The Curse of Time

by Andreea Pryde

  The Curse of Time

  Andreea Pryde

  Edited by – Michelle Hoffman

  Copyright © Andreea Pryde 2019

  Any reproduction, total or partial, of this book, without the written accord of the author, is absolutely forbidden and is punishable by law.

  Contact: linktr.ee/AndreeaPryde

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 1

  I never believed in the paranormal. Curses, enchantments, lucky amulets, evil spirits, angels, demons, heaven, and hell–all this meant nothing more than fantasies found between the covers of a book. Fantasies meant to influence weak minds, yet, despite all that, I got the job.

  How and Why?

  I said all these things, and quite clearly, I might add, in front of the Director. The result? I was utterly ignored, but then again, why did I take on the offer? Maybe because on the paper, the salary, the bonuses, and the benefits looked extremely appealing. I’m not superficial, but I like to live comfortably, and my university degree doesn’t give me too many opportunities. If I’m aiming for a career in this field, I can’t afford to be picky. I must take everything that comes my way, no matter what.

  I was officially employed at the Occultism, Witchcraft, and Magical Artefacts History Museum. What a fancy name for a place full of lies and charades.

  I let my head fall on the desk loaded with piles of books, manuscripts, parchments, and some of the strangest objects I’ve ever seen, which had to be restored, classified, and only then, prepared for display. There was only one big problem; I knew nothing about the objects in front of me, of which I was, anyway, convinced to the marrow of my bones that they were nothing more than rubbish meant to take money from poor suckers who believed.

  I needed coffee, loads and loads of coffee.

  I returned from the small staff kitchenette with a steaming cup of coffee in my hand, only to bump my nose into the freshly mounted sign on my office/workshop’s door.

  SCARLETT AUBYN

  RESTAURATOR AND CLASSIFIER

  OF ARTEFACTS AND OCCULT DOCUMENTS

  I wanted to rip the sign–together with the door it was glued on–into pieces, and it was only the second week of work. I wondered what the next phase was. Fight with the exhibits? Scream at the visitors? Sleep in a coffin? Or maybe the worst possibility of them all–to believe all this was real.

  A soft knock on the door interrupted my descent into the dark abyss of the shadows of despair, and inside the room, stepped a woman. Laura had worked as a guide for this place for over twenty years, and also, she was the only one who welcomed me with a big, warm smile.

  In the two weeks since I started working here, I haven’t seen any of the museum employees, except for the day the Director introduced me to the team. A small team formed out of four people, apart from him.

  The first one was Matteo, the secretary; an introverted young man, with dark hair and pale skin, rocking a nerdy look, but without much of a presence, who greeted me almost inaudibly without moving his gaze from the floor. By his side stood Gregor, the housekeeper; a grumpy, old Russian man, who’d worked in the museum for almost all his life and from who I couldn’t hear more than a low grunt. Next in line was Silvia from the gift-shop. The young woman was too busy playing with her blonde hair, making loud-bursting bubbles out of chewing gum, and looking at her long, fake nails to pay me any sort of attention. And last, but not least, the woman who stood now in front of me, Laura.

  “Am I bothering you?” she asked politely.

  “No, not at all! To be fair, I was just starting to feel a bit lonely,” I said, getting on my feet as she got closer.

  “Well then, that means I got here just in time. Tell me, did you manage to get used to this place yet?” She smiled in a friendly way.

  “Not quite. I find it a bit difficult, to be honest, mostly because I have no idea where to begin,” I said, pointing at the piles on the desk and around it. “I managed to prepare a few parchments and books for display, but I’m currently facing a bit of a problem.”

  “Such as?” she pried. “You know, I’ve been working here for quite a while, so I might be able to help you here and there until you find your own way.”

  “For example, I have no idea what that is,” I pointed my finger at a long wooden carving.

  “That’s a phallus,” Laura said relaxed.

  “A what?” I asked, thinking I must’ve heard wrong.

  “A phallus,” Laura repeated unbothered by my reaction.

  “Okay, then what about this?” I showed her a very similar object, but this time out of metal.

  “Also, a phallus. Anything else?” she asked joyfully.

  “Alright, though I’m a bit scared to ask. What about this drawing?” I handed her one of the books lying around open. “The writing is quite washed away, so I can’t decipher it all.”

  “Oh, now this is rather interesting,” she said, fascinated. “This is a double-headed phallus used in harvest rituals.”

  “Double-headed!” my mouth fell open.

  “Yup, there are with up to eight heads, but what goes over three were used for black magic.”

  “But why couldn’t they use something else? I think I saw at least twenty similar objects and over a hundred drawings in the past several days.”

  “The obsession for power, I suppose. The man was considered the absolute power, after gods, at that time, and since the major belief was that his power came from his genitals, they used it for various rituals,” she explained calmly.

  “Wait. When you say ‘used,’ you mean . . .?”

  “The organ,” she continued my sentence.

  “‘The organ’?” I repeated shocked.

  “If you ask me, this is exactly the reason why the Great Witch Hunt began, because the witches hunted men as well. The bigger and stronger the man, the more extraordinary the result, but when they began to no longer be able to acquire the needed materials, they became creative and improvised. And that’s how these little guys came into existence. Depending on the ritual they were needed for, the witches crafted them from various materials. For example–for harvests, used wood, for strength, used metal, for wealth, gold and silver; for fertility, animal skin. As for those who had enough courage to practice black magic, they used them from corpses, which is why a phallus with more than three heads is an extremely rare sight.”

  I was as sickened as I could be and didn’t want to listen to another word, but I had to ask; there was no way for me to keep my job if I didn’t learn more.

  “How do you know all that?”

  “Oh, you poor thing, no one told you now, have they? We have a rather comprehensive library here with diverse witchcraft history books and case studies. Follow me, I’ll show you.”

  “Lead the way.”

  I walked one step behind Laura, who opened the way towards a building’s
wing closed to the public. Somehow, I had the feeling I shouldn’t be there at all, but I needed the money this job had to offer even if the place gave me chills and raised the hair on the back of my neck. Still following Laura, I thought the Gothic style she adopted didn’t match her personality at all. The clothes, hair, nails, the heavy make-up, everything was black with a very white skin as a canvas. And her personality? Full of life, with a contagious smile, friendly and a little bit strange. Looking at her now, how she walked among the hall’s shadows, like floating, she looked more like a witch or a vampire, than one of the museum’s employees. She needed nothing more than a broom or a pair of fangs.

  She stopped in front of a tall, white double door, and pushing them hard, she opened them, creating a loud squeak that spread throughout the building.

  “I’m certain I’ve told Gregor countless times to oil these blasted doors,” Laura snorted, moving inside the room, “but he keeps finding excuses not to come here. He says the place is cursed.” She rolled her eyes.

  “Cursed?” I asked, trying to hide the irony in my voice.

  “Naive, right?” she laughed. “I mean all the cursed objects are displayed on the other side of the museum. Senile old man, he already forgot what madness is there on every single Halloween. It’s like the whole museum would’ve moved in that room. Everyone comes for the Curses Exhibit and ignores the rest of the place whatsoever. Oh, well, either way, I don’t think any of the curses are still active, after all, they won’t last forever.”

  “Curses have an expiry date?” I asked a bit amused.

  “Of course. They disappear in two situations; either the cursed one dies, or the one who threw the curse dies.”

  “So, no matter what, someone has to die?”

  “Pretty much, but there is always the exception to the rule. There are powerful curses that never disappear, being directly linked to one’s soul. Those connected to the body, disappear with it, but the soul is immortal.”

  I refrained from rolling my eyes, but instead, I tried to focus on the reason why I was in that room; research. Indeed, Laura said the library was ample, but I didn’t take it too seriously. I was expecting maybe something between fifty and one hundred books, but there were at least a few hundreds. Books, files, studies, and journals, all arranged on different-looking shelves, or in boxes on the floor, gathering dust, touched only once in a long time.

  “I know this might sound silly, but why are all the shelves so different from one another?” I asked, curious.

  “That’s easy. It’s like a tradition.”

  “A tradition?” I asked puzzled.

  “The Director only buys a new shelf when there are enough books to fill it up, which sometimes can take several years. Look, there in the corner, the pièce de résistance.”

  I followed her with my eyes until she got near a huge shelf from the end of the 16th century. It wasn’t difficult for me to recognise the shapes and decoration style; the complicated and elaborate combination of leaves, flowers, and angels. What I couldn’t understand was what was such a carpentry masterpiece doing in such a place covered by tons of dust?

  “This should be in a museum, especially since it’s in perfect shape!” I exclaimed.

  “I remember suggesting something very similar to the Director at some point, but he said it’s not possible. This shelf is the last thing left from his family’s original fortune, and that he has no parting intentions.”

  Just then, a soft sound, like a cry, passed by my ear.

  “Did you hear that?” I turned around.

  Listening more closely, I walked in the direction in which I thought the sound came from, but I ended up facing with a wall, or at least, so I thought. At a closer look, I noticed concealed under the same shrivelled wallpaper as the rest of the room, was a door, once secret.

  “Hear what?” Laura asked me, curious.

  “I thought I heard someone cry. I think it came from behind the door.”

  “That’s impossible. In the next room, are nothing but the building’s electric panels. You are standing in front of the plant room right there. Trust me when I tell you that no one goes in there for long periods of time. Maybe what you heard came from outside, but I heard nothing.”

  “Maybe . . .”

  Maybe I heard things, perhaps it was all in my head, but why had I felt like I needed to get on the other side of the wall? Like something or someone was calling me. After all, there was nothing more than wires. Mentally, I slapped myself twice, and shaking off the unpleasant feeling, I returned to what was really important. I quickly picked a few titles that didn’t seem like bedtime stories, and together with Laura, headed back. I highly doubt I could’ve found my way back all by myself.

  “You know; I was sixteen years old when I started working here. My first part-time job,” Laura started telling me, smiling. “I was such a hopeless romantic. I used to imagine that the grand exhibit hall was a ballroom where you could find the cream of society. Sometimes, when I was sure no one could see me, I was pretending to be a guest to such a ball,” she said giggling.

  “Well, considering the architectural style, I would say you’re right. If my memory doesn’t deceive me, and I doubt it because it was my favourite period, artistically speaking, this place was built at some point during the 16th century, so your imagination wasn’t too far from reality. I can even imagine the music echoing throughout the building, colourful dresses swirling on the dancefloor, lovers flirting, young lads stealing a kiss or two under the moon from their partners. Even the room we just left from, perhaps at some point it was a study, or maybe a games room. If I could, I would renovate my house in this style; large windows, extravagant decorations, antique furniture,” I said, dreaming with my eyes open.

  “And here I thought I was the romantic one.” Laura chuckled.

  “I don’t think it has anything to do with romanticism, but more with personal taste. All this had a certain elegance which can’t be compared with anything from modern day, and probably, it never will have a comparison term ever again.

  The way back seemed twice as long, the thick volumes making my arms go numb. Maybe I took one or two too many.

  Once back, I thanked Laura for her help, and she waved me goodbye, closing the door behind her. I had less than half an hour until the end of my shift, so there was no point to engage myself in something complicated. I looked once again over the books I’d brought from the library, searching for something which could be read before bed, preferably without blood, or sadistic rituals. I know it’s wrong to bring your work home, but for a while, until I got into the topic, it couldn’t cause any harm.

  I found a promising title, The Gods’ Artefacts–Legends and Untold History.

  I intended to open the book but got interrupted by the loud buzzing of a text message.

  “Buy me beer and bring dinner. I’m starving.”

  Seriously? What happened with ‘please’?

  I didn’t even have the power to get annoyed anymore, he was probably drunk already, anyway. At least, if I got him some more beer, I’d be able to read in peace, without hearing him strumming that out of tune guitar

  Sure, he’s supposedly writing a song which will make him famous and filthy rich. I know he can; but in nine months, he hasn’t written a single note, yet he’d devour almost ten beers a day–only after, to blame me for our lack of money. Only to say I am the one spending too much. Makes no difference I’m the only one who provides, making sure the bills and rent are paid.

  Sometimes I wonder, what happened to the man I fell in love with in the first year of university?

  With a swift move, I stuffed the book in my handbag, and I left, shutting the door behind me. Looked like I had shopping to do.

  Chapter 2

  The smell that struck me when I opened the door to our little apartment almost turned my stomach upside down–cigarette smoke, alcohol, and sweat. I tried to breathe as little as possible until I managed to open the windows, tripping over
the empty beer bottles, scattered all over the floor.

  “Hmph, you’re home.” I heard a sleepy voice coming from the couch. “Did you get the beer?”

  “I’m fine, thanks for asking, and yes, everything is great at work,” I said, trying not to be bothered by his lack of interest.

  “Yeah, okay, awesome. Now, did you get the fucking beer?” he asked again, losing his patience.

  Disgusted, I stepped in front of the couch, throwing the beer cans at him. By the looks of it, that was the only thing he cared for, anyway.

  “You got the wrong brand! How can you be so unbelievably fucking stupid?” he raised his voice.

  Biting the inside of my cheek, I tried to ignore his insults.

  “You could say thank you even for that one.”

  “Give me some money, and I’ll buy it myself. I don’t need your help.” he puffed.

  “Money from where? I haven’t been paid yet; I just started a little while ago. We need to be careful how we spend what we have left, that is, if we don’t want to have the surprise of running out of food and rent money.

  “Ah, yes,” he said, opening a beer. “You and your big and important job at the freaks’ museum.” He pointed towards me, splashing some beer on the floor. “You weren’t even capable of finding a job at a proper museum.”

  “At least I have one,” I responded, trying to keep my calm, which I felt slipping away. “How about you? You promised me you’ll look for something, yet you lay on the couch all day long.”

  “Shut your yap, will ya? Save the theory for someone else.” He dismissed my words with a wave. “What’s for dinner? And when are you going to clean this place? Just look at the state of this room.” He waved around, splashing even more beer on the floor, and on himself.

  “Oh, you mean the mess made by you?” I sighed, rubbing my forehead. “You could at least have the decency to clean up after yourself.”

  I refrained as much as possible not to yell at him. I knew that if a fight started, it wouldn’t end until late at night, and I had to get up early in the morning. I threw him the second bag I was holding, with both portions of the Chinese food, and I left for the bedroom, slamming the door behind me. I was tempted to lock it, but it made no difference because he won’t come to bed, anyway. In the past few months, the living room couch became an extension of his body. About the same time, he stopped touching me in any way; not even a kiss, nor a kind word, not even the smallest gesture of comforting.