The charm

Ethan Cartwright was twenty-one years old and already tired of being Ethan Cartwright.

He was a third-year IT student at a university nobody bragged about, the kind of place where the servers in the computer labs were older than the lecturers and the vending machines never worked. By the end of his first year he realised that AI would make his degree useless in years to come.

Ethan was the cliché of the geek who’d grown up without any real guidance, pale skin that burned instead of tanned, a body built more for lugging shopping bags than lifting weights, and a wardrobe that consisted almost entirely of faded band T-shirts, hoodies, and jeans with holes in them that weren’t meant to be fashionable.

His hair was thick, brown, and perpetually messy no matter how often he washed it. He wore glasses, not the chic rimless kind, but square plastic frames that always seemed to slide down his nose when he got nervous. And he was always nervous.

He’d never kissed a girl. Never even been on a proper date. Porn was his sex education, and he knew more about the firmware of routers than he did about how to get a hand on a real tit.

He wasn’t pathetic (he reminded himself of that often) just… overlooked. His parents had been thrilled when he got into university, but mostly because it meant he’d be out of their house. They were already planning holidays and home renovations before he’d even signed his student loan paperwork. They topped him up with a monthly allowance, but it was barely enough, so he stacked shelves at a local supermarket three nights a week. It paid for cheap food, gaming subscriptions, and the occasional rare VHS he picked up on eBay. His pride and joy was the battered VCR on his dorm shelf, the one he used to rewatch the uncut original Star Wars trilogy (the way it was meant to be seen).

He thought that would be the most exciting thing in his week. He was wrong.

The letter had arrived the Monday before, his grandfather was dead.

Ethan barely knew the man. His father had always avoided the subject when Ethan asked about grandparents as a boy. “Complicated,” was the word he used, then shut down the conversation. Ethan had grown up with no family stories, no old photographs, no visits at Christmas. It was like his grandparents didn’t exist.

And yet, here he was, standing at a small, poorly attended funeral in a drab English village two hours from campus. The church smelled faintly of damp wood and old hymnals. The coffin was plain. The flowers were sparse.

Ethan sat alone at the back, shifting awkwardly in his only suit, a charity shop black jacket and trousers that didn’t quite fit. He recognised no one. A handful of grey-haired strangers dotted the pews, whispering quietly among themselves. His parents hadn’t come. They were on a cruise, sending him a breezy text that morning, Sorry you’re stuck with the funeral, but we’ve already paid for the cabin! Take care xx.

He’d expected to feel angry. Instead, he just felt numb.

The service was short. Barely half an hour. When it ended, Ethan lingered outside, unsure if he should just leave. That was when she approached him.

She was tall, elegant in a long black coat that looked expensive even in the drizzle. Her hair was silvery blonde, coiled neatly at the nape of her neck. Her lipstick was the kind of red that made Ethan’s throat dry. She was older, maybe late fifties, maybe older but carried herself with the poise of someone who’d once been the most beautiful woman in the room and still hadn’t quite lost it.

“You must be Ethan,” she said, her voice smooth and low.

“Uh… yeah. I am.” He adjusted his glasses, unsure whether to offer his hand.

“I’m.. someone who knew your grandfather,” she said, ignoring his awkwardness. “ and am the guardian of his estate.”

Estate? Ethan almost laughed. From what he could see, his grandfather hadn’t had much more than a coffin and a plot of damp grass.

She reached into her bag and produced a small parcel, wrapped in plain brown paper, tied with string. She held it out to him. “This is for you. Your grandfather instructed that it be delivered upon his passing. You are to open it in private. Tonight.”

Ethan hesitated, then took it. The weight surprised him. Heavy, solid.

“What is it?” he asked.

Her lips curled in a faint smile. “A legacy.” She turned before he could ask more, her heels clicking against the cobbles as she vanished into the mist of the churchyard.

Back in his dorm that night, Ethan sat cross-legged on his bed, the parcel in his lap, it felt colder now, heavier.

He tore the paper away.

Inside was a VHS tape, unmarked except for a strip of masking tape across the front with two words in black marker: Play Me. Alongside it lay a gold chain, and hanging from it, an emerald the size of a marble, gleaming green even under the cheap overhead bulb.

Ethan turned the emerald over in his fingers. It was cool to the touch, smooth, and deeper than any jewel he’d seen in person.

He set it aside, staring at the tape. His heart thudded.

Of course he had a VCR. Who else in his dorm would? He slid the tape in, sat back, and waited.

The screen crackled to life.

And there, sitting in what looked like a study filled with books and wood-panelled walls, was his grandfather.

“Son,” the man began, his voice deep and grave.

Ethan flinched. He thinks he’s talking to my dad.

The old man looked healthier than Ethan expected, his hair grey but full, his eyes sharp. He spoke directly into the camera.

“I know we’ve been distant. My fault as much as yours. But if you’re watching this, it means I’m gone. And it means it’s time you understood the truth.”

He held up the emerald, the same one now sitting on Ethan’s bed.

“This,” his grandfather continued, “is your inheritance. A gift. A curse. Call it what you will. It has been in our family for generations. And it is why I lived the life I did.”

He reached off-screen and returned with a photograph. A glossy black-and-white print of Marilyn Monroe, smiling in her iconic halter dress.

“You know her, of course. Everyone does. But not like I knew her.”

He laid the emerald carefully against the photo.

The screen flickered.

When it came back, Ethan’s jaw dropped. Marilyn Monroe wasn’t just in the picture. She was there, in the study, kissing his grandfather full on the mouth. Her blonde curls bounced, her dress strained against her breasts, and she moaned into the kiss.

Ethan sat forward, eyes wide.

“This gem,” his grandfather’s voiceover continued, even as Marilyn slid onto his lap on the tape, “can breathe life into any image, any doll, any fantasy as long as you leave it in contact overnight. It will make them flesh, real, and besotted with you. They will love you, want you, obey you. It is desire incarnate. But heed my warning, boy — not every fantasy is safe. Some will consume you. Some will destroy you. Be careful what you bring to life.”

The screen cut to static. Then black.

Ethan sat frozen, the emerald cool in his palm.

His cock twitched in his jeans.

He stared at the emerald, then at the blank TV, and back again.

Somewhere in his mind, a thousand possibilities opened.

Which one would he choose?