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Captioned Images Series: The Bewitching of Nick
Created: 05/21/2025
Dennis always said he was a wizard, but Nick, his very skeptical, very un-magical roommate, chalked it up to Dennis being a LARP enthusiast with too much free time and way too many velvet cloaks.
“You’ll believe in my power one day,” Dennis would mutter darkly while waving a spoon at the microwave like it owed him rent.
That day came on a Wednesday.
Nick had just finished eating the last of Dennis’s peanut butter and leaving the jar in the sink “as a warning,” when Dennis stormed into the kitchen, eyes glowing faintly, cloak billowing in a way that was impressive given there was no wind.
“That’s it,” Dennis growled. “You leave the lights on, you never do the dishes, and now the peanut butter?!”
“Shouldn’t have labeled it with a rune if you didn’t want me to test your fantasy play,” Nick replied, licking the spoon.
Dennis narrowed his eyes. “Let’s see how sassy you are when you're Mrs. Ackerman!”
With a flick of his fingers and a very unnecessary Latin phrase, the kitchen filled with a flash of light and the smell of lavender potpourri.
POOF.
Nick blinked. Everything was... weird. His hoodie was gone. In its place: a mint floral wrap dress. He looked down at his hands, now dainty and decorated with coral nail polish. Sensible heels. Wedding ring. Glasses on a chain.
“You think turning me into Mrs. Ackerman will intimidate me?” he croaked—and immediately winced at the soft, midwestern-laced voice that came out. “No way!!!”
Dennis smirked. “Maybe now you’ll learn some respect. Wanna beg for your manhood back?”
Nick paused.
Then slowly, deliberately, he adjusted his blouse, picked up a tote bag from the floor (where did that come from?), and strode out the front door.
Dennis blinked. “Wait… where are you going?”
Nick didn’t answer. He just gave Dennis the same disapproving nod Mrs. Ackerman always gave to boys skateboarding near her lawn and marched across the street in full Mrs. Ackerman regalia.
Inside the Ackerman Residence:
Forrest Ackerman, a large man with kind eyes and a hobby of carving ducks out of wood, looked up from his recliner as “his wife” walked in.
“Evenin’, hon,” he said cheerfully. “You're home early.”
“Traffic was light,” Nick said smoothly, hanging the tote on the hook and heading to the kitchen like he’d been doing it for 30 years.
He opened the fridge, scanned it like a seasoned housewife, and set to work.
Pot roast. Roasted carrots. Mashed potatoes with extra butter. All from muscle memory he absolutely should not have had. And all while humming “Afternoon Delight.”
Forrest peeked into the kitchen. “You alright, darlin’? You’re… glowing.”
Nick turned, wiping his hands on a gingham apron. “Just feeling extra neighborly today, Forrest.”
Meanwhile, Dennis was across the street, mouth agape, watching the lights of the Ackerman bedroom flick on, smoke rise from the chimney, and the smell of a roast waft through the air.
“Is he seriously just… being her?” he muttered.
An hour later, the curtains briefly parted—and there she was. Nick-as-Mrs. Ackerman. He sipped from a wine glass, raised an eyebrow at Dennis across the street, and gave him a wink so smug it could have been federally taxed.
Dennis screamed into a pillow.
Nick? He just went back to the roast and leaned into the role. He had zero intention of being intimidated.
He kind of liked being Mrs. Ackerman.
Powerful. Organized. In control. The casserole queen of the cul-de-sac.
---
Three days had passed since Dennis had zapped Nick into Mrs. Ackerman’s body, and frankly, the neighborhood had never been more alive.
The lawn was mowed. The hedges were sculpted into tasteful swans. Forrest's cholesterol was down. And Nick? Nick was flourishing.
By Friday evening, “Mrs. Ackerman” decided it was time to take things up a notch.
Out came the heels — not the practical ones, but the red ones that clicked with purpose. A pencil skirt that hugged every curve Dennis had never seen on his former roommate. A satin blouse, cinched perfectly at the waist. Pearl earrings. And a smoky eye that said *"I know what I’m doing."*
She looked into the mirror, puckered her freshly glossed lips, and smiled.
“Dinner time, Forrest.”
Dinner went splendidly. Forrest lit candles. Mrs. Ackerman lit… something else. The roast was so tender it practically apologized on the way down. Forrest complimented her seasoning and her figure — in that order — and Mrs. Ackerman giggled like a woman half her age who knew exactly what she was doing.
After clearing the dishes, she packed the leftover roast into some Tupperware. But before snapping the lids on, she dabbed at her lipstick, straightened her blouse, and spritzed herself with a little perfume that smelled like nostalgia and command.
Then she marched across the street in her heels, roast in hand, hips swaying like a vintage jazz solo.
Dennis was on the couch, wrapped in a blanket of shame and regret, halfway through a can of cold ravioli.
He looked up as the front door swung open. “Oh no,” he muttered.
Mrs. Ackerman stepped in, glowing.
“Evening, Dennis,” she said in a voice so silky it could be sold at boutiques. “Thought I’d bring you some dinner. Wouldn’t want you wasting away.”
She set the Tupperware down like a judge laying down the verdict.
Dennis blinked. “So… uh… you ready for me to change you back now?”
Mrs. Ackerman laughed. Not just any laugh—*the* laugh. That perfect middle-aged, cocktail-hour, I-know-your-game laugh.
She leaned in close, one perfectly manicured finger booping Dennis on the nose.
“No way,” she said with a wink. “I’m going to stay like this.”
She turned to go, but paused in the doorway, letting the hallway light frame her like a soap opera matriarch.
“Oh, and Dennis?”
Dennis gulped. “Y-yeah?”
“Forrest is *twice* the man you’ll ever be.”
With that, she left, her heels clicking down the walkway like judgmental applause.
Dennis stared at the door.
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