The Queen of Hearts

The last time I saw Elara, she was shuffling a deck of cards with a smile that could have charmed a snake. Her fingers, gnarled by eighty-seven years, moved with a dexterity that belied her age. We sat in the sterile, humming common room of the Meadowlark Retirement Home, surrounded by the floral wallpaper and the faint scent of antiseptic that tried, and failed, to mask the odour of time itself. She dealt me a hand of rummy, her eyes twinkling with mischief.

‘You’re going to lose again, Anna,’ she said, her voice a dry rustle, like autumn leaves.

I laughed. ‘I always lose to you, Elara.’

It was true. For as long as I had known her, which was nearly four decades, she had an uncanny knack for winning. Not just at cards, but at everything in life. She had outlived two husbands, survived a war, and raised three sons on a shoestring budget. And she had taught my children, her grandchildren, to play poker before they could even properly hold the cards. Every Sunday, we would gather around her mahogany dining table, the one that had survived the bombing of her childhood home, and play for coins. She always won those too, but we didn’t mind. It was the ritual, the laughter, the way she would cackle when she won a pot, that mattered. That table was the heart of our family, and Elara was the queen who ruled it.

But now, the table was gone, sold to pay for her care here. And this morning, I found her sitting in her armchair, her favourite deck of cards still in her hands, but her eyes empty, fixed on something I couldn’t see. She was gone. A stroke, the nurse said, quick and painless. I held her hand, still warm, and felt a hollow ache open in my chest. My sons were both overseas, on business trips, unreachable for at least a day. I was the one who made the arrangements, who cleaned out her tiny room, who found the last thing she left for me: a small, worn box, bound with a rubber band. Inside was a letter and a single playing card: the Queen of Hearts, which had always been her card, and a stack of old photographs.

The letter was in her spidery handwriting. It said, ‘Anna, my darling, if you’re reading this, I have finally gone to join my Louis. But I have a last request. I need you to take care of the cards. Do not throw them away. Do not give them to anyone. Keep them close. And if the nights grow long, and the silence too heavy, have a game of solitaire with them. You’ll understand then.’

I wept, clutching the Queen of Hearts. It was so like her to be cryptic, even in death. I packed the box with the rest of her belongings: a worn prayer book, a locket with a photo of her and Louis, and the deck of cards. That night, unable to sleep, I sat at my own kitchen table, the one that was not mahogany, and took out the deck. The cards felt strange, almost warm, as if imbued with her spirit. I shuffled, dealt myself a hand of solitaire, and began to play.

At first, there was nothing unusual. The cards fell as they should. But as the night deepened, I began to notice things. The face on the Queen of Hearts seemed to smile more broadly. The king of spades looked like Louis, and his eyes seemed to follow me. I dismissed it as fatigue, grief. But when I turned over the two of clubs, I saw Elara’s face in the pattern of the pips, winking at me. I dropped the cards, heart pounding. The room felt colder.

I tried to put the cards away, but my hand hovered over the box. I remembered her words: ‘Have a game of solitaire. You’ll understand.’ With trembling fingers, I picked up the deck again, reshuffled, and laid out a new game. This time, as I moved cards, I thought I heard a faint whisper, like the rustle of silk, and caught a whiff of her lavender perfume. I froze. A card moved on its own, sliding from the tableau to the foundation, as if guided by an unseen hand. I drew a sharp breath. ‘Elara?’ I asked, my voice a thin squeak.

A soft giggle seemed to echo from the corners of the room, and the Queen of Hearts flipped over, face up, the queen’s grin now unmistakably leering. I scrambled to my feet, knocking the chair over. The cards scattered across the table, but they didn’t just lie there; they slid and arranged themselves into a pattern. A poker hand, all hearts, and in the centre, the Queen of Hearts. I felt a presence, as if she were standing behind me. I turned, but there was nothing. But the cards were now forming words: ‘Deal me in.’

My hands shook as I picked up the deck again. I dealt five cards each to an invisible opponent, then flipped over the river. It was a royal flush, all hearts. A cold dread crept up my spine. The cards were toying with me. I heard Elara’s voice, faint but clear, as if from a long distance: ‘One more game, Anna. For old times’ sake.’

I sat back down, compelled. We played hand after hand of poker, and I lost every single one. But it wasn’t until I looked at my final hand that I saw it: three of spades, seven of clubs, a joker, a blank card, and the Queen of Hearts with her smile now twisted into a sinister grimace. The joker’s face had changed, showing a picture of Elara’s coffin. The blank card was not blank; it was a mirror, and in it, I saw my own reflection, but my eyes were hollow, and a black mist writhed in my pupils.

I threw the cards across the room. They landed in a heap. The room was silent, but for my ragged breaths. I resolved to burn the deck, to free myself from this haunting. I gathered the cards, snatched the box, and went to the kitchen, my hands shaking as I emptied the cards into the sink. I lit a match, but as I was about to touch it to the corner of an ace, Elara’s voice sharp-cut through the air: ‘Do not.’ I dropped the match, and it hissed out on the damp counter.

I looked at the cards. They were all facing up now, showing a single, coherent image: a scene of me, old, sitting alone at a table in the same Meadowlark, shuffling a deck of cards, as a shadowy figure sat opposite me. And I knew, with a certainty that chilled me to my bones, that I would never be free of this. Elara had left me her legacy, not just of memories, but of a curse. I was to be the next keeper of the cards, bound to play eternal games with the dead, my own family eventually drawn in, just as I had been drawn in.

I closed my eyes, and when I opened them, the cards were neatly stacked in the box. I put it away in a drawer. But that night, and every night since, I hear the faint shuffle of cards, and I see Elara’s face in my mind, her eyes now gleaming with a satisfaction I never understood while she was alive. I haven’t touched the deck again, but I know I’ll have to, because the games must continue. The Queen of Hearts demands it.

It’s been a month now since the funeral, and I haven’t told my sons. They’re back from overseas, but they’ve been caught up in their own lives, too busy to notice their mother’s sleepless nights. The other night, I found my youngest son, Liam, alone in the kitchen, staring at the drawer where I keep the deck. He turned to me, his face pale, and said, ‘Mom, I had a dream about Nana. She was dealing me cards, and she told me to come visit you.’

My blood ran cold. I forced a smile. ‘She misses you, that’s all.’ But I knew better. The curse was spreading. The Queen of Hearts was calling in her chips, and I feared that the game was far from over.