Cursed

by Jeremy C. Shipp

  “Murder rituals?”

  “The notion of dominance as power. It never really works out. The killer may start out feeling like the angel of death, choosing who lives and who dies. But he ends up feeling more powerless and out of control than ever before. Like there’s something bloodthirsty and insatiable inside him. Keep in mind, I’m speaking in generalities about all this. There are always exceptions, thank god.”

  “What do you mean, thank god?”

  “I mean. Well, life would get boring without exceptions, don’t you think?”

  “I guess so.”

  But I think I’d prefer a boring, unexceptional life any day.

  I don’t tell Gordon that.

  Instead, I say, “How do they choose their victims?”

  “For the most part, it’s fairly random and opportunistic,” Gordon says. “They usually don’t know their victims.”

  “So you’re saying the killers are strangers.”

  “Yeah.”

  “And this is coming from the guy who gave me a pro-stranger speech a few days ago.”

  “Shut up, Nick. I was saying that strangers aren’t the big problem. This holds true with murders as well. You’re way more likely to be killed by someone you know intimately. Anyway, I said the basic serial killer chooses his victims randomly, but that’s only true to an extent. Even if there’s no personal connection between him and his victims, there’s probably a sort of symbolic relevance. Most likely, the victims represent someone in his past. So he may only go after a certain gender and age group. Even people with a specific haircut.”

  “What about people who share a favorite color?”

  “As long as the detail plays an important role in his dominance fantasies, then yeah.”

  “Thanks for the help.” I hope I don’t sound sarcastic.

  “Fuck, you’re bailing already? We just scraped the surface.”

  “No offense, Gordon. I just don’t want to think about this stuff anymore. At least not for a while.”

  “Fair enough.”

  But I do keep thinking about this stuff. I think about:

  1. Abby’s parents and brother drifting in the swirling darkness, unable to move or speak, lost in this void forever.

  2. My mom screaming as a sick American asshole slices her stomach with a scalpel and sticks his hands into her guts.

  Maybe:

  1. This never happened to her.

  2. About 90% of missing people return home.

  Still, part of me knows she’s more than missing.

  She’s gone.

  As soon as I step inside Cicely’s home, my eyes flick to my usual spot on the couch. Abby’s not there. In fact, I don’t see her at all. I:

  1. Sigh with relief.

  2. Feel pathetic.

  “Are we having a picnic?” Cicely says, looking at my basket.

  “They’re muffins,” I say. “Whole-grain vegan muffins, but muffins nonetheless.”

  “Did you bake them?”

  “Nah, I’m friends with the Keebler Elves.”

  I don’t tell her, “My step-dad’s new girlfriend gave them to me on her way to work.”

  I don’t tell her, I felt sick to my stomach when Brienda hugged me and said, “Sol told me everything. I understand.”

  “It’s a nice day,” Cicely says. “Shall we get out there and picnic?”

  We picnic.

  Cicely’s backyard is overrun with:

  1. Bamboo.

  2. Weeds.

  3. Stone animals.

  And according to Cicely:

  4. Garden sprites.

  “We have to sing them a song,” Cicely says. “Or else they’ll keep trying to pull out our nose hairs.”

  “I can’t sing,” I say.

  “Not to worry. Sprites are very forgiving creatures.”

  “Well. Alright.”

  “A round of Itsy Bitsy should do the trick. Ready?”

  “Ready.”

  And I only feel stupid for a second.

  Then I:

  1. Smile.

  2. Laugh.

  3. Feel better.

  I open up the basket.

  “Muffin?” I say.

  “Yes, dear?” Cicely says, and grins.

  An invisible flame may be licking my face all over as I hand Cicely a muffin.

  I take a bite of my own.

  This is probably the best whole-grain vegan muffin I’ve ever tasted. The best muffin period, maybe.

  But it doesn’t matter.

  What matters is, the muffin doesn’t remind me of my mother’s cooking in the least.

  “These are delicious,” Cicely says, with her mouth packed, obviously trying to make me laugh.

  It works.

  She gulps down some water. “I wonder what the secret ingredient is,” she says.

  “How do you know there’s a secret ingredient?” I say.

  “Everything this good has a secret ingredient. That’s one of the 3 basic rules of the Universe.”

  “I must’ve missed that day of school. What’re the other 2?”

  Cicely runs her hand across the weeds beside her, as if she’s petting the ground. Maybe she is. “The 2nd rule is, fresh baked bread will always smell at least a tiny bit better than it tastes.”

  “Alright. And the 3rd?”

  She watches the ladybug trekking the back of her hand. “The 3rd rule is, love is a wonderful important thing, but it’s never enough on its own.” These words come out, fast and easy.

  “Oh.”

  Cicely and me, we gaze at a small tan bird that landed nearby.

  Then it flies away.

  Cicely’s still staring at the spot where the bird was hopping, and this makes me feel a little sad. I don’t know why.

  “It’s nice out here,” I say.

  “It hasn’t always been such a peaceful place,” Cicely says.

  “Yeah?”

  “The political tension between the yard gnomes and the stone animals was on the rise for quite some time. Recently, the situation escalated into violence. That’s why I have to keep the yard gnomes in the house.”

  “I see.”

  Cicely looks me in the eyes, and after a short time this becomes the longest she’s ever looked me in the eyes.

  Then she gasps.

  And I’m sure:

  1. Somehow, in my eyes, she’s seen everything I’ve ever done.

  2. She hates me.

  3. She’s going to slap me, hard.

  I want to close my eyes.

  “I thought of something,” Cicely says. “A possibility.”

  “What?” I say.

  “I was thinking about how it feels like I’ve known you forever.”

  My heart knocks on my chest. “I feel that way too.”

  She smiles. “Then I realized, it’s possible that we have known each other forever. Well, not forever, but longer than we think.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Abby said the people who interacted with her when she was a child couldn’t remember those experiences anymore. What if we both knew Abby and her family, and we knew each other through them? We could have talked to each other at their get-togethers over the years. That could explain our feelings.”

  My heart sinks a little. “I guess that’s possible. But wouldn’t Abby remember us?”

  “The only memories she has of family friends are when she was alone with them. But maybe when we were around Abby and each other, her family was always there too, so all those memories were taken from us.”

  “That makes sense.”

  “If all this is true, then it might relate to why we were targeted and who’s responsible. But it’s just a theory. Maybe we’ve known each other for years. Maybe not. All I know for sure is that I feel a deep connection with both of you.”

  My heart sinks a little farther, and the backyard is overrun with silence.

  Then my watch beeps.

  I don’t remember why.

  Abby:
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  1. Says, out of breath, “Sorry I’m late.”

  2. Wipes the sweat off her face with her sleeve.

  3. Sits down beside me, at Cicely’s usual spot on the couch.

  4. Says, to me, “Did it work?”

  At first I don’t know what she’s talking about. Then I remember, and shrug.

  “I was slapped again last night,” I say. “But the one who slapped me may have been acting independent of the curse.”

  “Do you want to try again?” Abby says.

  “That’d be great.” I try to smile.

  “Now?”

  “No time like the present.”

  So she stands, and I join her.

  “I’ll be right back,” Cicely says, heading into the kitchen.

  “Do you think I did something wrong last time or anything?” Abby says. “Was it too soft?”

  “I don’t think so,” I say. “Just do what you did before.”

  “Alright.”

  And she slaps me again, without hesitation, just as hard as before.

  “Thanks,” I say.

  “No problem,” she says, sitting again.

  “Here you are, hon,” Cicely says, handing Abby a cup. “Fresh snowman’s blood.”

  Abby studies the ice water for a moment, then guzzles it down.

  Cicely doesn’t say, “Could you move please, Abby? That’s my seat.”

  Instead, she:

  1. Sits on the chair.

  2. Goes on to tell Abby the theory she thought of at the picnic.

  All the while, Abby crunches ice cubes. Then she says, “That would mean neither of you was ever alone with me, even when I was an adult. That’s sort of weird, you know?”

  “Maybe we lost touch with your family when you were still a child,” Cicely says.

  “That’s true.”

  “In any case, it’s something to think about.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Would you like more Yeti tears?”

  “What?”

  “More water?”

  Abby nods. “I’m really thirsty.”

  Cicely leaves with Abby’s cup.

  Abby looks me in the eyes, as if she’s going to tell me something important. Then she bursts into tears.

  “What’s wrong?” I say, and I feel stupid for saying it.

  She leans forward, crying into her palms.

  And I feel sorry for:

  1. Her.

  But also:

  2. Myself.

  This combination is strong enough that it almost floods out in tears.

  “I’m sorry,” I say, meaning I’m:

  1. Not only sorry for her loss.

  2. Apologizing for wishing her gone.

  With plenty of hesitation, I put my arm around her.

  Then she:

  1. Turns to face me.

  2. Wraps her arms around me.

  3. Buries her face.

  Cicely sets the cup down on the table in front of us, and says, “I’ll go get dinner ready.” She leaves us alone.

  I pat Abby’s back, gentle and awkward, with one hand.

  After a while, she:

  1. Releases me.

  2. Wipes her face with her sleeve.

  3. Says, “Sorry about your shirt. I got it all snotty.”

  “It’s alright,” I say.

  She sips from her cup.

  “I sort of know how you feel,” I say. “My mom disappeared too, years ago.”

  “She did?” Abby says.

  “Not in the same way as yours, of course. I can still remember her.”

  “Oh. You’re lucky.”

  “Yeah, real lucky.” I hope I sound sarcastic.

  “I’d give anything for just one memory of them. Just something to hold onto, you know? I’d even be happy with a sad memory. Is that crazy?”

  My empathy wins over again. “I don’t think so.”

  She sips more water. “I know remembering them would make things worse for me in some ways. I’d feel the pain of losing real people, but I think that’s better than feeling like I’ve always been really lonely.”

  “I think you’re right.” I take a deep breath. “Abby, I think there’s a way you can get to know your family on some level, even without the memories or photographs.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well, you grew up with them, and they loved you. I’m sure they left deep impressions in you that help make up who you are. I don’t think anyone can take that away from you.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “I don’t know. I guess it’s just a feeling.”

  A fairy tale sort of feeling, but a feeling nonetheless.

  Cicely pops her head into the doorway. “Shall we dine?” she says.

  We dine.

  “This is delicious,” I say. “What is it?”

  Though I already know it’s falafel.

  “Pita and fried sea monster earwax,” Cicely says. “I’m boiling the eyeballs for dessert. It’s a delicacy in Atlantis.”

  “I thought Atlantis was lost,” I say.

  “It was, for a while. Then it turned up in New Jersey a few months ago.”

  “Oh.”

  We go on like this for most of the dinner, and Abby turns her head back and forth as we speak.

  Then Cicely stops talking for a while. She taps the tennis ball against the table, over and over.

  Finally, she says, “Abby, if my theory about us is the truth, then it’s possible Nicholas and I spent time with your family friends when we visited you and your parents. It might help if we met these friends.”

  “You think you can figure out if your theory’s true or not by meeting them?” Abby says.

  “There’s no way to be sure, but we can at least see if they feel familiar to us. It’s not evidence exactly, but it’s something.”

  “That’s true.”

  “How about I host a dinner party tomorrow, or someday soon. You can tell one of those family friends that I want you to bring a guest. Do you think that would work?”

  “I think so. Who should I invite?”

  “Any of them. I’d like to get to know all of them eventually.”

  “Alright.”

  I see a glimmer of grim passion in Cicely’s eyes, and I know:

  1. The reason Cicely gave isn’t the real reason she wants to meet these family friends.

  2. Strangers aren’t the big problem in this world. So the person who cursed us is most likely someone we know, or at least knew, intimately.

  In other words, Cicely’s not throwing a party.

  She’s setting a trap.

  There’s a man in a dark suit leaning against my car. The streetlight’s somewhat dim, so I can’t tell who he is until I’m close.

  By then, it’s too late to hide.

  “What’s your name?” John says.

  “Nicholas,” I say, and set my basket on the car.

  “You shouldn’t have punched me, Nicholas. But I should’ve turned the other cheek. I’m ashamed of what I did. I’m sorry.”

  I flinch when he holds out his hand.

  “Please accept my apology,” he says.

  I shake his hand.

  John sighs and says, “Ever since I’ve known Cissy, she’s driven me crazy. I used to like that feeling. But now it’s like she’s turning me into someone I’m not. Do you know what I mean?”

  I:

  1. Shrug.

  2. Try to examine the mole on my left wrist, but I need more light.

  “Has she told you about the tennis ball?” he says.

  “Yeah,” I say.

  “I can’t tell you how many hours I spent trying to help her see reason, but she refused.” He runs his hands down his face. “She’s always had a problem facing reality. I should’ve seen this coming.” He laughs. “But how could I? It’s nuts.”

  I pull my keys out of my pocket.

  “So, Nicholas,” John says, eyeing me now. “How long have you two been seeing each other?”
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  “We’re friends,” I say.

  “Don’t worry. I’m just curious. I don’t want her back.” He laughs again.

  Suddenly, I:

  1. Stop thinking about how John attacked me.

  2. Start thinking about how John attacked Cicely.

  3. Squeeze my keys.

  “It’s really none of your business,” I say.

  “I’m her husband, Nicholas,” John says. “The least you can do is tell me the truth.”

  The least I can do is get in my car, slam the door, and speed away.

  Instead, I say, “The truth is, you need to stop stalking Cicely and get some professional help.”

  He:

  1. Shoots a sharp laugh at my face.

  But it’s not enough, apparently, because then he:

  2. Slaps me hard.

  And I know:

  1. Abby’s full-blown slap didn’t count.

  2. When she slapped me, she was acting out of compassion.

  3. This curse isn’t about compassion.

  “You’re just as crazy as she is,” John says, and he gets in his car, slams the door, and speeds away.

  I don’t follow in hot pursuit.

  I don’t want to be Batman.

  What I do is return to Cicely’s house, and tell her what happened.

  She:

  1. Touches my cheek, soft.

  2. Says, “I’m sorry.”

  I don’t say anything. I just swallow.

  “We’ll figure out who did this to us,” she says. “We’ll make him undo what he did.”

  “Yeah,” I say, and I almost believe her.

  For now, that’s enough.

  #22

  If cicely’s theory is correct, then:

  1. This elderly woman, Kin, could be the one responsible for our curses.

  2. This could be an earth-shattering, epic dinner.

  But my mind refuses to stay focused on these 2 disturbing possibilities. Because if Cicely’s theory is correct, it also means:

  3. Cicely and I didn’t meet for the first time when I was outside this house, scraping flecks of old paint off the wall. She didn’t offer me a glass of “iceberg juice” and I didn’t chuckle. Our conversation didn’t surge from there, fast and easy. This wasn’t the first and only time in my life where I felt so comfortable with a stranger that I didn’t glance at my watch or my mole once. On my drive home, I didn’t think the word “magical.” We didn’t happen to meet in the supermarket a few days later, and after our time together, she didn’t say, “Shall we meet up next week? Same bat time? Same bat channel?” I didn’t beam at her the way I hadn’t beamed at anyone since before my mother disappeared.