Page 5 of The Slug Crystal

We’re in my living room, and I’m perched on the edge of my sofa like the world’s most anxious house cat, jumping at every noise and movement.

The heat of my laptop is burning a rectangle into my thighs.

Outside, the street is loud with the usual symphony of college-town Boston.

Food trucks idling, there’s a distant dog riot, and the sounds of the slap of shoes and strollers and all other sorts of nonsense against the pavement.

Inside, it’s just me, Jake, and Alina sitting in semi-silence.

The three of us are locked in a search-and-destroy mission for the one thing more elusive than closure: a magical undo button.

My idea to be chill and let whatever happens, happen… lasted about seventy-five minutes before I had a full-blown panic attack. I’m not good at being chill, nor am I good at pretending. So now we are trying to figure out how to fix Alex.

Jake sits to my right, his arm draped over the couch back in a way that is both casual and, possibly, strategically positioned to corral me if I try to make a break for the kitchen.

He’s got my old iPad, which he types on with an intensity that makes the cheap Bluetooth keyboard rattle.

Every few seconds, he grunts or makes a face and leans closer to peer at the screen with his chin jutting forward, as if Google will cough up different results if he brings his jawline into play.

Alina is sprawled on the rug at our feet, hair in a pineapple bun, legs bicycling in the air as she scrolls on her phone.

Every so often, she flips the screen around to show us a truly cursed meme or a tweet from a thread called Hex Fails.

She’s wearing a highlighter-yellow bralette and matching bike shorts, because apparently dressing like a sentient pack of Post-Its is her method for manifesting clarity.

We are on hour two of what I have dubbed the Reverse Hex Summit, and so far, our research has netted:

— Seven YouTube videos promising emergency demagicification (all of them clickbait)

— Four contradictory Reddit threads, one of which devolved into a fight about the difference between slugs and snails

— An offer from an actual, licensed psychic to break the spell for $50, plus shipping (it was unclear what would be shipped)

— No fewer than a dozen blog posts warning us that all reversal attempts are at your own risk

The snail, formerly Alex, is in his new terrarium, which we have placed squarely in the center of the coffee table.

The habitat is lush, filled with coconut coir, a fake waterfall, and the little log cabin Alina insisted on.

There is a rainbow of decorative shells scattered throughout the coir, and all the extras make the thing look like an Airbnb for gastropods.

He’s been asleep for the last hour, tucked deep into the moss like he’s in cryostasis and waiting for better writers to take over his story.

I refresh the search window for the tenth time. “Still nothing. The closest I’m seeing is a ‘counter curse’ that requires black candles and the hair of a virgin.” I glance at Alina. “Do you think the guy in 2B would let us pluck some arm hairs or something, for science?”

Alina waggles her phone. “Only if we offer him weed, or a couple dozen pictures of your boobs.”

I grimace and shake my head.

Jake sighs. “What happened to just calling customer support?”

I close my eyes, imagining the world’s least helpful helpline. “Press one to undo mollusk transformation. Press two to join our mailing list. Press three to scream into the void.”

He nudges my elbow. “Let’s try the original site again. There was an email, right?”

I hesitate, remembering the FAQ’s threat about misuse, but type witch-webshop.com into the address bar, anyway. The page loads, more gaudy in the daylight: pop-up banners, flashing fonts, and the sad anime mascots now sporting little Spring Sale hats.

Alina sits up cross-legged and says, “What if we just order another kit? Maybe there’s a reverse option.”

“We already have the kit,” I remind her. “We checked the box and the instructions. There’s no reverse spell, and I don’t think we need another slug crystal.”

Jake leans over my shoulder, scanning the site with me. “Is there a live chat? There’s always a live chat.”

I find the customer support link. There’s no chat, but an email address is listed under the 'Contact Us' line: [email protected]. Beneath it, there’s a banner that reads, For emergencies, please contact our founder, Sarah Demarco, at [email protected].

I squint at the email. Something about it feels… odd. “Who puts their personal information on a shop site?” I mutter .

“Power move,” Alina says. “Means she can handle drama. Or she’s a bot.”

Jake says, “Or she’s just not expecting anyone to actually use it.”

I copy the email and start drafting a message: Hi, I have an urgent question regarding the spell kit. If someone used Vermis Transformo on a person and it worked, how do you undo it? Please help.

I sign off, then hesitate. “Should I use my real name?” I ask. “Or is that like inviting a serial killer to your house during a moving sale, and giving them a forwarding address when they fail to kill you?”

“Use a burner,” says Jake, who’s now deep in a page on classical curses. “Trust no one.”

But it’s too late. The email’s already sent, with my full name in the signature because autofill is a traitor. We all stare at the screen, as if our collective willpower can summon an instant reply.

After two minutes of silence, Alina’s phone chimes. She squeals, then deflates: “It’s just a calendar alert. My period starts in three days, so if we’re planning any blood rituals, pencil it in now.”

Jake barks a laugh. “I’ll add it to my calendar.”

I keep refreshing my inbox. Every new email creates a pulse of adrenaline followed by crushing disappointment. My only recent messages are from mailing lists, one of which is from a site called Snail World that thanks me for joining their passionate community of mollusk lovers.

I rub my temples. “Okay, Plan B. Maybe she has social media?”

Alina is already one step ahead, thumbing through Instagram. “There’s a Sarah Demarco who posts a lot of crystal grids and latte art. Also, a Sarah Demarco who makes beaded jewelry and lives in Tewksbury. ”

“Tewksbury?” Jake sits up. “That’s like, what, an hour from here?”

I open the Instagram link. The first photo shows a set of hands with galaxy blue nails, holding a cluster of rose quartz. The caption reads, “Recharging for tomorrow’s ritual—local clients, message me for details!”

“She’s local. She could… maybe fix this?” I ask, heart slamming in my chest.

Alina high-fives the air. “Road trip,” she singsongs, then, to Jake, “You’re driving. I get carsick.”

Before we can get too far ahead of ourselves, I click further into her profile and groan. She literally has a post like ten down stating she is not associated with witch-webshop.com. I turn my phone around to show Jake and Alina and say, “She must get people looking her up all the time.”

They groan in unison. “What about the other one?” Jake asks.

I click through to the other Sarah DeMarco post and find her talking about how to support her business in one of her videos. I crowd Jake and Alina so we can watch together. It’s an ad for witch-webshop.com.

“It’s her,” I whisper-yell, even though they can both clearly see the video.

“Does it say where she’s located?” Alina asks.

I reread her profile and frown. “No, it doesn’t.”

“Look at her posts and see if she tags locations in her latte art,” Alina suggests.

“You are a genius, and I love you,” I exclaim.

Jake grumbles, but Alina grins. “I love you too.”

“Okay, here we go. She seems to tag the same places over and over again. The place she’s been tagging recently is somewhere called Dottie’s Coffee Lounge in Pittsfield, PA.”

Jake’s already searching for directions. “It’s about eight hours away if we take 95.”

Alina, never missing a beat, grabs her tote bag and begins stuffing it with every possible road snack, plus a tarot deck, her water bottle, and, for some reason, a lint roller.

Jake stands, already in mission mode. “Should we bring the snail?”

Alina gives him a look and responds with a bit of sass. “Obviously.”

My hands are shaking as I stand up, and I nearly drop my phone. “What if she says no? What if she calls the cops? Or what if we get there and she’s just… normal, and thinks we’re deranged?”

Jake looks at me, his blue eyes gentler than I deserve. “We’ll handle it. One disaster at a time.”

“Oh shit,” Alina says suddenly, looking down at her phone. “I can’t go. I have a double tomorrow that I’m covering for someone else. Could we leave on Tuesday instead?”

The thought of seeing the spell’s creator in person is both terrifying and, somehow, the only thing keeping my head above water.

If this doesn’t work, I will have to live knowing that I turned a human being into a snail and then just…

kept him in a tiny log cabin forever. But if it does work, maybe I’ll finally be able to look at myself in the mirror without flinching.

I stare at the Instagram photo, inspecting the galaxy-blue nails and the potential promise of answers.

“This is our only shot,” I whisper, and even though it’s supposed to sound brave, it comes out like a prayer. “I don’t think I can wait two more days,” I admit.

Alina nods, looking crestfallen, but her voice sounds peppy when she adds, “I understand. You’ll just need to keep me updated at all times. Let me help you pack and transfer these snacks into your bag.”

I laugh and nod. “Okay, sorry, Lina.”

“The most important thing about this mission is reversing snail-gate. Don’t worry about me,” she says, smiling easily .

“I can go, even if we have to take a few days off,” Jake says, calm and even. Jake is always there for me, reliable and steadfast. It’s why he’s one of my best friends.