The Thirteenth Curse

by Curtis Jobling

  “What is it?”

  “Not sure,” muttered Max. “Something.”

  “Could you be any more vague?”

  “Not really.”

  “Could be nothing.”

  “Nope.”

  “How do you know it isn’t?”

  “Call it a hunch,” replied Max, as he turned off the sidewalk and through the open gates. He hopped off his bike, booting the kickstand and continuing on foot. The gravel crunched as he disappeared into the mist.

  Syd begrudgingly parked her bike alongside Max’s. “I know all about your hunches.”

  She quickly caught up to Max as he headed uphill, parallel to the road and railings. His instincts, which Max had once jokingly referred to as his “Helsey sense tingling,” were guiding him toward the source of his hunch. The boy occasionally got a gut feeling when something monstrous or magical was approaching. He never knew what the danger might be—only that it was impending. He picked a path gingerly between the graves, occasionally stopping to get his bearings. Syd was silent now, watching her friend at work. Max took a turn and headed deeper into the burying ground, smoky tendrils of mist swirling about them. He was slowing now and gradually came to a halt.

  It sounded like a big dog feeding in the darkness, a low growl hidden behind a grinding noise. The moon and stars were obscured by clouds, and the two friends were some distance from any of the lamps that lit the graveyard. Max reached into his messenger bag, his eyes remaining fixed on the gloom ahead. The hairs on his neck tingled. He fished a six-inch plastic rod out of his satchel and snapped it. The high-intensity glow stick shone white, illuminating the area with a crackling light.

  The grave was old, the headstone weather-beaten and its occupant’s identity illegible. Turf was piled high around it, splinters of ancient timber half-buried in the earth. Max took another step forward to throw more light into the crudely excavated pit. He nodded.

  “Well, that figures.”

  A naked creature straddled the broken coffin. It was an emaciated humanoid, hideously desiccated, leathery skin drawn tight over wasted muscles and joints. The odd wisp of white hair still clung to its blotchy scalp, but it had long ago departed the world of the living. In its skeletal hands it held two halves of a human femur, gnawing on it, the brittle bone already snapped in two like a stick of celery. As the light fell on it, the monster ceased its feeding to look up. Unmistakably undead, its pale white eyes shone back eerily, reflecting the glow stick, black pinprick pupils focused on Max. It ground its teeth together in its lipless mouth.

  “Out you come,” said Max, clicking his fingers and pointing to the turf beside the grave. “And you can tidy this mess up while you’re at it.”

  Syd inched closer, grabbing her shades to keep them from falling off her head. She peered over Max’s shoulder, using the monster hunter as a human shield.

  “Zombie?”

  “Nope. Ghoul, and a young one, too, I reckon. Still got a bit of hair left, and it’s not completely blind yet. Probably rose . . . let’s see, fifty years ago?”

  The creature clapped its crooked teeth together, gums drawn back and exposed. Max grinned.

  “You appear to be hiding behind me,” he called over his shoulder, chuckling. “Ghouls are carrion feeders. They’re relatively harmless.”

  “Relatively is the key word there. Who knows where that thing’s been?” Syd wrinkled her nose and shoved Max forward. “Do your thing and let’s get out of here, Helsing. Chop, chop.”

  Max turned back to the ghoul in the grave. He crouched on his haunches, holding the glow stick overhead. The creature raised a hand through the air and raked at him, rising unsteadily on its filthy, clawed feet. Max leaned back.

  “Hey, cut that out. Now we can do this the easy way or the hard way. I’ve had a pretty lousy day, so I’d rather we go with the former. I need you to put the bones back exactly as you found them—well, the parts you haven’t already eaten, anyway—and then haul your skinny butt outta there. Then you’ve got to fill this earth back in. I know, I know, chores are a drag, so how ’bout Syd and I help you, okay? Teamwork always gets a job done!”

  “Speak for yourself, hombre,” said Syd. “You and Bones are on your own.”

  “Ignore Ms. Crankypants back there,” said Max, gesturing toward his friend. “She’ll help if I make her.”

  Syd snorted as Max smiled at the undead grave robber. Whether the ghoul understood Max was entirely unclear, but the boy continued regardless, giving the monster every opportunity to do the right thing.

  “So whaddaya say? You going to do what I ask?”

  The ghoul snarled and turned its back on him, reaching back into the coffin to rip loose a clutch of ribs. Max sighed and rose in resignation.

  “Why do they never choose the easy way?” he asked, reaching back into the messenger bag and fishing around for what he needed. Grabbing the crucifix, Max presented it with a flourish and began the ritual. Words of Latin spilled forth, the mantra Max had learned parrot-fashion before he was even wearing big-boy pants. The ghoul was instantly scrambling, gurgling as it went, seizing the headstone to drag itself up. Syd let loose an involuntary squeal, backing up as the monster squirmed out of the pit. Max was on the move, maneuvering around the hole in the earth, maintaining a healthy distance from the creature.

  The ghoul landed in the pile of soil, writhing and kicking as Max continued chanting, the crucifix glinting in the dim light where it rose from his knuckles. Crawling now, the beast drew closer to the shadows and the mist. Max switched back to English.

  “That’s right, run along, and tell your pals I’d better not see them here either. Gallows Hill Burying Ground is off-limits, Bones. I see you here again, I may not play so nice!”

  “Well done,” said Syd. “For a moment there, you almost sounded like a real Van Helsing.”

  “And you almost sounded like a real girl. Where did that squeal come from?”

  “I’ll never get used to the monsters,” said Syd, readjusting her shades. “I’m the Q to your 007; fieldwork ain’t my thing. Now can we go?”

  “This grave still needs filling,” said Max, tossing his jacket onto the headstone. Rolling up his hoodie sleeves, he returned to the pile of earth. He started shoving the dirt back into the ground with his hands. “You could help and we’d be done quicker. Many hands make light work, et cetera.”

  With a grumble, Syd joined her friend, kneeling in the soil and setting to the task.

  “You know, back in the bad old days your dad would’ve just lopped its head off.”

  “Well,” said Max, throwing a great armful of mud onto the splintered coffin below, “I’m not my dad.”

  “That’s something all monsters should be grateful for.”

  FIVE

  xxx

  UPSTAIRS, DOWNSTAIRS

  Max stood beside Jed, peering over the superintendent’s shoulder into the bubbling pot of chowder. He shuddered, returning to the kitchenette counter to take a seat. Syd sat cross-legged on the floor, reading Jed’s hand-me-down newspaper. Her overalls were covered in fine black hairs—Eightball had spent the last half hour cuddling in her lap and performing all manner of tricks, including fetching toys and treats. That Syd could strike up a rapport with his dog in mere moments annoyed Max no end. The peculiar puppy now whimpered at the apartment door, his little tail thumping as he watched the handle.

  “He’s really smart,” said Syd, reaching across to pat his jet-black coat. “Who taught him to stay, seek, and fetch?”

  “He came like that,” said Jed. “His breed has a heightened intelligence compared to other dogs. Frightening, really.”

  Max watched Eightball whirl repeatedly, trying to catch his stubby tail in his slobbering jaws. “Yeah. Frightening intelligence.”

  “Does he need to go out?” asked Syd, folding the paper and rising to join Max at the co
unter.

  “If he’s out, he wants to be in, and vice versa,” said Jed. “So, what are we going to do about Whedon?”

  “I can handle Irwin,” said Max. “I’ve seen scarier characters on Scooby-Doo. But I need to stay on his good side. I’ll kill him with kindness—maybe start taking gifts in for him. Any good at baking apple pies, Jed? Or do your culinary skills stop at eggs and clam chowder?”

  Jed slopped the soup into bowls and passed them across to Max and Syd. Max winked at his guardian, and the old man’s glower cracked into a half smile.

  “Whedon, I can deal with,” said Max. “But Chief Boyle? He scares me.”

  Jed grunted as he took a stool across the counter from the kids. He whipped a penknife from his pocket, snapped out the blade, and speared an apple in the fruit bowl. A second later, the knife was a blur as the peel coiled off in a continuous loop.

  “You’re not having any?” asked Max suspiciously, sniffing at the strong-smelling, steaming soup.

  “I had some earlier.”

  “Sure you did,” said the boy as he gulped it down.

  “Boyle,” sniffed Jed as the kids worked on their meals. “That name’s a blast from the past.”

  “How so?” asked Max.

  “He was a beat cop when I was first teaching your father. This was back in the day when the streets really weren’t safe after dark, for mankind or monsters. Criminal gangs brought their business to the real underworld.”

  “The Undercity,” put in Max, his eyes wide.

  “That’s right,” said Jed, his eyes narrowing. He took a crunching bite from the apple, swallowing it down. “Anything you need to tell me, Max?”

  “About what?”

  “Something I found in your bedroom. Under your mattress . . .” Max blushed as Syd arched an eyebrow. “Scrolls, Max. About the Undercity. Maps. What have I told you about that place?”

  “There’s no harm in reading about it, is there?”

  “You cannot go there.” There was anger in Jed’s voice. “It just ain’t safe for a Van Helsing. It’s dangerous enough for me to head downstairs, let alone you.”

  “Dad went to the Undercity—”

  “When he was a full-grown man. You’re a boy. You’re not ready for that. The Undercity ain’t the lion’s den—it’s the dragon’s lair. So forget about going, not on my watch.”

  Thanks to his reading, Max knew all about criminal connections with the Undercity, or “downstairs,” as some called it. Right beneath Gallows Hill, the fabled Undercity was home to all manner of monster. Many of his predecessors had taken their fight to the Undercity, cutting a bloody path through the denizens of the dark places on their occasional crusades.

  “What’s Boyle’s connection with the Undercity?” asked Max.

  “Let’s just say that Officer Boyle’s loyalties were called into question at times, not just by the public but even some colleagues in the department.”

  “But he’s the chief of police,” said Max. “He’s one of the good guys, right?”

  “I love you, Max, but you’re naive. Boyle’s blood was corrupted long ago. I don’t doubt for a moment he’s the same backstabbing, bribe-bagging, double-dealing weasel he ever was. Steer clear of him and his boy, you hear me?”

  Syd patted Max’s back. “Chin up, dude. Stick to where you’re safest: hunting monsters.”

  “Speaking of which,” said Jed, “you sure it was a ghoul at Gallows Hill?”

  “Positive,” said Max confidently. “Feeding on the dead rules out most other kinds of undead. I’d rank it as a Class II, judging by the state of decay, and it wouldn’t surprise me if its lair was somewhere close to the burying ground. Probably part of a pack.”

  “Something for you to investigate.”

  “No need to be too worried,” said Max. “They’re no danger to humans.”

  “Everything’s a potential danger, son,” grunted the old super. “At the end of the day, monsters are monsters.”

  “Boyle’s not a monster and I’m supposed to be wary of him.”

  Jed sucked his teeth. “There are all kinds of monsters in this world, Max. Trick is to spot ’em coming.”

  Max pushed his empty bowl away to spin around on his stool. He patted his lap, enticing Eightball. “C’mere, boy!”

  Syd laughed as Eightball’s rear left paw scratched behind a stubby ear. The little dog whimpered, ignoring his master, and clawed feverishly at the door.

  “It’s no good,” said Max, exasperated. “My dog’s broken.”

  “You have to earn a dog’s trust before it warms to you,” said Syd. “Besides, he probably just needs to pee.”

  Max jumped down from the stool and crossed to the door, grabbing the knob. The door opened inward, Eightball squeezing through the growing gap. As the light from the apartment spilled out, Max was surprised to find Wing Liu on the attic landing, looking slightly taken aback. How long had the kid been there?

  “Oh, hey, Wing!” said Max with a big smile, his voice loud enough to alert Jed and Syd that they had an unexpected guest. “Fancy seeing you here, dude. What’s going on?”

  Wing looked sheepish, his cheeks flushed with color as Eightball scrambled into his arms, tail wagging. He had the look of guilt about him. Just how much had he heard?

  “I came to see if I could play with Eightball,” said Wing. “You don’t mind, do you?”

  “Come in, young Master Liu,” said Jed. “You’re just in time.”

  “In time?” asked the boy, stepping into the apartment. Max was surprised at Jed’s invitation. Jed had always ensured they kept their distance from their neighbors, at least those who were unaware of what their true business was. Their apartment was their sanctuary, yet here he was, inviting Wing in.

  “Of course,” said Jed, busying himself at the kitchenette counter, opening cupboards and rattling through drawers. “I was going to wait until tomorrow evening, but seeing as all of Max’s friends are now here . . .”

  Wing was looking around the apartment, face full of wonder, especially when he caught sight of the extensive bookcases. This was Jed’s library, home to a wealth of information on the magical, mythological, and monstrous. As Syd stepped up to Wing and began chatting, distracting him, Max sidled up behind Jed and whispered in his ear.

  “What are you doing, inviting him in? Have you lost your mind?”

  Jed kept his voice nice and low as he replied, Eightball’s woofs and Syd’s banter cloaking their conversation.

  “Better to keep Wing close and discover what he heard than to send him away.”

  “I hope you know what you’re doing. I’d hate to see Wing drawn into anything monstrous. The Helsing world’s no place for a kid.”

  Max saw the old man’s cheeks rising, as a rare smile flickered on his face.

  “What is it?”

  “I may not say it enough, Max, but I’m proud of you. What you’ve achieved already, in spite of losing your folks at a young age.”

  “You did a pretty decent job, you lovable old fart.”

  Max put his arm around Jed’s hip briefly, giving him a squeeze.

  “Love’s the strongest magic there is, Max, the stuff that connects each and every one of us through family. You draw so much strength from your forefathers, young man.”

  “I draw my strength from you, Jed. Now shut up and show me what you’re hiding behind that cabinet door.”

  The old man retrieved a cake, a thick slab of chocolate icing adorning its top. Thirteen candles flickered, their flames casting an eerie glow beneath Jed’s chin as he limped toward Max.

  “My commiserations, Max,” said his guardian as they all gathered around the counter. Syd paused by the door, extinguishing the apartment lights.

  “Commiserations?”

  “Indeed, my boy, for tomorrow marks your birthday, and a
truly chilling, terrible transformation shall take place.” He settled the cake onto the counter as Max leaned in, ready to blow out the candles. Wing looked terrified upon hearing Jed’s words.

  “Transformation?” whispered the ten-year-old as Eightball licked his lips and Max gathered his breath. “What kind of transformation?”

  “It’s awful, Master Liu,” said Jed, seizing the boy’s wrist in his iron grip. Max blew out the candles, and the room was plunged into darkness.

  “He’ll turn into . . . a teenager!”

  SIX

  xxx

  THE NIGHT WATCHMAN

  Each of the themed rooms in the Gallows Hill Museum of Anthropology had its own appeal, but one in particular kept drawing Wilbur Cunningham back. The American Room featured artifacts from as far back as the indigenous Massachusett tribe who once inhabited the lands around the bay. The European Room hosted a fascinating exhibition on the British Royal Family and their connections by marriage across Europe. The Australasian Room had all manner of curiosities, the most macabre of which, until recently, had been the tattooed head of a Maori warrior. The museum had recently repatriated it to New Zealand. But it was the Egyptian Room that fascinated Wilbur.

  Though the night watchman had never been much of a student, Wilbur had always been intrigued by history. His duplex was decorated with military memorabilia from around the world. He was even a member of the local volunteer infantry, joining up with his comrades in the Irish Brigade to carry out reenactments statewide. Sure, he was out of shape, and his uniform was ill-fitting, but Wilbur didn’t care. Once a month, he got to travel back in time, participating in the battles he’d read about. He’d been the happiest soldier in the Union when he got the gig as night watchman at the museum.

  Wilbur stood before the sarcophagus, flashlight passing over its surface. Here was a genuine Egyptian coffin from 1,400 years before Christianity existed. There were two of these burial boxes in the room, one much larger than the other, belonging to parent and child. They were surrounded by jewelry and gems, death masks, and daggers of the sacrificial variety. Framed and faded newspaper clippings charted Carter and Carnarvon’s ill-fated Tutankhamun dig, supposedly dogged by curses and disaster.