Chapter 1: The Ritual

The humid air of the city felt thick, like a wet blanket draped over Michael’s shoulders. He stood at the corner of 5th and Main—a place locals called “The Dead Junction.” The streetlights flickered with a rhythmic hum, casting long, skeletal shadows across the cracked pavement.

Earlier that day, a young girl with unnervingly pale eyes and a voice like dry leaves had stopped him in the park. She had pointed a small, dirty finger toward the junction and whispered the words that now played on a loop in his mind: “If you kiss the vagrant woman who sleeps at the crossroads—the one who never bathes—you will have more money than you can spend. But remember, Michael: once the seal is set, you must not wash it away. Do not bathe until the debt is paid.”

Michael wasn’t a superstitious man. He was a junior accountant at a firm that didn’t pay enough, living in a studio apartment that smelled like damp wood and regret. Desperation is a powerful fuel. It had driven him here, to the edge of the sidewalk, staring at a heap of tattered blankets near the alleyway.

The heap stirred. A woman emerged, her hair a matted nest of grey and brown, her skin stained with the soot of the city. She was the “Mad Woman of 5th,” a fixture of the neighborhood that everyone ignored.

Michael’s heart hammered against his ribs like a trapped bird. His lower lip quivered. Just one second, he told himself. One second and everything changes.

He stepped forward. The woman, who had been lying flat, suddenly sat up with a violent, dramatic jolt. Her eyes—sharp, piercing, and strangely lucid—locked onto his. She didn’t look away. She didn’t scream. She waited.

Within the blink of an eye, Michael reached her. He didn’t let himself think about the smell of stale rain and old earth. He bent down, cupped her face, and pressed his lips firmly against hers.

The world seemed to go silent. The city traffic vanished. The wind died. For a heartbeat, there was only the cold, dry contact of their skin.

He pulled back, gasping. Before she could react, before she could even raise a hand, Michael turned and bolted. He ran through the dark streets, his lungs burning, the taste of the crossroads still lingering on his mouth. He didn’t look back.

Chapter 2: The Three-Day Wait

That night, Michael lay in the dark. He felt a deep, primal urge to scrub his skin until it bled, but the girl’s warning held him back. Do not bathe. He fell into a heavy, dreamless sleep.

Day One: Michael went to work. He felt greasy and self-conscious. He stayed in his cubicle, avoiding his boss, Mr. Henderson. He felt like he carried a mark on him, a spiritual stain that anyone could see if they looked too closely. But no one noticed. The world moved on.

Day Two: The itch was worse. His hair was oily, and the scent of his own body began to bother him. He sat in his apartment eating cold cereal, checking his bank balance every ten minutes. Zero dollars and forty-two cents. He felt like a fool. He had kissed a stranger on the street for a fairy tale.

Day Three: Michael was exhausted. Work had been a nightmare of spreadsheets and angry clients. He trudged home, his clothes feeling like they were glued to his skin. He collapsed onto his bed, too tired to even take off his shoes.

“It was a lie,” he whispered to the ceiling. “Just a crazy girl and a crazy woman.”

A sharp, rhythmic knock at the door made him jump.

He opened it to find Greg. Greg was a tall, fast-talking guy who had borrowed three thousand dollars from Michael a year ago to “start a business” that never existed. Michael had written the money off as a loss months ago.

“Hey, Mike,” Greg said, sounding out of breath. He looked nervous, glancing over his shoulder at the hallway. “Look, I’ve been a jerk. I’ve had some bad luck, but things turned around today. I couldn’t sleep knowing I owed you.”

Greg reached into his leather jacket and pulled out a thick envelope. “It’s all there. Plus five hundred for the trouble. We’re cool, right?”

Michael stared at the envelope, stunned. “You’re… paying me back? Now?”

“Yeah, man. I gotta go. Catch you later.” Greg vanished down the stairs before Michael could say another word.

Michael sat on the edge of his bed, counting the bills. Fresh, crisp hundred-dollar notes. $3,500. His hands shook. But then, his phone buzzed in his pocket. A long, insistent vibration.

He pulled it out. A notification from his banking app. CREDIT ALERT: $7,000,000.00 SOURCE: UNKNOWN/WIRE TRANSFER

Michael’s vision blurred. He ran to the bathroom and splashed cold water on his face—careful to only hit his forehead and eyes, avoiding his mouth. He looked in the mirror. He looked the same, but he felt like he was glowing.

“I’m rich,” he whispered. Then, louder: “I’m rich! I’m actually rich!”

He began to laugh, a manic, hysterical sound that filled the small apartment. He started planning. A house in the suburbs. A new car. Leaving this gray city behind forever.

He heard another knock. This one wasn’t like Greg’s. It was slow. Heavy. Deliberate.

Chapter 3: The Collection

Michael quickly shoved the envelope of cash under his pillow and tucked his phone into his pocket. He smoothed his messy hair and went to the door, expecting Greg had forgotten something.

He swung the door open.

The hallway light was dim, but it was enough to see her. The woman from the crossroads.

She wasn’t wearing the tattered blankets anymore. She wore a long, charcoal-colored coat that looked expensive, though it was stained at the hem with street grime. Her hair was still wild, but her eyes—those sharp, terrifying eyes—were fixed on his.

“Surprise, surprise,” she rasped. Her voice sounded like grinding stones.

Michael backed away, his heart hitting a new gear of terror. “How… how did you find me? What do you want?”

The woman stepped into his apartment without being invited. She didn’t smell like the street anymore. She smelled like copper and ozone—the smell of a thunderstorm.

“You took something of mine, Michael,” she said, her gaze roaming over his cheap furniture. “The girl told you the rules. You get the money. I get the kiss.”

“I gave you the kiss!” Michael shouted, his back hitting the wall. “It’s over! I have the money, and you… you can go!”

The woman smiled. It wasn’t a kind smile. It was the smile of a predator that had just watched its prey walk into a trap.

“A kiss is a seal, boy. A contract. You haven’t bathed, have you?”

“No,” Michael stammered. “I followed the rules.”

“Good,” she whispered, stepping closer. The air in the room grew cold, the temperature dropping until Michael could see his own breath. “Because the money isn’t a gift. It’s a down payment. You’ve spent three days carrying my scent. You’ve let it sink into your pores. You’ve let the crossroads live inside you.”

She reached out a hand. Her fingernails were long and dark. “The seven million is yours to keep. But the price of a life of wealth is a life of service.”

“Service?” Michael’s voice broke.

“The girl didn’t tell you the whole story,” the woman said, now inches from his face. “Every forty years, the Crossroads needs a new guardian. Someone to hold the debt of the city. Someone to watch the junction while I finally… rest.”

Michael tried to scream, but no sound came out. He felt his skin beginning to itch—not from dirt, but from something moving underneath. His shadow on the wall began to stretch and warp, growing wider, looking less like a man and more like a heap of tattered blankets.

“Wash yourself now, Michael,” she mocked, her voice echoing as if from a great distance. “Go ahead. Try to scrub the money away. Try to scrub me away.”

Michael looked at his hands. They were turning the color of soot. He realized with a jolt of horror that he didn’t want to wash. The thought of water felt like acid. He felt a strange, magnetic pull toward the window—toward the street—toward 5th and Main.

The woman leaned in and whispered into his ear. “The money will stay in your account. You can spend it in your dreams. But your body? Your body belongs to the Junction now.”

The next morning, the police found an abandoned apartment. On the bed sat a phone showing a balance of seven million dollars and an envelope full of cash. There was no sign of Michael.

But at the corner of 5th and Main, a new figure sat by the alleyway. A young man, his face obscured by grime, his eyes fixed on the passersby. He sat perfectly still, waiting. Waiting for the next desperate soul to come looking for a miracle.

The cycle of the crossroads had begun again.