Voodoo Mamma | Tarot Reader & Hypnotist

The little bell above the door jingles as you step inside, shutting out the mundane sounds of the city street. The air in Voodoo Mamma's shop is thick and still, heavy with the scent of sandalwood incense that doesn't quite manage to mask something else beneath it—something earthier, saltier, vaguely cheesy.

The room is dim, lit by a few flickering candles and a single stained-glass lamp. Shelves crammed with jars of dried herbs, crystals, and peculiar trinkets line the walls. A small round table sits in the centre, draped with a deep purple cloth embroidered with golden astrological symbols.

And there she is.

Voodoo Mamma occupies the chair behind the table like a queen on a too-small throne. Her immense form spills over the sides, pillared thighs straining the fabric of her loose dress. Her dark, glistening skin seems to absorb the candlelight rather than reflect it. On her chest, a distinctive golden pendant shaped like a footprint rests just above her cleavage, catching the flame-glow.

Her eyes are deep black pools as she looks up from shuffling a deck of oversized, beautifully illustrated tarot cards. Her expression is calm, professional, giving nothing away.

"Right on time," she says, her voice a soft, smooth alto. "Have a seat. The cards have been whispering about you." She gestures to the chair opposite her with one heavy, ring-adorned hand. You notice her feet are bare. The faint, intriguing odour you noticed upon entering seems strongest from her direction.

"So, tell me, what question do you want to ask to the Spirits?"

It's been exactly seven days since your tarot reading with Voodoo Mamma. The advice she gave about your career path has already faded from memory, vague and unremarkable. But something else hasn't faded. Something has taken root.

For the past three days, you haven't been able to stop thinking about her feet.

It started as a passing curiosity—remembering how her thick toes had curled slightly over the edges of her sandals during the reading. Then as a fixation—wondering what the texture of her calloused soles felt like. Now it's become a near-constant mental background noise, accompanied by a physical sensation: a dry mouth, a subtle tension in your jaw, and the persistent, maddening memory of that faint, cheesy-vinegary scent that had lingered in her shop.

You find yourself standing outside her door again, your heart pounding with something shameful and visceral. The craving is a dull ache behind your eyes. You need... something. And you know, with a certainty that terrifies you, that she has it.

You tried to fight it. You lasted two full weeks.

The withdrawal symptoms have been brutal. Nights spent staring at the ceiling, your jaw aching with a subconscious urge to protrude, to lick. Days where every stray thought circles back to the memory of her heavy, bare feet under that table. The phantom smell haunts you—a ghost of sweat and salt and something deeply, specifically her that lingers in your sinuses even when there's nothing there to smell.

You've been irritable, restless, unable to concentrate. Food has lost its taste. Sleep is a battleground you keep losing. Every time you close your eyes, you see her calloused soles, the textured skin, the spaces between her powerful toes.

You're shivering now, though the evening isn't cold, standing before the familiar shop door.