spread, each one landing with a soft whisper against the velvet cloth.
Thomas leaned forward slightly, and she caught a whiff of something metallic, like old pennies. "I want to know about my future," he said. "What's coming for me."
The first card was revealed: The Tower. Lightning splitting a dark spire, figures falling into an abyss. Madeline's stomach tightened, but she forced her expression to remain neutral.
"This represents your current situation," she said. "The Tower suggests significant change. Old structures being torn down."
Thomas nodded slowly. "What kind of change?"
The next card made her pulse quicken—the Seven of Swords. A figure creeping away in the night, carrying stolen blades. The image hit her like a physical blow, and suddenly she understood why the cards had felt so heavy in her hands. This wasn't about challenges he was facing—the cards were revealing what he was planning. Her throat constricted as she stared at the thief in the darkness, carrying weapons into the night.
"The Seven of Swords indicates... hidden actions," she said carefully, her voice barely steady. "Perhaps secrets that need to come to light."
The metallic smell seemed stronger now, and she noticed his hands had moved to rest on the table's edge, fingers drumming silently against the wood.
The third card made her breath catch: The Ten of Swords. A figure lying face-down, ten blades piercing his back against a blood-red dawn. Death, betrayal, the violent end of a cycle. Her hands trembled slightly as she reached for the fourth card, hoping it would somehow balance the reading, provide context that would make this all seem less ominous.
The Death card stared back at her.
"Interesting," Thomas murmured, and there was something like amusement in his voice. "What do those mean?"
Madeline's mouth had gone dry. She could feel sweat beading along her hairline despite the cool October evening. The cards were telling a story she didn't want to read, painting a picture in symbols that made her want to sweep them all back into the deck and pretend this reading had never happened.
"The Ten of Swords represents an ending," she said, her voice barely above a whisper. "But not necessarily a literal death. It could mean the end of a difficult period, a transformation. And the Death card—" She swallowed hard. "The Death card almost never means actual death. It's about rebirth, new beginnings, letting go of what no longer serves you."
Thomas tilted his head, studying her. "You don't sound very convinced."
"Tarot is symbolic," Madeline said quickly. "The cards speak in metaphors. They're not meant to be taken literally." But her hands were shaking now as she reached for the next card in the spread. She needed to finish this reading and get him out of her house. Every instinct she'd inherited from her grandmother was screaming at her to run.
The fifth card—representing the possible outcome—was the Three of Swords. A heart pierced by three blades, storm clouds gathering overhead. Heartbreak, sorrow, emotional pain. But in this context, surrounded by violence and death, it felt like something much more sinister.
"This suggests emotional upheaval," she said, but her voice cracked on the words. "Pain that leads to growth, the necessity of facing difficult truths."
"You're very creative with your interpretations," Thomas said with a thin smile. "But I think we both know what the cards are really saying."
Madeline's heart was pounding so hard she was sure he could hear it. She wanted to stop, to tell him the reading was over, but something kept her frozen in place. Maybe it was professional obligation, or maybe it was the growing certainty that showing fear would be the worst possible thing she could do.
"There are still more cards," she said, though every fiber of her being was telling her to stop.
"Yes," Thomas said softly. "Please continue. I'm very interested to see what comes next."
The sixth card—representing the immediate future—made her gasp audibly. The Moon, but reversed. Deception revealed, hidden enemies exposed, illusions falling away. In the context of this reading, it felt like a countdown timer ticking toward zero.
"This card suggests that hidden truths will soon come to light," she said, but she could barely force the words out. "Secrets will be revealed, and you'll see situations more clearly."
"How soon?" Thomas asked, and there was definitely amusement in his voice now.
"The cards don't give specific timeframes," Madeline said quickly. "It could be days, weeks, months—"
"Or tonight?"
The word hung in the air between them like a blade. Madeline looked up from the cards to find Thomas watching her with an expression that made her blood turn to ice. The mask had slipped completely, revealing something predatory underneath.
"I think we should stop here," she said, starting to gather the cards. "Sometimes readings can be overwhelming, and it's better to—"
"No." His voice was still soft, but there was steel underneath it now. "I want to see the rest. What happens after the truth comes to light?"
Madeline's hands were shaking so badly she could barely hold the cards. She knew she should refuse, should tell him to leave, should do anything except continue this reading. But Thomas was leaning forward now, and she could see something glinting in his jacket pocket. Something metallic that caught the candlelight.
With trembling fingers, she turned over the seventh card. The Hanged Man, but upright this time. Sacrifice, suspension, being trapped between worlds. The figure dangled from a tree, serene in his helplessness.
"This represents your feelings about the situation," she said, her voice barely audible. "The Hanged Man suggests... waiting. Being in a state of suspension, unable to act."
But that wasn't what the card was telling her. In this context, surrounded by violence and death and deception, The Hanged Man was showing her exactly what Thomas had planned. Someone suspended, helpless, waiting for the inevitable end.
"And how do I feel about that?" Thomas asked, his voice taking on a conversational tone that was somehow more terrifying than if he'd been shouting.
Madeline turned over the eighth card with hands that felt disconnected from her body. The Devil. Bondage, addiction, being trapped by one's own desires. The horned figure loomed over two chained humans, but the chains were loose enough to slip off if they chose to.
"You feel... in control," she whispered. "The Devil represents power over others, the ability to manipulate situations to your advantage."
Thomas barked out a brief laugh. "Very good. You're finally being honest. What's the final outcome?"
The last card in the spread seemed to burn her fingers as she turned it over. The World, but reversed. Incomplete journeys, lack of closure, goals that remain forever out of reach. In any other reading, it might have suggested delays or the need for patience. But here, now, it felt like a epitaph.
"The final outcome is..." Madeline's voice failed her completely. She stared at the card, at the dancing figure surrounded by the symbols of the four elements, now inverted and wrong. "Incompletion. A journey that ends before its destination."
"Whose journey?" Thomas asked quietly.
Madeline looked up at him, and in that moment, she understood. The cards hadn't been reading his future at all. They'd been reading hers. Every symbol, every image, every dark portent—they were all about her. The Tower wasn't his life falling apart; it was hers. The Ten of Swords wasn't his ending; it was hers. The Death card, the Three of Swords, The Hanged Man—all of it was about what was going to happen to her. What was going to happen tonight.
"Mine," she whispered.
Thomas smiled, and this time it reached his eyes, transforming his unremarkable face into something monstrous. "Very good. You really are psychic, aren't you?"
He reached into his jacket pocket and withdrew a knife. It was nothing special—just a kitchen knife with a black handle, the kind you could buy at any hardware store. But the blade caught the candlelight and threw it back in sharp, hungry gleams.
"I've been watching you for weeks," Thomas said conversationally. "Learning your routine, your habits. You live alone, no boyfriend, no close neighbors. You advertise your services online, which means people know you invite strangers into your home. It's really quite perfect."
Madeline's chair scraped against the floor as she pushed back from the table. Her mind was racing, trying to calculate distances, escape routes, anything that might give her a chance. The front door was fifteen feet behind Thomas, completely blocked. The back door was through the kitchen doorway to her left, but she'd have to get past him to reach it.
"The cards were right about one thing," Thomas continued, standing slowly. "Tonight is when everything changes. For both of us."
He lunged across the table with surprising speed, the knife aimed at her chest. Madeline threw herself sideways, feeling the blade slice through the air where she'd been sitting a moment before. She crashed into the bookshelf behind her chair, sending volumes of poetry and philosophy tumbling to the floor.
"Don't make this harder than it needs to be," Thomas said, stepping around the table with deliberate calm. "I promise it will be quick."
Madeline scrambled to her feet, grabbing a heavy hardcover book and hurling it at his head. He ducked easily, the book smashing into the wall behind him. She bolted toward the kitchen doorway, but he was faster than she'd expected. His hand closed around her wrist, spinning her back toward him.
The knife came down in a silver arc. Madeline threw up her other arm to block it, feeling the blade bite deep into her forearm. Pain exploded through her nervous system, but adrenaline kept her moving. She drove her knee up toward his groin, connecting hard enough to make him grunt and loosen his grip.
Blood was streaming down her arm, soaking into her sweater, but she ignored it. She broke free and sprinted through the kitchen doorway, Thomas close behind her. The narrow galley kitchen stretched before her—counters on both sides, the back door at the far end seeming impossibly far away.
A ceramic bowl sat on the counter to her right—one of her grandmother's pieces, painted with delicate flowers. Madeline grabbed it without breaking stride and spun around, smashing it against Thomas's temple as he rounded the corner into the kitchen. He staggered, blood trickling down the side of his face, but he didn't go down.
"You're only making me angry," he said, wiping blood from his eye. "I was going to make it quick, but now..."
He came at her again, the knife weaving through the air in practiced patterns. Madeline backed away, her injured arm pressed against her side, looking desperately for another weapon. The knife block on the counter was too far away, and Thomas was between her and the back door.
She feinted left toward the counter, then dove right toward the kitchen table that sat against the far wall. Rolling across its surface, she landed hard on the other side, putting the table between them. Thomas cursed and came after her, but the obstacle bought her precious seconds.
She ran back toward the living room, her mind racing through possibilities. The grandfather clock stood in the corner, a massive antique that had belonged to her great-grandfather. It was easily seven feet tall and probably weighed three hundred pounds. If she could somehow tip it over...
Thomas appeared in the doorway, his face twisted with rage. The calm mask was completely gone now, replaced by something feral and hungry. "Enough games," he snarled.
Madeline put her shoulder against the clock and pushed with everything she had. It was heavier than she'd expected, barely budging despite her desperate efforts. Thomas was crossing the room now, the knife held low and ready.
She pushed harder, feeling the clock rock slightly on its base. Just a little more, just enough to—
Her foot slipped on something—blood from her wounded arm, maybe, or one of the scattered tarot cards. She went down hard, her head cracking against the clock's wooden case. Stars exploded across her vision, and she felt Thomas's weight settling on top of her.
"Finally," he breathed, raising the knife above his head.
Madeline's hand closed around something heavy and cold. One of her grandmother's art pieces—a bronze sculpture of a dancer that usually sat on the side table. Without thinking, she swung it upward with all her remaining strength.
The bronze connected with Thomas's skull with a wet, crushing sound. His eyes went wide with surprise, then rolled back in his head. The knife tumbled from his fingers as he collapsed beside her, blood pooling beneath his shattered skull.
Madeline lay there for a moment, gasping, hardly able to believe she was still alive. The bronze dancer was slick with blood in her hands, and Thomas's body was completely still. She'd done it. She'd survived.
She started to push herself up, her wounded arm screaming in protest. She needed to call the police, get to a hospital, figure out how to explain what had happened. The cards were scattered across the floor around her, their prophecies fulfilled in ways she'd never imagined.
That's when she heard the groaning sound above her.
The grandfather clock, destabilized by her earlier efforts and the impact of her head against its case, was tilting forward. She looked up to see three hundred pounds of antique wood and brass falling toward her like a judgment from heaven.
Madeline tried to roll away, but her injured arm wouldn't support her weight, and Thomas's body was pinning her legs. The clock seemed to fall in slow motion, its ornate face growing larger and larger as it descended.
Her last thought was of the cards, scattered around her like fallen leaves. The Tower, with its lightning-struck spire. The Ten of Swords, with its promise of violent endings. The Death card, which she'd insisted didn't mean literal death.
The World, reversed. A journey that ends before its destination.
The grandfather clock struck midnight as it crushed the life from her body, its chimes echoing through the small house like a funeral bell.
