Mothman's Curse

by Christine Hayes

  On the bus ride home, I bounced in my seat, knowing I would beat the boys by thirty minutes and glad for the extra time with Dad, if he was home. I willed the bus to go faster, smiling when I saw Uncle Bill’s car parked in front of the house.

  I ran inside and flung my book bag and coat on the floor. I found Aunt Barb and Uncle Bill perched on the couch, their faces pinched, hands fidgeting.

  My steps faltered. “Where’s Dad?”

  “Hey, Josie,” Aunt Barb said with a forced smile. “How was your day?”

  “Fine. Where’s Dad?” I checked the kitchen and the bathroom on the unlikely chance he was waiting to jump out and surprise me.

  “Why don’t you sit down for a minute, honey?”

  My insides froze, squeezed, shattered. “Where’s Dad?” I shouted.

  Aunt Barb stood quickly, hands splayed in a calming gesture. “It’s not what you think, honey, okay? He’s all right. He’s still at the hospital. They just want to keep him a little longer.”

  I sank into Dad’s leather chair and let the tears fall, torn between relief and fear.

  Aunt Barb scooted the ottoman beside me and sat down. “There’s an infection, Josie. They’re fighting it with strong antibiotics, okay? He just has to stay for a few more days. I didn’t mean to scare you. I got it all wrong, didn’t I?”

  I sniffed and wiped the tears from my cheeks. “Kind of.”

  “I’m sorry, pudding.” She squeezed my shoulders in apology.

  “So will he be home for the auction?”

  “They’re not sure. They hope so. But you know your daddy. He would try to get up out of his wheelchair and run the darn thing all by himself. He doesn’t need that kind of stress.”

  “But he’ll be okay? Are we going back today to see him?”

  “Uncle Bill and I were there all morning. He’s very tired. Maybe tomorrow?”

  I tried to smile to hide my disappointment. From his spot on the couch, Uncle Bill gave a slow nod—his own special way of offering reassurance. I knew they both tried so hard, did so much for us, and I loved them for it. But I wouldn’t feel settled until we got Dad back.

  I drifted into the kitchen and helped myself to a couple of peanut butter cookies. I had plenty of homework, but I couldn’t bring myself to start it yet. I remembered that Mitch’s car had been parked beside Uncle Bill’s, so I went out to the auction building to see what he was up to. I found him hauling the large furniture pieces from the storeroom out to the auction floor, arranging them around the perimeter of the room for shoppers to preview. He parked the dolly when he saw me and mopped his forehead with one sleeve.

  “Hey there, Josie. Nice to see you again.”

  “You too.”

  “How’s your dad?”

  “He has to stay at the hospital a few more days.”

  “Aw, that’s a shame.”

  I nodded. “They’ve already put you to work, I see.”

  “Yes, ma’am. It beats sitting out at that house all alone, watching for trespassers.”

  “Did you ever catch any?”

  “Two or three. Sent them on their way pretty quick.”

  I could imagine. Mitch was built like a bodyguard.

  “So how did you end up working for my dad?”

  He smiled. “Good story, actually. I’m taking a semester off from the university because—well, because I’m trying to earn some tuition money. The Goodrich lawyer, Mr. Latimer, is a friend of my dad’s. He hired me to do some landscaping on the property, get it cleaned up some, but John Goodrich died just a few weeks after I started. I thought that was the end of it, but I happened to be up there working when your dad first came to inventory the estate. He saw my OU sweatshirt, we got to talking about basketball, and the next thing I knew he was offering me a job working security.”

  “That sounds like Dad.”

  “It’s good money, and I don’t have to break my back hauling brush and chopping up dead trees anymore.”

  “Wow. Now you’re hauling furniture instead of trees. Not so sure that’s a step up.”

  He laughed. “At least I get to talk to you and your family. You’re all so nice. Grab that door for me, would you?”

  I did, then followed him out to the auction floor. As he walked on ahead I noticed he was wearing two different socks—one yellow, one green.

  “Hey, Mitch. What’s with the socks?”

  “These,” he said, holding up one ankle, “are my lucky socks. My old high school basketball team is playing in a tournament tonight. If they win, they’ll play for the state championship here in Athens next week.”

  “Do the socks work?”

  “Sometimes. But if the team loses and I wasn’t wearing my socks, I would feel like it was kind of my fault, you know? I have to do my part.”

  “Sure.”

  I bit my lip, wondering if I could be doing more to fix the weirdness plaguing our family the past several days. Suddenly I felt the urge to ask him what I couldn’t bring myself to ask Dad. “Mitch? Did you ever see anything strange out at the Goodrich place?”

  He shifted a rolltop desk into position and headed back to the storeroom for another piece. “Strange … you mean ghosts? Have the kids at school been bothering you about that? Because the answer is no. I never saw any ghosts up there.”

  I plowed ahead with my next question before I could change my mind. “What about Mothman?”

  He stopped midstep and turned back to stare at me. “Now there’s an odd question. I thought that guy was connected with Point Pleasant.”

  “Yeah. Yeah, I guess so.”

  A smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. “Sorry, Josie. Not a single ghost, Mothman, zombie, or unicorn. Just the occasional deer or raccoon.”

  I felt my face grow hot. I wanted to sink into the floor.

  He must have noticed, because he put a hand on my shoulder and said, “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to give you a hard time. I just don’t believe in that stuff. I gotta get back to work now, okay?”

  Between Mitch’s teasing and my disappointment at not seeing Dad, my mood was in freefall. I just wanted to be alone.

  I stomped to my room and slammed the door, not bothering to say hello to Fox and Mason or wait around for their reaction to the news about Dad. I took out the lockbox. I found the moth stickpin and set it on my dressing table. Then I sat down and met my own eyes in the mirror, daring myself to put on the pin to see if anything would happen.

  I let my fingers hover over the pin, then scooped it up and wrapped both hands around it. The cold metal bit into my skin like a shard of ice. I held it for as long as I could stand it, the cold biting deeper, sharper, watching my features twist in the mirror as my hands took the abuse.

  At last, with a quick yelp of pain, I dropped the pin. It bounced and rattled across the table. I watched, transfixed, as it traveled the entire surface before falling to the carpet with a muted thump. I thought about leaving it there; my hand still ached from holding it. But I didn’t want anyone else to find it. Sighing, I crawled under the dressing table to retrieve it, a sleeve stretched over my palm to blunt the chill.

  “Josie?”

  I jumped. My head hit the underside of the table.

  “Ouch!”

  “Josie?” Fox’s voice drifted through the door. “You in there?”

  I slipped the pin into my pocket just as he peeked in. “Josie, hey, do you—what are you doing down there?”

  “Nothing. I dropped something.” I crawled out, rubbing the tender spot on the back of my head. “What’s up?”

  “You heard about Dad, I guess.”

  “Yeah.”

  He hesitated. “You still want to go see that hairdresser today? We could make it there and back on our bikes before dinner.”

  “Okay. Maybe she’ll be more helpful than Mitch was.”

  “Mitch? What do you mean?”

  I sank down on the edge of my bed. “Oh, nothing. I asked him about Mothman, and he practically laughed in my fac
e.”

  “Why did you do that, Josie? Of course he laughed.”

  “It doesn’t matter. He’s not going to tell anyone. He thinks I’m just a stupid kid.”

  Fox sat down beside me. “No, he doesn’t. Some people just can’t handle talking about supernatural stuff.”

  “I’m pretty sure Aunt Barb’s hairdresser isn’t one of those people. Let’s go.”

  * * *

  Mason was so disappointed about Dad not coming home that Aunt Barb had to bribe him with cookies and a few “new” broken electronics to keep him happy.

  Fox assured Aunt Barb with a straight face that we were going to the library to catch up on homework. She even packed us a snack.

  It was a three-mile ride, but we found the beauty salon easily enough. It was just down the street from the Supercuts where Dad always took us.

  As we locked up our bikes, Fox said, “If she’s here, she’ll be working. She can’t just take time off to answer a bunch of questions. You have to get her to cut your hair. She’ll talk the whole time.”

  I clutched my twin braids. “I don’t know, Fox.” When Momma was sick and lost her hair, I cut mine short so she wouldn’t feel so bad. She’d caught me with scissors in hand and a pile of my hair in the bathroom sink. We cried, and then we laughed, and for a little while it seemed like everything might be okay. When she died, it took me a year to start letting it grow out again. It took another two years to get it this long, and I was too ashamed to admit that I liked the way it looked, a rich wheat color, thick and shiny. I liked how I could toss it casually over my shoulder, flash a smile, and pretend for a moment that I was as confident as Fox.

  “C’mon, Josie. You don’t have to get it chopped off; just get a trim.” He gave me his hurt puppy look. “Pleeease? It’s for the greater good.”

  I peeked through the window at the prices posted on the wall. “It will take the last of our money. A haircut here is twenty-two dollars plus tip.”

  “Aunt Barb will pay us back. Just tell her you’ve been needing one but it got overlooked, so to take some of the burden off her you went on ahead and took care of it. One less thing for her to worry about.”

  “You’re evil.”

  “Thank you,” he said.

  “Why don’t you do it? You’d do a better job asking questions anyway.”

  “I just got a haircut two weeks ago. It’s perfect just like it is.”

  “You look like a politician.”

  He checked his reflection in the storefront glass, his face hopeful. “Really?”

  “Oh, forget it. I’ll do it.”

  We marched inside.

  A woman looked up from behind the register and smiled broadly. She must have been my grandma’s age, but she was the prettiest, most stylish grandma I’d ever seen. She had high cheekbones and perfectly arched eyebrows. Her black hair was piled high on her head, her lips painted a glossy pink. “Kumusta ka, my beautiful children! How is your poor father?” She tsked. “Such a terrible accident, and in such a place, too.”

  We stopped short. “You know us?” I said.

  “Of course! Your auntie shows me your photographs every time she comes in. I am Eva.” She approached with arms wide and engulfed us both in a huge hug. “Thank the good Lord your father is on the mend. What brings you to my shop today, all on your own? Where is your auntie?”

  “She’s at home with our little brother. I’ve been wanting a trim, so…”

  “Of course! The girl is becoming more a woman every day! Let Eva have a look.”

  Fox smirked as he chose a magazine and settled into one of the orange plastic chairs by the front window.

  “It’s good that you caught me. It’s been so slow today I was going to close early. I let the other girls go home already.” She sat me down and let out my braids. She finger-combed my tousled hair. “Mm, it is a little dry. This will not help to catch a handsome young man someday.”

  I felt a blush creep up my ears. Up front I saw Fox hide a mocking grin behind his National Geographic.

  “We will deep condition, clean up these split ends, perhaps add some layers to frame that pretty face of yours.” She fussed and chatted as she washed my hair and worked about a gallon of conditioner through it. Once I was rinsed and in the chair, she asked again about our dad, and I knew it was the best opening I could hope for.

  “He has to stay at the hospital for a few more days. You know, we were with him when it happened, Fox and me.”

  She gasped. “I didn’t know. My poor dears. Some things were not meant for children’s eyes. Why would your father take you to such a place?” As she combed the tangles from my wet hair, her movements grew rougher, more vigorous. I clenched my teeth to keep from yelping in pain.

  “We were helping get ready for the auction this weekend. It was a pretty house, not scary like we pictured.”

  “Yes. Such a beautiful house. Mmm. But beauty is not everything.”

  “Eva?”

  “Yes, child?”

  “Is it true that you worked at the Goodrich place?”

  The comb paused. “Your aunt has been talking too much again, I suppose.”

  “Um…” I suddenly wondered if it was such a good idea to get her upset when she would soon have a pair of scissors in her hand.

  She grunted. “Yes. I worked there. Before the tragedy and after.” She made the sign of the cross with her free hand. “Mr. Goodrich was forever changed. He was a cheerful, kind man. But losing his wife, his town—it would change anyone. He withdrew, spoke rarely. But after dark he would talk to Nora, late into the night.”

  “Talk to … his dead wife?”

  She traded the comb for scissors and started snipping, her expert fingers in constant motion. “Yes. It brought him peace, although his talks would sometimes grow angry, accusing.”

  I lost all interest in watching pieces of my hair fall to the floor. “Did … did she talk back?”

  She laughed. “No, child.”

  “Because she wasn’t really there. Right?”

  She didn’t answer.

  “Eva?”

  At last she spoke, her voice low and intense. “Talk of spirits is best left alone, Josephina. I have forgotten myself. Just be thankful your father will recover.”

  Apparently that was all she wanted to say.

  I had to up the stakes, make the conversation impossible for her to resist. But how much to tell her? Like with Aunt Barb, a secret would not stay secret long with Eva, I was sure.

  I plunged ahead. “Could a spirit make my dad fall down the stairs?”

  She slammed the scissors down on the counter and crossed herself once more. “Such questions!”

  “I have to know. Did other bad things happen in the house? Is that why you quit?”

  “I did not quit, child. I was let go—for this very reason, no less!” She picked up the scissors again and pointed them at me.

  “For…?”

  “Not knowing how to keep private affairs private.”

  “Oh.”

  She worked in silence for the next few minutes. I gave up hope of finding out anything more and kept my gaze on my lap, but once our eyes met in the mirror, she seemed to sigh and come to a decision.

  She leaned in close to my ear. “Plenty of bad things happened in that house. Perhaps you deserve to know the truth. Perhaps then you will know enough to stay far away from it.”

  I nodded, quickly rearranging my expression from eager to solemn, trying not to draw attention to the fact that Fox had moved closer so he wouldn’t miss a word.

  “Mrs. Goodrich was once a mild person, very quiet and content. Several years before the landslide, she became obsessed with disasters. She kept newspaper clippings about them. She was often fearful and unhappy. Then, about a year before the landslide, she got much worse. People thought her mind was beginning to unravel.”

  Eva paused to plug in the hair dryer. We had little time left to talk. I spoke up to speed things along. “Why would they think t
hat, Eva?”

  “She would fly into a rage over the smallest things, or cry for hours on end. She would stir up trouble in town, trying to warn people that they were in danger. But they would not listen. She grew more and more upset, raving about the bridge disaster in Point Pleasant. John tried to help but did not know how.”

  I thought about the scrapbook Fox had found, every page filled with disaster stories. “Point Pleasant, huh? Isn’t that where all those Mothman sightings were reported?”

  The scissors clattered to the floor. It took a minute or two for her to retrieve them, plunk them into a glass jar of sterilizer, and choose a new pair. “You are a smart young woman, Josephina. Smart enough to know better than to open up this can of worms, as they say.”

  I kept pushing. “So you’ve heard of Mothman, then?”

  “Of course.”

  “Some people say you’ve seen him.”

  She grew still. Her gaze flickered to the shop window. She stared at a traffic signal, its single red eye flashing. “I never saw him in the house,” she whispered. “But sometimes at the windows. Only glimpses here and there, but yes.”

  “What about in the town?”

  “People spoke of him in the months before the landslide. A few saw him outright; most dismissed it as fantasy.”

  Fox and I stared at each other.

  “Do you know where Mothman came from? Why he was there?”

  “It started with a piece of jewelry. Nora had a half sister in Point Pleasant who died in the bridge accident. Months later, she received a package from the sister’s estate with jewelry and other personal effects.”

  “How do you know it was the jewelry?”

  “There was one piece in particular with a most unusual design: a gold pin with a moth preserved under glass.” In the mirror I watched the color drain from my face. My grip tightened on the arms of the chair.

  Eva didn’t notice. “Mrs. Goodrich believed that pin was the origin of Mothman, dating back a hundred years or more. Stories tell of a man who dealt in dark magic to preserve his own life, and to punish a lost love.” The scissors stilled. She leaned in close. “And it is said,” she whispered, “that the pin brings a curse upon the person who possesses it.”