Cursed

by J. R. Rain

  She cried out and tried to slink backwards. Her last “sorry” was cut off in mid-utterance as her vocal cords and neck were slowly being crushed by the mighty hands. Gerda spasmed and I got a desperate foothold and propelled myself to the lawn. My hand thunked on something metallic.

  The shovel.

  The golem was still standing over a very limp Gerda. Grinning wickedly, its head tilted down, as if he was going to open up his maw of mud and suck her down inside him.

  Yelling a tortured “Banzai!” like I’d heard in Bruce Lee karate movies, I ran forward and slung the edge of the shovel into the creature’s shoulder. The coat split open and the dirty meat parted.

  It figured. If you wanted to move clay, you needed a shovel.

  A little encouraged, I tugged the blade free and delivered another blow, this time to the back of the head. The dirty mouth opened as if to scream, but no sound came out. When I pulled the blade out this time, a decent scoop of the bastard’s head came with it. I could only hope it was brains.

  The sky was darker now, so I couldn’t see where Tabby was, but the next shot came from the patio. The bullet zilched into the golem’s back, and this time he reached up a club-fingered hand to wipe at the entry wound. Gerda gasped and struggled but was still gripped in one crude hand.

  “It’s getting weaker!” I shouted, more for my sake than Tabby’s. I chopped again, this time imagining the goddamned serial killer as a mortal, torturing poor women for the vanity of his sorry soul, seeking to divine a magical power that should never have been his.

  I swung again.

  “Shit!”

  My aim was bad. The blade sunk deep into its soft shoulder. I worked it loose, desperate, breathing heavily, peanut butter still rancid against the back of my throat. The golem did not even bother to look my way, it was so intent on finishing its mission.

  I worked the blade loose. I raised the tool high overhead again, adjusted my aim slightly to the left, and brought the shovel down. I summoned all my strength, even saying a little prayer for all good things and maybe asking for a little mercy for us sinners, and let my rage, fear, and my little reservoir of love all flow into the swing.

  It came down true, and in one clean sweep, with hardly any resistance at all, cut clean through the golem’s neck. The head sprang forward, spinning over Gerda’s own limp head like a football at kickoff.

  I expected the golem to keep choking and fighting. It’s not like a clay thing needed its head. I braced for the sight of it running around like a decapitated chicken, arms flailing ahead like those of Frankenstein’s monster. But it went limp and still.

  What had once been shaped as a man turned into a wet pile of amorphous mud. The hand that had been choking the life out of Gerda dropped to mush around her. As the mud slid out, the clothes collapsed, ending up in a soiled heap beside Gerda, the hat and sunglasses on top like a late-April Frosty the Snowman.

  “Gerda,” I said under my breath, tossing the shovel aside.

  She was tilted to the side and lay in the muddy slush. I checked her breathing. I shook her but her eyes remained closed.

  Then Tabby was beside me. “Here,” she said.

  As Tabby knelt over my wife, administering CPR, I held my son for the very first time.

  * * *

  It was dark when Tabby finally gave up.

  I didn’t say anything about Tabby’s death wish for her. It seemed pointless now. My wife was dead, the mother of my child was dead, Nana was dead, Poochy was dead, and Max Richter was hopefully dead for the final time.

  But Petey was alive, and that almost seemed enough.

  He hugged me and cooed against me, not understanding the carnage around him. To him, it must have simply looked like playtime was now over for the day. I rocked him back and forth, muttering his name, until he drifted into Napland.

  We went inside the house. At least the power was on, so we could flip the lights and avoid walking through any more blood. I wasn’t quite sure if Gerda had successfully conjured any curses, so I kept away from the shadows.

  We found the phone in the kitchen, but the service hadn’t been connected. Tabby dug through Gerda’s purse and found her cell, then put in a call to the police. She didn’t bother trying to explain. We sat at the table, Petey hugged to my chest, as we waited for the flashing lights and sirens. Petey had a few scrapes and scratches, but otherwise appeared to come out of it in the best shape of any of us.

  “What do we tell them?” I asked.

  “The usual. Big ugly clay dude shows up and goes nuts. Kills a couple of people, and then we rain on his parade.”

  I nodded. “Sounds legit to me.”

  “Or we could go the self-defense option. Same story as I was going to use the first time, only now we spin it as a wrestling match instead of a shoot-out.”

  “And I missed it all, because I was down in the hole with the baby and the dead guy.”

  “You look the part.”

  She was right. I was coated in dirt, blood, and some of that sticky clay that I didn’t like having stuck to my skin. It almost felt alive, and I imagined it morphing into little worms that would burrow into my skin.

  “It’s for the best,” Tabby said. “Yes, definitely for the best.”

  I nearly screamed when a tiny shape darted out from the shadows. Jimmy’s mouse!

  But the little creature merely darted to the edge of a splotch of blood, sniffed, sat for a moment on its haunches, and wriggled its whiskers. No white stripe. Just an ordinary mouse. Almost cute.

  “Boo,” I said.

  It scurried back to safety.

  The wind had picked up considerably, whipping through the branches outside. The house shook and I hugged Petey more tightly.

  “What happens next?” I asked.

  “There will be an investigation. I’ll be reprimanded. Perhaps even lose my job over this. Perhaps not. Either way, we found the killer and saved the child, so my bosses might have mercy.”

  “Ah, the good-looking cop who doesn’t play by the rules. Every department needs one of those.”

  She glanced at the book on the table, which had turned out to be another ancient book of spells. Just how many of those damned things were floating around, anyhow?

  “I can always take up witchcraft,” she said.

  I stared at her. “How could you even joke about a thing like that?”

  She shrugged, exhausted. “Who’s joking? It’s in my blood, right? And blood seems to catch up with you sooner or later. Besides...”

  I didn’t like the way she said that word.

  “You never know what people are cooking up out there. And bullets and badges can’t always stop evil.”

  “Great. Don’t hear this, Petey.”

  He didn’t. He was asleep.

  “What happens to us?” I said.

  “We have a child to raise.”

  “We?”

  “I’m not doing it alone, and you’re the guy who couldn’t keep his mouse in his pants.”

  “How do you raise a child?”

  Tabitha looked at Petey. “One day at a time.”

  “Damn. Isn’t that what people say when they quit drinking?”

  “Yeah. So start saying it.”

  I wasn’t sure if this was a happy ending or not. But it was an ending. I’d already survived one greatest fear, maybe two, but I suspected being a father would create fears I’d never known had existed. Gerda had paid for her father’s sins, and I wasn’t going to let Petey pay for mine.

  “You know something?” she said, when we heard the first distant siren wailing across the valley.

  “What?”

  “I don’t hate you as much as I should.”

  “That’s a start.”

  “But I still don’t like you. And I haven’t forgiven you for Amanda yet.”

  I hugged Petey, already used to his weight against me, the small shudder of his snores, the warmth of his smooth skin. “Boy, you Meads sure do know how to carry a grudge.�
��

  The End

  ~~~~~

  Also available:

  Ghost College

  The Ghost Files #1

  by J.R. Rain and Scott Nicholson

  Amazon Kindle * Paperback

  Audio Book * Amazon UK

  Also available:

  Bad Blood

  by J.R. Rain, Scott Nicholson and

  H.T. Night

  (read on for a sample)

  Chapter One

  Class was over.

  I was making my way to my car in the dark, my backpack slung over my shoulder, when the girl came running up behind me. We had exited class together, junior year United States history, when I heard her fall into step behind me. I didn’t have to turn and look to know I was being followed. I didn’t even have to turn and look to know who it was, because I could smell her.

  It was the new girl. Well, new as of two weeks ago. And she smelled of flowers and shampoo and clean clothing. She also smelled of curry, which is why I knew who she was, since most girls smelled of only flowers and shampoo.

  I’ve always liked unique girls, as much as I can like anything.

  I had just clicked my car door open, using the keyless remote, when I heard her footsteps pick up their pace. She was moving faster, coming up behind me. I heard breathing now—her breathing, and I might have heard something else, too. I might have heard, mixed with the sounds of cars starting and our classmates talking and laughing, I might have heard her heart beating.

  And it seemed to be beating rapidly.

  It should beat rapidly, I thought. Here be monsters.

  My back was still to her as she stopped behind me. Her scent rushed before her, swirling around me like a dust devil, and I inhaled her deeply and spun around.

  Her face was a little orange under the cheap streetlights. She had opened her mouth to speak, but instead she gasped. She hadn’t expected me to turn on her. Heck, maybe she even thought she had approached quietly.

  Maybe she wasn’t sure she had wanted to talk to me. Maybe, just prior to my spinning around, she had decided to do the smart thing, turn herself around, and leave.

  Maybe she had heard stories of me. Maybe she had heard that I was different from other students. That there was something odd about me.

  I heard the stories, too. Mostly, of course, I overheard the whisperings behind my back. They didn’t know I could hear them. They thought they were being discreet. But I heard their harsh words. I heard their hateful stories. I heard them speak ill of me. I heard their laughter, but mostly I heard their fear.

  I heard everything.

  Her gasp hung in the air, much like her mouth hung open. She was a pretty girl. Long, blonde hair. Brown eyes impossibly round. She was small but curvy. She looked like a doll all grown up into its teen years.

  “You are following me,” I said.

  She closed her mouth. Some of the students spilling out into the parking lot watched us. In fact, most of the students were watching us. I ignored all of them. All of them, that is, except this new girl.

  “Yes, sorry,” she said.

  “Why are you sorry?” I asked. I turned and opened my car door. I tossed my backpack into the backseat.

  “I don’t know,” she said.

  “You look like you saw a ghost,” I said.

  I heard her heartbeat clearly now. It thumped rapidly. It even seemed to labor a bit, which might mean she had some sort of heart condition, surprising for one so young. She looked once over her shoulder, and I could almost hear her thinking, although my hearing isn’t quite that good. She was thinking, and I would have bet good money on this, I can still leave now. Make up a good story, or even a bad one. Anything. Just leave. They call him a freak for a reason.

  But she didn’t leave, and I knew why. Because they don’t just call me a freak.

  They also call me Spider.

  “You need help,” I said, draping an arm over my open car door, letting it support some of my weight.

  She quit looking around and now she held my gaze, and as she did, her heartbeat steadied. She was no longer afraid. Then her eyes pooled with tears, but she did not look away even as the tears spilled out.

  “Yes,” she said.

  “Do you have a ride home?” I asked. I’d learned to never trust tears.

  “I walk.”

  I motioned toward the passenger seat. “Get in,” I said, “And let’s talk.”

  Chapter Two

  Seattle at night is beautiful. Seattle at night with a beautiful girl is even better.

  We drove in silence. My car is an old Mustang, not a classic, but old enough to give me problems. That night I had no problems with it. The windows were down as the cool air whipped through the interior. I glanced to my right once and saw the new girl was huddled in the center of the seat, hands in her lap, looking straight ahead. I sensed her fear, or at least trepidation. Serious trepidation. I’m good at sensing things. I’m good at sensing emotions in others. It’s a survival mechanism, one of many.

  I think, probably, anyone could have read her emotions. She would have looked nervous to any observer. I don’t know how it works for other people, I only know how it goes for me.

  And sometimes I’m not even sure of that.

  And I probably should have said something to help her relax. Perhaps something funny or sweet. But I didn’t feel funny or sweet. I felt angry and bitter, and it was all I could do to not pull over somewhere and tell her to get lost so I could be alone with my miserable thoughts.

  I reminded myself that there were far worse things in the world than sitting next to a beautiful girl.

  Far worse, and I’d experienced most of them.

  She sensed me looking at her and huddled deeper into herself, wrapping her arms tighter around her body. I looked away, focused on driving. Lately, it seemed I had forgotten normal social etiquette. Or, more likely, it was that I didn’t give a damn about social etiquette. It was hard to care much about anything anymore.

  Then why did you offer to help her?

  Good question. I thought about the answer as I drove through the streets of downtown Seattle, past piercing skyscrapers and glitzy restaurants, past the many homeless and the many more tourists. It was late, sure, but it was also Friday night. Seattle was hopping.

  I knew that mostly I didn’t want to help. Mostly, I wanted to be left alone. And for the most part I was alone. Perhaps too alone. To say that I was in a strange place in my life would be perhaps the understatement of the decade.

  Mostly, I sensed a darkness filling my heart, filling my insides, and it scared the hell out of me. Helping others, even when I didn’t want to, seemed to keep the darkness at bay, or at least slow it down. And it helped fight off that creeping loneliness that was the eternal plight of my kind.

  “Where are we going?” Her voice was small and whispery.

  “Get you some food,” I said.

  “I’m not hungry.”

  “I disagree. I know you’re hungry.”

  She looked over at me and I felt her eyes studying me closely. “Why do you think I’m hungry?”

  “We were just in class for three hours. And, besides,” I said, looking at her, “it’s either that or you have a small alien inside you trying to get out. I can hear your stomach growling from here.”

  She actually looked down at her stomach. Her brows knitted in a brief display of confusion. Finally she shrugged. “I didn’t hear it growl.”

  “It’s growling now.”

  She put her palms over her stomach. “How do you know that?”

  “Not only are you hungry,” I said, whipping past a slow-moving scooter. “You haven’t eaten all day.”

  “How do you—”

  “Your stomach is completely empty.”

  “But how—”

  “How do I know your stomach is empty?”

  “Yeah, how? Like you can read my mind?”

  Actually, I knew her stomach was empty by the sounds it wasn’t making. S
ure, it would growl every once in a while, but mostly there was no indication of any digestion going on at all. I decided to keep some secrets to myself. “Call it a hunch,” I said. “So do you want something to eat?”

  I knew what her answer would be. “I’ll pay you back.”

  “Don’t worry about it,” I said. “It’s only money. There’s plenty of it out there for everyone.”

  She looked at me and she might have smiled. “Thank you.”

  “No worries,” I said, and was pleased to feel the darkness within me subside a little, loosen its hold on my heart. Just a little. “What’s your name?”

  “Parker,” she said.

  I almost laughed. “Is that your first or last name?”

  “First, and don’t laugh.”

  “I didn’t, did I?”

  “No, but you almost did.”

  “What’s your last name, Parker? Wait, let me guess...Cindy?”

  “Ha, ha. It’s Cole.”

  “Parker Cole, huh?” I said. “You sound like a child TV star or something. Ever had your own show? ‘Parker With a P,’ maybe?”

  “I can’t tell if you’re being funny or mean,” she said after a moment. She had gone back to sitting in the middle of her seat, shrinking in on herself a little.

  She wasn’t in my car for me to make fun of, or even hurt her feelings. A part of me didn’t care about her feelings. A part of me didn’t care about anyone’s feelings. But I was forcing that part of me to take a back seat. With some effort, I said, “I was just being stupid. Actually, you have a very nice name.”

  “Thank you,” she said, but I had scared her off a little and she still sat closed on the seat. “Why do they call you Spider?”

  “It’s a new nickname,” I said. “I’m not sure why.”

  Actually, I knew damn well why they called me Spider. I heard the whisperings behind my back. I was creepy. Spiders were creepy.