Silly Little Curses
The ring from Hell (Sig Chi)
Article by Katie Rowley, art by Emmaline Hawley
The Ring
“Curses aren’t real,” I hissed to my friends in the third floor study room, where about ten minutes ago, we were actually studying. But when the room next to ours—only divided by one of those fake walls with a giant gap in the floor—flooded with noise, we made it our mission to overpower them. The conversation had shifted from Marina attempting to explain her Biology of Microbes final paper to the spooky Ouija ring I had found the night before.
The Discovery
Let me set the scene. After quite possibly the best pregame of the entire semester, distinguished by several dances on tables, my friends and I made our way to the infamous Sigma Chi. It being the weekend before fourth week, the usual line of people waiting to be let in by the frat bouncers who get off on telling people they can’t possibly fit any more bodies inside, was nonexistent. We made our way through the front doors, immediately confronted with the stench of sweaty bodies and cheap spilled beer, which only intensified as we made our way to the back room. The dance floor. Or, the half-drunk-people-jump-around-to-shitty-EDM floor. Not sure if I would consider that dancing, but it's better than standing around in the kitchen watching people you don’t know play beer pong. The floor is covered in the aforementioned sweat and beer, making the “dancing” a very difficult process. We jumped around on the edge of the crowd for a while, until the ring made its way to me. I landed right on top of it and being the naturally curious person I am, I just had to reach down and pick it up. I inspected it just long enough to conclude that it was in fact a ring before slipping it into my back pocket. The night ended pretty shortly after that.
The next morning, I investigated my finding. I discovered it fit perfectly around my index finger, like it was custom-made for me. A couple rinses of hot water and soap was enough to get the sticky residue it had picked up from the floor of Sig Chi, but the overwhelming penny-like smell lingered on my finger.
The ring itself definitely had a weird vibe. An acrylic eye protruded from the surface; its hyperrealistic soul-seeing blue iris and pupil staring right at you. The eye was surrounded by a raised alphabet and an engraved “yes” and “no.” A Ouija ring.
I thought it looked sick. Thus it made its way to the library with me and was subjected to an intense discussion on how disturbing it was and how it was, without a doubt, cursed. At the time, I chose to ignore this. This ring had made its way to me for a reason, and it was not to cause me endless misfortunes.
Less than 48 hours later, I found myself doubting the pure intentions of the ring. For two weeks, I had been able to avoid the “frat flu,” which had turned out to be a concoction of pneumonia, strep, bronchitis, and sinus infections. I had gone out and partied with the infected. All my friends had gotten it. Half of my class had gotten it. But I stayed clean. Until, of course, the Monday of Fourth Week. I woke up with phlegm settled deep into my chest, its presence suffocating me. Thankfully, I only had to meet one-on-one with my professor that day, and I could spend the rest of the day nursing myself back to health, working on my final project.
Unfortunately, I woke up deathly ill the next morning: the day my project was to be presented. I begged my teacher via email to let me Zoom into class and not present that day; she only agreed to the former. I had to present. In the middle of my presentation, my fever peaked at 103℉. I barely remember anything I said. The only relief came from the brief naps I took while others were presenting.
This illness, despite numerous rounds of various antibiotics, countless tests for Covid, and home remedies, didn’t fully leave my body for two months. It was also the beginning of The Incidents.
We’ll get to those in a minute. But first, for all you skeptics out there: I know that there are so many reasonable explanations that do not point to me being cursed by a ring. I could’ve picked up illnesses from my friends, or random people I passed on campus. Or, the ring itself was covered in germs picked up from the floor of Sig Chi. Doesn’t mean the ring is cursed. But, I like to blame all of my problems on inanimate objects instead of facing my reality that I am the cause for most of them. Plus, curses are so in right now.
The Incidents
Shortly after contracting the plague, everything, to put it simply, turned to shit. The frequency of nights out ending with me sitting outside Boettecher sobbing or puking my guts out increased. The tension between my roommate and me progressed into yelling matches. Everything was bad and getting worse. So, I decided to stop wearing the ring. I set it in a bowl with all of my other discovered trinkets alongside my crystals, hoping their energy would cleanse it.
Honestly, after a while, I had forgotten about it. Things turned around. Months went by. I went to a concert in another state without telling my parents and did not get kidnapped. I started talking to someone new. I stopped crying all the time. But the curse drew me back in, and with a quick glance at my crystals, I was reminded of its existence. An urge to start wearing the ring again. It was just so cool. It had to be worn.
The Text
Our romance started out like any other college romance: on a roof. Well actually, if we’re being technical, it began on the microcosm that is Colorado College Tinder. We had matched a while back before he messaged (I never message first), and after a thrilling conversation about planes, we progressed to iMessage. After many failed attempts to get together and a very busy block in which I totally forgot about his existence, our romance culminated, on a roof. In November. At night.
We spent the entire night talking, our bodies pressed against each other. It was warm, for November in Colorado. 40 degree darkness made even colder by our stagnation. My hands slipped under his shirt to keep my fingers from freezing off. Warmth. I hadn’t been that close to someone for months. I hadn’t felt that close to someone for months.
I wasn’t wearing the ring then. That’s why the night went so well. And as soon as I put the ring on, just a few days after the roof, the calamity began.
Our texts got shorter. The frequency of fruitless attempts to hang out increased. And then, it happened.
On one unusually warm December night, I got The Text. We all know it. The “I don’t wanna ghost but I do not want to talk to you” text. The “I am definitely talking to someone new, someone more interesting, someone better. And, I don’t know how to say that without sounding like I completely disregarded whatever hope you had for this relationship” text.
I was devastated. I drove around the unfamiliar roads of Colorado Springs, sobbing. Our relationship wasn’t anything more than one night and some texts, but my delusion had built a house of hope for me and the idea of him. And the curse had burnt that home down. Things were going so well. Then, I decided to wear the goddamn ring.
Now, to address the skeptics once again, yes, there are other factors that may have resulted in this text, and all the feelings wrapped up in the words sent. But things changed so suddenly, and the only thing I had done differently was wear an accessory on my index finger. Yes, Venus was in retrograde. No, I can't read minds and I have no idea how he actually felt throughout the extent of our fling. But, once again, is it not easier to blame a small piece of metal than to actually try to evaluate what went wrong?
The Accident
Less than a week after The Text, The Accident happened.
Now, I’ve crashed my car before. This past July, I was too focused on finding the perfect Spotify playlist for my drive to work that I forgot to break, rear ending a very nice lady and totalling my 2014 Subaru Outback that I had owned for less than a month. I screamed louder than I ever have. I relive that day in my nightmares. I’ve become an overcautious driver.
The Accident was different. After a cathartic drive with my friends, we returned to campus for dinner. But before we could make it into the parking lot, someone ran into me. The all-too-familiar screeching of machine and breaks. My own screams. The headache of car insurance. They were because of the ring. The damage was minimal. But it was enough to make my dad angry and it was enough to blame the ring.
The Ending
That night, I took the ring off for good, hoping to rid myself of its energy. Hoping to finally be uncursed. But I don’t think the curse will leave for good until I am completely unburdened by the ring. Currently, it lives in my bathroom drawer, underneath hair clips and skin care creams, almost forgotten. But not gone. I need it gone.
There's a lot of literature on cursed objects, including some very informative Tumblr pages. But they all suggest the same remedies for removing: cleanse the ring in moonlight, or with your other crystals. None of them suggest actually getting rid of the object or considering that maybe the object is not to blame for all of the things you're attributing to a curse. I thought about burning it. Melting the acrylic eye and metal letters. This way, no one would ever be harmed by its curse ever again. But, I don’t know how to create a fire hot enough to liquify metal and I don’t think my RA would be cool with that.
So, the only real plan I could contrive was to return the ring. I don’t know it’s origins. I don't know who brought the ring to Sigma Chi all those months ago, but it must go back to them. Or at the very least, it must return to Sigma Chi. The plan is simple, next time we go out, I cannot return home with the ring. It needs to move on. I need this very real curse to stop curing me.
Or maybe, I need to surrender to the critics. To admit that it is illogical to blame every small inconvenience in my life on a random object. To admit that the ring isn’t cursed, it is a small piece of metal that slipped off someone’s finger, a person who bought the ring off of some website because it fit their aesthetic. To admit that there is no sinister jinx. I was sick simply because it was unavoidable. The number of nights of drunken sadness increased because I was sad and alcohol brings out the worst in me. My roommates and I fought a lot because I was learning how to live with people for the first time. To admit that I got The Text because I didn’t communicate my feelings and the sender wasn’t in love with me. And The Accident happened because Mark, the other driver, didn’t know how to drive.
Or maybe, I don’t need to give in. SO I won’t. It is entirely possible that the ring I had the misfortune of finding is cursed. And every tribulation I have dealt with since September is because of some ancient curse seeped deep into the poignant acrylic eye. And until I get rid of the ring (which will hopefully be soon), I’ll continue to be cursed.