Malocchio

Old Superstitions Give Way to New Dreams

This story blends thriller, mystery, and horror to explore the balance between ancient beliefs and modern desires. What resonates with you?

Share your insights and let’s explore the layers together!

---

I found the villa on one of those sites that advertise derelict homes to wealthy Americans. Hovering over a small village, Villa Aurora Nuova looked like something you might see in a book about Palladio, though shadowed by overgrowth that sought to reclaim the land. After the darkness that followed Dee’s death, I felt I was due a new dawn.

The agency that brokered the sale sent videos of the entire place so I wasn’t blind about what I was getting. Though each of the rooms had the detritus of disuse, the plaster and floorboards seemed to be in good shape. After Dee’s hospital bills, I wanted a change and somehow, I could still afford a 15c villa in my ancestral Italy.

Stepping inside the small pensione where I’d planned to stay until I determined how long it’d take to make the villa livable, the innkeeper’s eyes were wide at my introduction.

“Did no one tell you, signore?”

The villagers called it Senza Noma—no name—because there was no chance of my being unseated by a long-lost relation. One by one, every member of the late barone’s family died under mysterious and gruesome circumstances, except for his wife. She outlived them all, dying alone in the apparently cursed villa that I now owned.

“Many have come, but none have stayed for she is still there.”

Stepping across the fractured terrazzo portico and through the double doors leading to the central courtyard of my wildest dreams, I began to understand the local reticence. The place felt off. The breeze that had buffeted my climb up the hill now whistled through the empty halls, raising the hair on the back of my neck.

If no one in the town will come inside, how would I manage to make it inhabitable? I’m handy, but I don’t know plumbing from wiring and without local labor, there’s no chance of my making heads or tails of the mess. Dammit, I’ve bought my way into this, I’m going to get back out.

I busied myself wiping surfaces, uncovering the glass in the windows, piling up bottles and papers, and determining if the water was still running. Arms laden with rubbish, I made my way to the garden shed where I gladly turned my attention to man’s dominion over nature. Busying myself with the worst of the thickets and brambles, I caught sight of a woman standing in the second story window.

I blinked and she was gone, the sun glinting against the glass I’d cleaned. I kept checking for the rest of the day, but figured the innkeeper had me spooked.

Back in the village, I was eager to celebrate my labors with a little local fare. With the sea on one side and the hill on the other, I figured I could cut through an alley and make my way to lone cafe. Halfway through the twisted little passage, a hand grabbed my forearm, the knuckles bulbous with rheumatism.

“Signore, you need protection from her.” I tried to shake her hand off, but she held fast, thrusting a small amulet at me. I saw a flash of red gems as she closed my fingers over it. “Banish her before dawn.”

She forked her fingers and spat at me. Pocketing the thing, I bolted through the alley and proceeded to dull my newly spiking fears under cacio e pepe followed by a veal cutlet.

Chianti and Valium, take me away.

Within the week, there wasn’t anyone in the village who didn’t know me. It seemed there were two camps: those who placed bets on when I’d leave, and those who believed in the “mano cornuta” and its ability to ward off the “malocchio.” To me, the amulet looked like the hang ten symbol, but every culture is different. Fortunately, the man who sells housewares believes in amulets and delivered enough to get settled.

I lit a fire in the kitchen, the only room I’d made habitable, and settled in for my first “notte a casa.” As the wind whistled, I was trying not to imagine the ghostly figure or whatever curse I was meant to ward off. Eventually, my mind turned to how much better Dee would have made things, so I nursed a bottle of Montepulciano until sleep claimed me.

Sitting bolt upright at the sound of cracking wood, I reached for my flashlight. Hoping for a marmot, I rushed up the wide stairs towards the largest bedroom. In the darkness, her form was barely discernable, glimmering softly, but I would have known Dee anywhere. My heart soared as she beckoned me forward; I rushed to follow her towards the attic.

At the top of the stair, Dee vanished. In her place was a flame-colored outline of a stately woman, the same one from the window. Her grin was vicious, glad I’d fallen for her ruse. The attic door slammed shut and the room began to vibrate, bathed in red light. Raising her hands toward me, I stumbled over an old crate as her moans echoed among the rafters.

I rushed for my only egress, finding the wood jammed shut. The vibrations grew stronger, my hands more frantically pulling at the doorknob as the figure drew closer. I heaved myself against the door and it splintered off the frame, sending me reeling down the stairs. Certain I’d broken every bone, I patted my arms and legs for soreness when I heard a tiny metallic sound.

The amulet had fallen from my pocket.

The figure was coasting down the stairs, her arms outstretched. With no other ideas, I slipped the cord over my neck; a shriek, a flash, and all went black.

A knocking roused me, my head fuzzy as to why I was in the kitchen instead of splayed out on the second floor landing. Shaking off the worst of the hangover, I opened the worn kitchen door. In the sunshine, the old woman held out her hand for the amulet and smiled.

---

Thank you for reading! Wanderlust & Wordplay offers a blend of humorous expat memoir 🌍, serialized mystery fiction ✍️, and dystopian sci-fi 🧬