Unlucky

Here I am, petting a black cat at midnight. It’s Friday, October 13th, and I have the attire to match. I made some claims about how things are going to go well. As my words floated on out I looked at the wood and ignored it. Before I went out, I shattered my mirror, and sure to open my umbrella in my home. Again I iterate, I pet this cat at midnight in a cemetery composed by fright.
Given my actions, my luck’s guaranteed to have run out, though that remains to be seen. The cat scurries away, its dull emerald eyes not far behind it. Once Paws and Claws are gone I kneel at the grave of something old and something strong. I place an ouija board at the gravestone. A crumpled piece of paper falls to the grass: questions for those who know. I have only one question, that’s it.
“When are they coming?” Silence ensues, silence shatters with the ouija board. It’s letters now silvers are untenable. The forever resting don’t wish to spill what rotten guts they got. Mmm… mortal magic won’t be applicable.
I place my hand on the grave — decay swells in my veins as my blood curdles. A little bit of sting and life to get lips flapping.
I ask again, “when are they coming?” No reply. I can’t do that trick again. My body is unlikely to be able to take it. Maybe some esoteric, natural magic will do. I lift my hand toward the gloomy — October sky. Polar like wind encircles my palm and fingers like a miniature hurricane. I ask the same question, bringing the densely constructed ball downward. Anything to make black hearts flutter for a moment. Not entirely sure what I expect. Magic has its intents, but like people, the actuality is a separate matter. I wait for more quietness from the stubborn bout of the dead. They say magic is luck based, no matter the level of mastery luck remains the key. I regret my decisions before and now. The excursion of being unlucky proves this to be true, however, blood magic is an option. Its inner workings supersede luck.
I summon the cat again. I skin it one of a copious amount of ways. It was wails and wails like a grieving mother over a babe. Blood enough waters the grave. I spit some words — they’re just noise really, but they have one helluva an intent. I wait. Quiet again, blood magic is my last trick.
“They’re close, they’re coming fast.”
I get my response. It is vague as the hell where they dwell. Guess I am as doomed as ever in a night that is as long as ever.