He swung the driver’s side door open and slid behind the wheel. “Just going out for doughnuts,” Dad said. “No need for you two to come along. I’ll bring back your favorites, all right?”
“We’re old enough,” Fox countered, arms crossed. “Why can’t we come?”
“For doughnuts?”
“To Clark,” Fox said. “You already let us go through their stuff, encouraged our thirst for knowledge. You can’t cut us off now when we’re learning so much about our community’s tragic history.”
Dad narrowed his eyes, calling bull on Fox’s little speech.
So Fox resorted to a primitive but effective method of persuasion to speed things along. “Pleeeeaaase?”
I joined in. “Please, Dad?”
“Get your seat belts on,” Dad grumbled, blowing into his cold-stiffened hands. “Does your aunt know you’re leaving?”
Fox grinned. “I left her a note.”
Dad was a man of his word. He stopped for doughnuts on the way out of town.
During the drive to Clark, Fox and I played Last Doughnut Standing, a time-honored game of eating as slowly as possible to see who could make their doughnut last the longest.
“You mind telling me what you two are hoping to find out here?” Dad said.
“Come on, Dad, everybody’s interested in this place,” Fox said, chewing a microscopic bite of his cruller. “How could we turn down a chance to see inside? Besides, isn’t there a good chance that whoever buys it at auction will have it bulldozed?”
He nodded. “That’s right. There’s already talk of a memorial being built on the site.”
The hills were a menacing presence as we drove, higher and steeper than in Athens. As I ate my sprinkles one at a time, I tried to imagine what it must have been like for John Goodrich and his wife. Fox had said they tried to warn the town. Had they really known about the landslide? How could anyone have known? I pictured Goodrich sitting calmly in his study, maybe drinking coffee or reading a book. Maybe he heard a noise—a low rumble at first, growing until it rattled the windows, until it deafened him. He must have looked outside to see half the mountain sliding toward him—
I startled when the truck’s motion changed as Dad slowed and took the exit for Clark. I sat up taller, craning my neck for a glimpse of the ruined town. Finally, we rounded a bend in the road.
The hillside looked … liquefied. A river of rock and dirt flowed from hilltop to valley, much of it covered by a newer growth of brush and scrub trees.
We passed structures here and there along the road, long abandoned: the boarded-up brick school, the bare bones of an old gas station, a rusted playground. I pressed my face close to the window. All that remained of the playground were a set of monkey bars and one lonely swing, swaying in the breeze. Weeds and tall grasses had swallowed the rest.
A rush of dread filled me. I nearly insisted that Dad take us home. But Fox’s face shone with anticipation. Dad gripped the steering wheel loosely, looking relaxed. The only one fool enough to feel nervous was me.
Dad turned the truck down a narrow, rutted road, and suddenly I was staring at the Goodrich house for the first time.
I’d always imagined it as a gloomy clapboard farmhouse with a sagging porch, a weather vane, and jagged holes in the roof. But the real thing was more unsettling than anything I’d invented in my head.
The house had probably been beautiful once, with thick wooden beams in angled patterns around the windows and a roof shaped by sharp peaks and valleys. But decades of neglect had left it scarred, layers of moss and black grime clinging to every surface. Tall, thin trees lined the driveway, their branches shivering in the wind.
Dad parked the truck and we scrambled out. A man I didn’t recognize rose from a chair on the porch and approached to shake Dad’s hand. Pale and blond with a baby face, he kind of looked like a kid and a grown-up all at the same time.
He was also over six feet tall and built like a pro wrestler.
“Mitch, I’d like you to meet my two oldest kids, Fox and Josie.” Fox shook the man’s hand. I hesitated, a little afraid that he’d squash my fingers, but eventually I held out my hand.
Mitch took it in both of his own. His grip was strong but not crushing. “Pleased to make your acquaintance, Josie. That’s a solid handshake you have there.” His gentle, soft-spoken voice was completely at odds with his mammoth size.
“Any problems out here?” Dad asked.
“No, sir.” He gestured to the pair of earbuds he wore, the cord disappearing into his coat pocket. “Had to bring along some music to drown out the quiet. It gets to you after a while.”
Dad nodded. “The kids and I came to gather the last few items for auction. And I’m meeting the inspector at ten. Will you give us a heads-up when he gets here?”
“Sure thing, Mr. Fletcher.”
We climbed the porch steps, and Dad unlocked the front door and led us inside. Our movements echoed through the empty space.
We stood in the center of a two-story great room. Underfoot, the scuffed wooden floors creaked and groaned. The ceiling soared overhead. Paneled walls and wooden beams made the room feel too dark, especially since the windows were shrouded by thick velvet curtains.
I walked over to yank the curtains aside, letting light flood the room. A thick chill hung in the air, creeping into my bones. I lingered at the window to let the sun warm my face, until I caught a clear view of the ruined mountain.
I quickly closed the drapes again.
I heard Fox and Dad climbing a set of stairs; soon their footsteps thumped overhead, their murmured voices drifting down through the ceiling. In the dining room, I passed three Persian rugs, rolled up and propped in a corner, and a handful of sealed boxes. I stepped into the kitchen. The oven was big enough to use in a restaurant, though outdated by several decades. Over the sink, a large picture window faced the mountain—another reminder of the disaster. Had John been at the window? Had he seen it coming?
I moved through an arched doorway, past a marble fireplace, and ran my hand along the smooth wooden banister that led up to the second floor.
Fox stood at the top of the stairs. “Is there a basement?” he said as he came down.
“Not sure. Where’s Dad?”
“In the master bedroom. There’s a safe in the wall up there. He’s trying to work his magic. Couldn’t crack it the last time he was out here. Says he might have to bring in Lucky Larry from town.”
“It’s a pretty house,” I said, wandering back toward the windows. “Not what I pictured at all.” I fingered a section of peeling wallpaper. “But all that sadness and death … it feels like it’s soaked right into the walls, you know?” My voice sounded dreamy, far away to my own ears.
Fox followed me and snapped his fingers in front of my face. “Josie, you in there? What’s going on with you?”
I shoved his hand away. “Nothing. Everything! How can you not feel—”
A shout of terror came from upstairs, our father’s voice in a tone I’d never heard, and then, even as we went running, a terrible series of thumps and thuds and grunts of pain.
We found Dad sprawled at the bottom of the stairs, eyelids fluttering, one hand opening and closing uselessly, his right leg twisted the wrong way beneath him.
“Daddy!” I stood stupidly, gaping, the scene so awful I couldn’t move.
“Josie, get Mitch. Now!” Fox shook my shoulders and gave me a push toward the front door before kneeling and grabbing Dad’s hand to still his fingers. I ran, shouting for Mitch. He barreled through the door, already punching numbers into his cell phone. Fox had started up a stream of calming chatter, pushing gently on Dad’s shoulder each time he tried to get up off the floor. Fox had taken off his coat and draped it over Dad’s chest. I moved to do the same, but Mitch beat me to it. I nearly sobbed in gratitude because I was suddenly so cold I couldn’t catch my breath. My teeth chattered. As I leaned in close, I could hear Dad’s distressed muttering, the same few words again and again: “Red eye
s. He flew right at me with those red, red eyes.”
My gaze flew to Fox. I hadn’t told anyone about the red eyes outside my window. What could it mean? But now wasn’t the time to ask, especially when I saw Fox’s impassive face. His eyes were shuttered, his body statue-still. In the years since we lost Momma, it had become his default setting anytime fear tapped him on the shoulder. He caught me staring and looked away.
Mitch, phone to his ear, squeezed my arm with one huge hand. I flinched.
Sirens wailed. People came and bundled Dad up and hustled him into an ambulance. Mitch made several calls—to Uncle Bill and Aunt Barb, to the inspector and the Goodrich lawyer. Fox helped, kept himself busy, seemed in his element organizing and making things happen.
I huddled in a corner with Mitch’s coat over me, trying to stay out of the way, trying to process what had happened.
Mitch said unsettling things into the phone: fractured leg, shock, likely concussion. When I was little, I used to think it would be great to break a bone so you wouldn’t have to go to school. Everyone would bring you presents and feel bad for you and sign your cast.
Then, when I was eight, I broke my collarbone. I missed the school Halloween party and trick-or-treating. I had to wear a weird brace thing under my clothes, so no one could even sign it; it just made me look lumpy. The pain kept me awake at night, and when I felt bad for bothering my parents again and again, I just lay there and cried.
I wondered if it was the same for grown-ups. Would Dad cry if the pain got too bad, if there was no one around to see? He cried at Momma’s funeral, but that was a different kind of hurt. After three years, it had become a sort of distant ache, but every once in a while it flared back up, fierce and blinding, like a broken bone. For Mason and me, a good cry usually helped us ride out the worst of it, but Dad and Fox preferred working, planning, problem solving—anything to deflect that staggering pain.
Eventually, Fox came and sat down beside me.
“You okay?” I said, hoping to regain some credibility as the big sister.
He swallowed. “Yeah. You?”
“I guess so. Hey, Fox?”
“Yeah?”
“Last night I saw red eyes outside my window.” I kept my voice low so Mitch wouldn’t overhear. “I thought maybe it was a bird or a bat or something. But now I’m not so sure.”
Fox stared at me.
“And just now, Dad said he saw…”
“I know,” Fox said. “I heard.”
I took a deep breath. One of us had to come out and say it. “Okay, so for starters, we have the ghost of John Goodrich popping up in those photographs. Agreed?”
He nodded.
“And Dad and I saw red eyes in two different places. One of them indoors.”
Another nod.
I spotted a dead fly curled up against the baseboard near my feet. An impossible, terrifying idea teased at the edge of my thoughts.
“So you think they’re related?” he prompted.
I didn’t answer right away. Like most kids in Athens, we wore our ghostly reputation as a badge of honor. We scared each other silly trying to top the whoppers the last kid told about whispers in the woods or an angry spirit in the rafters. But I could think of only one local legend with red eyes: Mothman.
Mothman was the triple threat of scary stories: real eyewitnesses, a grotesque inhuman creature, and a bona fide disaster where people lost their lives. Forty-six victims died that awful day nearly fifty years ago, their cars plunging into the Ohio River when the Silver Bridge gave way. In the months leading up to the disaster, witnesses around town were menaced by a strange creature—part man, part moth. No one knew for sure whether Mothman caused the collapse or tried to warn people away, but either way he was nothing to take lightly.
“Josie? What is it?”
“Dad said ‘he.’ ‘He flew right at me with those red, red eyes.’”
“So?”
“So who do you know of around here that flies and has red eyes?”
I saw the moment he understood. “Mothman?” he said. “The thing from Point Pleasant?”
“Why not?” I said, forgetting to whisper.
“What does he have to do with anything?”
“How am I supposed to know?”
Mitch glanced over at the sound of our raised voices. I pressed my lips together and offered a halfhearted wave until he turned away again.
Fox leaned in and muttered, “I’m still having a hard time with the whole ghost thing, okay? Now we’re gonna throw Mothman into the mix?”
“I didn’t throw him in there.”
“You brought him up.” He crossed his arms, as if he considered the matter closed.
I sighed.
We stared at nothing for a while.
“Do you think Dad ever got the safe open?” Fox asked.
I blinked. “I’m not sure.”
He glanced at Mitch, who was still making calls, then glided up the stairs. I stood at the bottom and waited. Fox didn’t have to go farther than the landing at the top. He knelt and started gathering something—papers, it looked like. “Josie, come and help me,” he whisper-called.
I crept up the stairs one at a time, wondering if those red eyes were still in the house somewhere.
“Faster,” he hissed.
I made it to the top and found that Dad had spilled a shoe box full of papers. Fox was shoveling them back into the box as fast as he could scoop them up. “These must be from the safe. Help me make sure I don’t miss anything.”
I knelt and started feeling around the dingy carpet. My hand skimmed something sharp, and a glint of gold caught my eye. It was an old-fashioned stickpin. Worried Fox might try to claim it for himself, I slipped it into my pocket before he could see.
“Kids?” Mitch called.
“Coming!” Fox said. “Just getting Dad’s things for him.”
We met Mitch at the bottom of the stairs.
“Come on, I’ll take you home,” Mitch said. He eyed the shoe box. “You find something up there?”
“Just some of my dad’s papers,” Fox said.
Mitch reached for the box. “Why don’t you let me hang on to those for you? Just until your dad gets home.”
Fox clung to the box. “That’s okay. I’ve got it.”
“Can’t we go to the hospital to see Dad?” I asked.
“He might be in surgery for a little while. Your family will bring you over when they say it’s okay.”
“Surgery?” I said. My heart stuttered. “But he just broke his leg.”
“Looked like a bad break. Sometimes they have to put pins in to keep it stable.”
He sounded so matter-of-fact, but what did he know? Dad could have died on the way to the hospital. He could die during surgery. On TV there were always “complications.” We should have gone with him to the hospital, I thought. We should be with him, not here with some stranger. Why are they acting so calm? Fox seemed more worried about his box of papers than he was about Dad. I glared at the both of them, shoved Mitch’s coat at him, and stormed outside. Was it still morning? I felt as if a hundred years had passed.
I knew from when we lost Momma that sometimes scared and angry got tangled up with each other. I tried not to let the anger win out, but I couldn’t seem to shut it off. We’d already had more than our share of heartache. It wasn’t fair.
I stopped short in the driveway, unsure if we were taking Dad’s truck or Mitch’s much older compact.
“We’ll take my car,” Mitch said. “Your uncle said he would come for the truck later on.”
It hit me that Mitch considered this an accident, something unlucky but easily explained. Fresh resentment flared. How could he not see that something terrible was taking hold of our family?
5
Uncle Bill had already left for the hospital by the time we made it home. Mason met us at the front door, eyes fearful. I hugged him close and told him not to worry, but still he looked to Fox for reassurance. Fox handed m
e the box of papers from the safe, then hustled Mason off to play video games, shrugging an apology at me. Aunt Barb tried to fuss over me, but I just wanted to be alone. I locked myself in my room and took out the pin I’d found.
It was a woman’s stickpin, 14 karat gold. I’d seen similar pins that were a hundred years old or more. But what caught my attention was the fact that the face of the pin, no bigger than a dime, contained a preserved moth under glass.
I held the pin close to my face and breathed on it to fog the glass. I wiped it clean on my shirt, then held it in my palm and stared at it. You could still see the moth’s tiny antennae, its furry body, the veins in its paper-thin wings. What kind of person would own such a spooky piece of jewelry on purpose? I turned it over and over, examining every inch, mesmerized.
Finally I put the pin aside and started paging through the journals from the storeroom. They were as boring as ever. My thoughts kept wandering back to Dad, hurt and alone at the hospital except for introverted Uncle Bill. Still, I kept at it until the light outside my window dimmed. The sun was going down. My stomach rumbled and I realized I’d missed lunch. Had there been any news? Why hadn’t Aunt Barb been up to let me know? I let myself picture the worst outcome possible. My heart clenched, missing Momma for the millionth time, and now Dad, too.
I placed the pin in my lockbox, squared my shoulders, and went downstairs. Aunt Barb was stirring something on the stove. It smelled amazing.
“Hi, honey. You okay?”
She wouldn’t be cooking if something had happened to Dad, would she? I was almost too afraid to ask. “Any news?”
“Your dad’s surgery went just fine. He’s resting tonight. Tomorrow I’ll take you all over to see him.”
I felt light-headed with relief. “That’s great. Wow, okay. That’s really great.”
“I tried knocking on your door earlier to tell you, but you didn’t answer. I thought maybe you fell asleep.”
“Oh.” I didn’t remember anyone knocking.
“Anyhow, potato soup for dinner. Tell the boys to wash up, okay?”
“Sure.”
“Josie, you sure you’re all right? You look awfully pale.”
Mothman's Curse Page 4