What Remains Of The Old Fortune Teller

20260327

Prompt from DailyPrompt.com

Once upon a time, when the trains still stopped at Puddleton and the town prospered as a result, the Puddleton Green was indeed green, and the site of many a festival or visiting attraction. But then the station closed, and the jobs left, and although the name was never officially changed to Puddleton Illegal Dump, a whole generation had never known it as anything else.
Until the new mayor, flush off a campaign which everyone agreed had been remarkably astutely run for such a green politician, declared Puddleton Green would be cleaned up and green once more. And, via careful budgeting stretched by community rousing, it was done. Two generations of garbage and abandoned goods carted away to be properly disposed of.
But they didn’t take what remained of the old fortune telling machine.
Some people joked that the mayor believed the rumours and didn’t dare offend it. Others said, entirely sincere, that the mayor must have heard the stories and knew better than to throw out such a useful relic.
Either way, the worn, cracked wooden doll was moved against one of the few trees which had survived the choked and poisoned soil, near the edge of the green, positioned so its glittering glass eyes faced the town proper.
Easy to access.
With its garish carnival paint but a distant memory, its polyester clothes long rotted and the machine which had driven it stolen for scrap, the doll’s weathered pine body looked as if it could’ve stretched out of the living wood behind. As if it belonged there, on the rescued Puddleton Green. As if its long-ago abandonment was in aid of a higher purpose.
Now stories abounded. None claimed it knew everything. Only that, no matter how you searched, you’d never find someone who’d asked its advice and could honestly say it had been wrong.
Intriguing. And it was now so easy to get to.
So here Will was. Notebook clutched in one hand, camcorder in the other, homemade “School Press” badge proudly pinned to his blazer. Looking for a scoop.
He coughed. “Excuse me?”
No response.
“My name’s William Carver. I’m from the Puddleton Junior Gazette. Would you mind answering some questions?”
After waiting what he deemed to be a polite pause, he lifted his chin and said “I’m not going to just give up and go away. I know you can hear me.”
That sound might have been the wind through the branches, or it might have been a sigh. The fortune teller’s mouth flopped open and a whisper as worn and colourless as the doll breathed “I believe I have a right to remain silent.”
“Aw, don’t be like that!” Will flashed his best winning smile. “This’s just a chat.”
“I don’t suppose your questions are about doing well at school? Or the best place to set your sights for university?”
“Oh no. Thanks, but I’ve got that all planned out.”
“Mm. Then why are you here?”
“Well, you’re a person of local interest, so I thought our readers should know about you!”
“If I am of ‘local interest’, doesn’t that mean people already know about me?”
“Erm, they don’t know much about you.”
“What do they know?”
“Just that there’s an old wooden doll here that listens to people and answers questions.”
“Then they know enough.”
“Hardly!” Will scoffed. “What about your name?”
“Why would I have a name?”
“Eh??” Will’s debate club practice had not prepared him for this. “B-because everyone has a name!”
“I’ve never needed one.”
“Well… then what should people call you?”
“‘The old fortune teller’ seems to work.”
“Ooh, you can see the future?”
“No.”
“Well, then, you’re not a fortune teller!” Will pointed his pencil in what he hoped was an authoritative manner. Even after hours practising in front of the mirror he wasn’t sure he was doing it right.
Apparently not, because the doll just said, in a bored fashion, “I never claimed I was.”
Will deflated and suppressed a pout. “Don’t you think people have a right to know about this mysterious figure who’s advising our elected officials?”
“Don’t you think that’s a question for your elected officials? I’m sure an interview with them would be far more interesting.”
“Oh, come on!” Will scuffed his foot and scowled. “What are you? And what’s your, um, your angle?”
The late afternoon sun glittered deep in the doll’s eyes. “Perhaps I just like helping people.”
“Humph. Whatever you are, you have to subsist on something. I bet you’re luring people in to eat their souls.”
“What a revolting prospect. Not to mention absurd. You read lots of those amateur horror boards, don’t you?”
“That’s not a ‘no’!”
“You probably post on them, too. Ugh.”
“S-stop trying to change the subject!!”
Another wispy sigh. “If I answer this question, will you go away and annoy someone else?”
“Fine.” Will huffed, folding his arms, then warningly added “But it’ll have to be a proper answer!”
“Fine. No, I do not ‘eat souls’. I… clear away debris from the mind. Nibble down weeds which clutter thoughts. Devour the burdens people ladle upon me. My existence is inherently helpful.”
“Oh. You’re a psyche-eater.”
What a boring let-down of an answer.
The doll’s eyes flashed in the light reflected from a passing car. “Oh, I’m sorry, is that not enough of a ‘scoop’?”
“Not really. Most people already figured that.”
“Then why come bother me??”
“I thought maybe you’d be more interesting!” Will shoved his equipment into his bag. “Not just a, like, random bit of junk haunted by a psychic wisp. How’d you get so good at giving advice, then?”
“Practice. Observation. Regrets and pain lead to wisdom, you are what you eat…”
Will rolled his eyes and stalked away. Behind him, the doll’s mouth snapped shut with a dull thud. Was it just the sunset shadows which made it look like it was now smiling? Or was it pleased by how many questions the young journalist had abandoned, unanswered?

Prompt was “Create a unique character who can be described by the words ‘influential’, ‘secretive’, ‘hungry’.”