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The air in my Hollywood Hills mansion was thick with the scent of old deferred dreams. With a trembling hand, I ran my hand over a glossy centerfold from my youth. Then I caught sight of my reflection in the mirror – an old woman of 75. Every joint ached, every breath a sigh against the inevitable. Wealth had given me luxury, but not youth.
From my perch, I observed my maid, Amandine DuPont. Twenty-four years old, a recent French immigrant, Amandine was a beautiful woman dressed in a high-buttoned maid's uniform. Her complexion was flawless, her natural elegance belied her simple attire. Besides her beauty, Amandine possessed something else: absolute anonymity. An orphan, without family, without friends, with no life beyond silent service
My considerable influence and wealth had opened a secret door to the witches' coven. A Porata, a witch, answered my request to be young again, all for a relatively modest sum. The ritual was scheduled for the following month, at the end of October in Halloween.
During this time, I made all the preparations for taking over a new body, signing over my estate to Amandine and (on the witches' advice) adopting her and making her my personal guardian, unbeknownst to the girl herself.
Pretending to have a "confidential medical mission" for Amandine, I led the obedient girl straight into the trap of the witches' lair.
Inside, the ritual chamber was already prepared. Two identical tables gleamed in red light. Amandine and I, both under the influence of a calming potion, were placed on the table. Amandine's wide, terrified eyes met mine, a fleeting moment of primal understanding before the calming potion lulled us to sleep.
The first thing I felt when I woke up was the absence of pain. Decades of aching joints, a stiff spine, the unrelenting gravity of old age—all of it vanished. I flexed my fingers, and youthful ligaments snapped. I stood, weightless, full of energy. In the mirror, I returned the gaze of Amandine's face: perfect, flawless, radiating vitality. I laughed with a chilling, victorious joy.
I saw the witches approach my old, still unconscious body and pour in some potion.
"To induce an effect similar to a stroke, so she wouldn't say anything," one of the witches explained.
My old, fragile body, now having Amandine's consciousness, convulsed, letting out a silent, internal scream of pure panic, quickly muffled by the powerful elixir.
At the mansion, my old, wrinkled body—now housing Amandine's terrified, imprisoned mind—was placed in my old bedroom, and I moved to the other. I placed my old, defenseless, paralyzed, and utterly silent body, which housed Amandine in a bed. Amandine was now a captive observer, trapped in her old body, forced to watch as her life, her beauty, her future were effortlessly stolen.
I removed Amandine's simple maid uniform and replaced with luxurious, revealing clothes, purchased a month earlier, which now adorned my new persona. I began the administrative process of liquidating my assets, transferring all fiduciary authority to my "new identity." I changed my name from Amandine DuPont to Margaret DuPont.
Within a few months, Hollywood was ablaze with rumors about a mysterious new French model, Margaret DuPont. My beauty was shocking, my confidence magnetic. I signed contract with my old agency, and I immediately dominate the highest circles. I possessed the ruthless ambition and cold calculation of an old titan, reinforced by the impeccable, youthful energy.
At a prestigious charity gala, I explained that Margaret Winslet was my greatest inspiration, a true mentor, and after a (public) stroke that paralyzed her, she had been under my care in the last years of her life, and this was my tribute to her. I winked at the cameras, my glint of triumph dazzling and cold. No one guessed the truth.
I was famous all over the world, living exactly the life I had always envied. When I entered my old bedroom, I saw Amandine.
The old woman's body lay still, weaker now. Amandine's consciousness, trapped within her, registered my approach. I moved closer, my young breath fanning against the cold, old cheek.
"You know, Amandine," I whispered, caressing the face of my former self. "This body is wonderful. I've never loved my life more. And the best part? No old age. No more pain. And no one knows that the greatest tragedy of your short life is becoming my greatest success."
Amandine's mind screamed in silent pain, a torrent of rage and fear, but her old vocal cords couldn't utter a sound. Her eyes, sunken and clouded, stared into the beautiful, youthful face of the woman who had stolen her future. It was a look of absolute, concentrated terror.
I stood, straightened my tailor's dress, and closed the bedroom door. The world saw a bright star radiating youth and strength. Inside the mansion, trapped in its crumbling prison, the real Amandine DuPont remained, hidden, silent proof of my monstrous vanity—doomed to watch her stolen life play out on magazine covers until her new old body finally gave way to death.
