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Cross Maker Chapter 1
Dawn broke and so did Jacob's bladder. He tried not to move around in the
slushy bedding but knew he had to get up and address his situation. The boy
was plagued by his obsessive-compulsive disorder. He had severe anxiety
about his daily routines and would become overwhelmed if anything was out
of place, and this was out of place!
He had to count everything he did and could not stop until it was an even
number or it felt “right”. He counted 3 times he thought about his
predicament and had to think it once more for an even number. Then he could
move.
Throwing off his covers he had to cover back up and do it again because it
didn't feel “right”. Stepping out of bed was an ordeal in itself. First he tried
his right foot on the floor, then his left foot. “Not right” he thought. He
repeated the action this time with the left foot first and then the right, then it
felt “right”. He would have to take care of his wet bedding later on (he
thought twice) because he felt he was on a special mission today.
That night, Jacob had a strange dream. In it, he was visited by an angel. The
angel was beautiful and had a kind face. The angelic being told the boy that
he was there to help him. He told the boy that he would be given the strength
to cope with his OCD and that he could find peace in his own life. Jacob was
amazed by the presents of the angel and his message. He woke up from his
dream feeling hopeful and determined to take control of his disorder. That is,
after he thought about it an even number of times. He felt uneasy and
challenged because he had difficulty concentrating on anything outside of his
own personal rituals. The ritual of even numbers and things feeling “right”.
The angel's message was that Jacob should go out every day and find
materials to make a cross out of. He decide he would have to make at least
two crosses every day for it to seem “right”. His mind was flooded with
questions. “Where do I go, what materials should I use, what do I do with the
crosses I make? Plagued by his situation he began his morning breakfast
routine.
Jacob stood in his kitchen, the early morning light filtering through the
curtains. His fingertips brushed against the familiar surfaces as he prepared
himself for the task ahead: making breakfast. A simple task for most, but for
Jacob, it was a ritual governed by the relentless demands of his obsessivecompulsive
disorder.
He approached the stove, his heart already pounding with the anticipation of
what lay ahead. With meticulous precision, he cracked two eggs into the
frying pan, his breath hitching as he counted each one. The burner heat was
turned to four. Two eggs, a safe number. His hands trembled slightly as he
waited for the unborn chickens to cook. He watched the table top clock
ticking 3 minutes, his eyes fixed on the sizzling yolks. He waited one more
minute then he felt it was right.
While the eggs sat cooked, Jacob turned his attention to the toaster. He
carefully placed two slices of bread into the slots, his fingers grazing the
buttons as he pressed them down. The soft hum of the toaster filled the air, a
comforting sound amidst the chaos of his mind. Two slices of toast, he
thought, his anxiety easing ever so slightly.
With the eggs ready and the toast nearly done, Jacob moved to the coffee
maker. He measured out two scoops of coffee grounds, his heart pounding
with each precise movement. Two, he repeated to himself, his breath coming
in short gasps. He poured the water into the reservoir, “two cups should do
it” he thought, his hands shaking as he waited for the coffee to brew.
Finally, everything was ready. Jacob plated the eggs and toast, his
movements slow and deliberate. The first coffee cup he grabbed didn't feel
right so he pulled another off the shelf, he wished they had two handles but
this one felt right.. He poured himself a cup of coffee, the warm aroma filling
the air. As he took a sip and then another he felt a wave of relief wash over
him. Everything was as it should be, everything was even and right.
As he savored his breakfast, chewing his food an even number of times with
each mouthful. Jacob knew that his struggle was far from over. Tomorrow
would bring the same ritual, the same demands. But for now, in this fleeting
moment of calm, he allowed himself to find solace in the simple act of
making breakfast. Now he began to ponder his mission for today. “I need to
find material to make two crosses.”
He then he prepared to get dressed.
Jacob stood before his closet, his heart pounding with the familiar dread that
accompanied the simplest of tasks: getting dressed. Each item of clothing
held a weighty significance, each movement a potential trigger for the
relentless demands of his obsessive-compulsive disorder.
He reached for his socks, his fingers grazing the fabric, the color didn't
matter as he counted silently, “two” he thought. A sense of relief washing
over him as he pulled them onto his feet. Two socks, on two feet, a balanced
start to the day.
Next came his pants, again the color didn't matter. There were two legs, and
four pockets, which gave him comfort. He hesitated for a moment, his breath
catching in his throat as he counted the belt loops. He only had one belt for a
reason he knew it had 4 holes in it, which even though trivial to others, this
was a welcome relief for him. He counted eight loops, his hands trembling
slightly as he fastened the belt around his waist. Eight loops, an even
number, a small victory in the midst of chaos. The first time he buckled it
wasn't right so he did it again and again 5 more times till it was even and felt
right.
With his pants secured, Jacob turned his attention to his shirt. Again the
color didn't matter as long as there was no pattern on the material. He
buttoned it up slowly, his eyes flicking between the buttons as he counted
them one by one. Four holes in each one. Sixteen, he thought, his pulse
quickening with each completed button. Sixteen buttons, an even number, a
fragile sense of order restored.
Finally, it was time for his shoes. He knelt down, his fingers fumbling with
the laces as he counted the loops. Fourteen, he thought, his breath catching in
his throat as he adjusted them until they felt just right. Fourteen loops, an
even number, a sense of calm settling over him as he tied the first knot. It
didn't feel right so he repeated 7 more times, at last the final knot, the eighth
try, felt right.
As Jacob stood up, fully dressed and ready to face the day, he couldn't help
but feel a twinge of bitterness at the thought of the endless rituals that
awaited him. But for now, in this fleeting moment of peace, he allowed
himself to find solace in the simple act of getting dressed.
He was now ready for his first day of cross hunting.
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- Written by: Administrator
- Category: Stories
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- Written by: Administrator
- Category: Stories
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“That’s the Way the Luck Runs”
A Short Story
Eli Barnes woke up slowly, blinking at the sliver of morning sun
cutting across his room. Today was the day. If he could just make it
through this one day—one full day—without breaking a single
superstition, he’d finally rack up enough Luck Points to place the
biggest bet of his life.
He lay perfectly still, studying the path from his bed to the
floorboards.
Don’t step out on the left side.
Left side is unlucky.
Right side only.
He eased one leg toward the right edge of the mattress… and
stopped.
A shadow drifted across the ceiling—tranquil, floating, cross-legged.
The old Chinese ghost, as Eli called him, hovered above the bed, an
opium pipe in his hand, smoke curling upward like lazy silk. The
ghost never spoke, never interfered—only watched with unreadable,
ancient patience.
Eli swallowed hard, whispered, “Right side. Right side,” and slid
safely onto the floor.
The ghost gave a slow, solemn nod.
Luck Point +1.
The Day of No Mistakes
His morning was a battlefield of possible disasters.
When he picked up his shoes, he noticed one sitting upside down.
Upside-down shoes meant someone would fall. He flipped it over
quickly with both hands.
The ghost nodded again.
At breakfast he knocked over the salt shaker.
“NO—NO—NO—NO—NO—”
He snatched a pinch of spilled salt and tossed it over his left
shoulder.
Just in time.
Behind him, the ghost lifted his pipe in a tiny gesture of approval.
Out on the street, he refused to step on cracks in the sidewalk (“break your mother’s back”),
circled around every ladder leaning
against a wall, and crossed the street to avoid a black cat that slinked
across his path.
He even noticed a penny that was heads-up and
pocketed it,
but avoided the tails-up penny on the corner like it was
radioactive.
When a funeral procession passed by, he stopped walking, touched
the nearest iron fence, and held his breath until the last car went by.
The ghost drifted along beside him the entire day, silent, gliding,
nodding every time Eli swerved past another curse or neutralized
another stroke of bad luck.
By mid-afternoon, Eli felt invincible.
Luck Points: loaded.
Confidence: overflowing.
The universe clearly wanted him to win today.
The Small Gamble
Just to test his theory, he bought a scratch-off ticket at the corner
store.
He scratched slowly, reverently.
WINNER — $50.
“That’s what I’m talking about!” he shouted.
The ghost nodded once more, eyes half-closed as if he had expected
this all along.
To Eli, this was proof. His system worked. His Luck Points were
real. And tonight, he was going to bet big.
The Track
The racetrack glowed with evening lights, people buzzing with
excitement, programs flipping, bets being whispered.
Eli approached the betting window with his hard-earned Luck Points
stacked in his heart like poker chips. The ghost hovered above the
crowd, drifting on a ripple of smoke, watching.
Eli spread open the race program to look over the competing horses.
That’s when he froze.
One of the horses…
One of the horses was named—
China Man.
He stared at the name, his pulse pounding.
Was this a sign?
A good sign?
Or the worst omen imaginable?
The ghost floated lower behind him, expression unchanged, pipe
glowing faintly at the tip. A thin ribbon of smoke curled around Eli’s
shoulders.
Eli swallowed.
If he chose that horse—
Would he win?
Or would he offend whatever mysterious presence had been guiding
him all day?
He took a step toward the betting window.
Then hesitated.
The ghost lowered his eyelids and gave a single, slow nod.
But was that a nod of approval…
Or farewell?
Eli’s hand hovered over the betting slip.
His entire day, every avoided crack, every thrown pinch of salt,
every sidestepped ladder—all of it came down to this one choice.
Bet on the horse whose name echoed the ghost who had watched
over him…
…or avoid it entirely.
“That’s the way the luck runs,” he whispered to himself.
He scribbled a name on the slip, folded it once, and slid it under the
window glass.
The Ending (You Choose)
If you’d like, I can continue the story with one of two endings—or
both:
1. He bets on China Man… and wins spectacularly.
2. He bets on China Man… and loses everything.
3. He avoids China Man… and regrets it.
4. He avoids China Man… and it saves him.
5. A mysterious or supernatural twist involving the ghost.
Just tell me which version you want next.
Here is Ending #5 — the supernatural twist continuing directly
from where the story left off.
If you want it longer, darker, funnier, or more mystical, I can expand
it.
Ending 5 — The Ghost’s Bet
Eli took a deep breath, slid his betting slip into the window, and
stepped back into the hum of the racetrack crowd. The lights
shimmered. The speakers crackled. The announcer began calling the
horses to the gate.
Above the noise, the ghost hovered silently—cross-legged, drifting,
pipe glowing like a tiny ember suspended in air.
Eli felt a strange chill crawl down the back of his neck.
He looked up.
For the first time since he had begun seeing the ghost…
the ghost wasn’t nodding.
It was simply watching.
Thousands of people around Eli pressed toward the rail as the horses
paraded out. Hooves struck the ground like muted thunder. Colorful
silks flashed in the floodlights.
Then he saw it—
the horse with the number pinned to the saddlecloth:
China Man.
Tall. Calm. Almost regal.
The horse’s breath steamed in the warm night air.
And beside the horse—just for a moment—Eli swore he saw a faint
wisp of smoke curl upward, the exact same shape as the ghost’s
opium trail.
His pulse thudded.
The horses entered the starting gate.
Steel doors clanged shut.
The crowd leaned forward as one.
The ghost drifted downward until it was almost level with Eli’s face.
And for the first time ever…
…it spoke.
Not loudly.
Not angrily.
Barely more than a whisper carried on smoke and memory.
“You bet… against me.”
Eli’s breath caught in his throat.
Before he could respond, the bell rang—
a metallic shriek—
and the gates flashed open.
The horses exploded forward.
The crowd roared.
But Eli didn’t see any of it.
Because the ghost…
split in two.
Half of it drifted toward the horse named China Man, sliding into the
swirling dust of the track like water into sand.
The other half stayed near Eli, its form dimming, thinning,
unraveling like fog caught in wind.
As the horses rounded the first turn, the ghostly fragment with the
horse seemed to merge with its motion, its speed, its breath. The
horse surged ahead—then faltered—then surged again, like
something unseen was wrestling for control.
The announcer’s voice wavered over the speakers:
“China Man takes the lead—
No… he’s slipping—
Wait—he’s surging again—
What a strange… motion… from the frontrunner—”
Eli grabbed the railing.
His heart hammered.
Beside him, the fading half of the ghost leaned closer, its voice the
sound of burning incense.
“Luck is borrowed.”
Another breath.
“But debt…”
The ghost’s eyes shimmered with ancient weariness.
“…must always return to the one who lent it.”
On the track, China Man stumbled—
recovered—
stumbled again—
and then, with a final burst of impossible speed, charged toward the
finish.
But just before the line—
inches before—
the horse VEERED sideways, skidding, nearly unseating the jockey.
Two other horses shot past.
The crowd gasped.
China Man finished fourth.
Eli stared, numb.
The ghost’s last remnants curled upward like dying smoke.
“That,” it whispered, “is the way the luck runs.”
Then it vanished—
completely, finally, utterly.
Leaving Eli alone in the roar of the racetrack, holding a worthless
ticket…
…and wondering just who—
or what—
had been collecting Luck Points all along.