Mothman's Curse

by Christine Hayes

  I had the unglamorous job of runner: if items were portable enough, I’d run over and hand them to the winning bidder as soon as the bidding ended. Then the buyers settled up what they owed once the auction was over. I stayed so busy I didn’t have time to keep an eye out for John and Nora.

  Finally I got the chance for a quick breather. I found an empty spot of wall at the back of the room and leaned against it with a sigh. A conversation nearby interrupted my thoughts. Two old women were carrying on in overloud whispers. “Did you see this morning’s article about John Goodrich?” I leaned closer as casually as I could.

  “The autopsy report said he didn’t die of natural causes.”

  “Don’t tell me they suspect foul play.”

  “Worse. They think it might have been a suicide.”

  All other sound and motion faded from my notice as I zeroed in on the conversation, trying to learn anything new. I scanned the room and found John hovering just behind Fox’s shoulder. He gave a single nod in my direction, meeting my gaze over the heads of the crowd. The suicide was a crucial detail, I could tell, but I didn’t know why.

  Suddenly a look of fear crossed his face. He vanished.

  The lights far above us flickered off and then on, then stayed off. Sunlight still streamed in through the open sliding door, but murmurs of unease crept through the crowd.

  “Now, now, folks,” Fox said. “There’s nothing to worry about. Just a minor—”

  Someone screamed.

  Red eyes glowed from high in one corner of the room, up near the ceiling. The shadowed outline of a winged figure hovered there.

  Another person screamed, and another. Chairs scraped the floor as people got to their feet. Panicked murmurs spread, voices rising.

  “What is it?”

  “What’s happening?”

  “Is it real?”

  Uncle Bill took the microphone from Fox. “People!” His amplified voice filled the room. Fox banged the gavel on the podium several times. It seemed to quiet the crowd for a few seconds, until, with a great swell of air and a mighty flapping, the creature swooped low over the crowd, crossing to the opposite corner.

  More screams erupted. Feet thundered as people shoved their way toward the exit. I was swept along with the rest, fighting just to stay standing. People rushed toward the big square of light like it was salvation itself.

  I found myself outside without knowing how I got there, glad I was still in one piece.

  A tiny old woman stumbled on the threshold of the doorway as more customers streamed out; I quickly grabbed her arm and pulled her to one side before she could fall and be trampled.

  “Thank you, dear,” she breathed, her hand to her chest.

  The crowd gasped and looked to the heavens as Mothman whooshed out of the building and into the bright sky, a dark stain against brilliant blue.

  “Mothman!”

  “It’s Mothman. He’s returned!”

  Finally, Fox, Mason, Uncle Bill, and Aunt Barb made it out of the building, the last few, just in time to catch sight of Mothman as he looped around for another low pass over the crowd.

  People were screaming, crying, and taking pictures with their cell phones. I watched my family as recognition dawned on their faces—along with a healthy dose of horror.

  “What in the name of heaven and earth is that creature doing here?” Aunt Barb shouted. She had scooped Mason up and he clung to her, his arms around her neck. When he saw me, he squirmed in her grasp and reached for me. I rubbed his back but left him where he was.

  Most in the crowd were still occupied with Mothman’s show, but a few spotted Uncle Bill and pounced, ranting about publicity stunts and tasteless pranks.

  Even with his eyes glued to the skies, Fox found me, gavel hanging from one hand, forgotten. He whistled long and low. “It’s really him. What’s he doing here? Why now?”

  I swallowed. “I don’t know.” In a way it was a relief to know we weren’t crazy, that we hadn’t dreamed up the whole thing. But the sight of Mothman also filled me with dread. He was the most terrifying thing I’d ever seen. “Do you think he’s trying to distract us from stopping the disaster?”

  Fox was too preoccupied to answer. Confusion grew as people tried to either get to safety or find a better vantage point. Frantic customers ran every which way, calling for friends or family members. One crashed into Fox’s shoulder and almost knocked him over. Another stepped on my foot as he stumbled past. Fear rippled through the crowd like a wave.

  Suddenly I sensed a figure move to stand beside me, uncomfortably close. Just as I realized it was John Goodrich, several things happened in rapid progression:

  Mothman lurched down and stopped in the air just above us, his gaze fixed on John, crimson eyes burning with hatred.

  John’s image cringed and flickered, but he returned the stare, chin lifted, jaw set in anger.

  Mothman stretched out one bony finger and pointed … at me. Though there was only a dark void where his mouth should be, I felt a grin twist his features. I shrank back, numb with fright. The pin burned cold against my skin.

  John raised his arms as if to shield me.

  Then I watched Mothman’s gaze slowly shift to study my family one by one.

  He turned to survey the chaos of the crowd, nodding once as if pleased, his coal-black robes fluttering in the breeze.

  And then, with one final swoop, he soared high into the air and disappeared.

  12

  The power blinked back on inside the auction building.

  The world around me came into focus again. My heart raced. The pin pulsed with energy, bitterly cold.

  John was nowhere in sight.

  Fox stepped close to me, our shoulders touching. Mason wriggled free of Aunt Barb’s grasp so he could grab my hand and hold on. We’d all felt the weight of Mothman’s stare, the reality that for whatever reason, he’d set the Fletchers in his sights.

  Aunt Barb and Uncle Bill stood huddled in conversation as the crowd grew more and more restless. Truthfully, Uncle Bill listened while Aunt Barb did all the talking.

  Poor Uncle Bill shied away from drama of any kind. If it was up to him, he would march back inside, continue the auction, and pretend none of this had ever happened. But he and Aunt Barb were trapped in the thick of the unhappy crowd, some pointing fingers and shouting accusations of a hoax, others hysterical and carrying on about impending doom.

  It didn’t seem to matter that several people got in their cars and left right away, because more showed up in their place. The crowd swelled as reporters and TV trucks and hundreds of locals flocked to our property.

  * * *

  After Uncle Bill and Aunt Barb insisted a hundred times over that it wasn’t a stunt, people generally agreed that what they’d seen was real. With that many witnesses and the clean light of day as a backdrop, Mothman would’ve been awfully hard to fake. Plus the locals knew our family. So we didn’t get the blame, just lots and lots and lots more questions.

  People wanted to know if we’d seen Mothman before today. Had he ever spoken to us, and if so, what did he say? Did we have any idea where he came from, or what he wanted? Had we ever been to Point Pleasant? Had we seen the movie? Were we going to reschedule the auction, or shut the business down altogether? Was Jim Fletcher still in the hospital, and how was he doing, and when was he expected home? How would he react to the news? Did we plan to sell our story to CNN, or maybe the Syfy network?

  On and on it went, with no end in sight.

  I pulled Fox aside and whispered, “With all these cameras here, maybe we should try to warn people about the Field House.”

  “What are we supposed to say? That the ghost of John Goodrich told us there would be some kind of a disaster on Monday? It sounds crazy. People barely believe that we didn’t fake this whole thing. I don’t think we should give them any more reasons to call us liars.”

  “But we’ll never get a better chance—”

  A smiling woman wearing too
much makeup interrupted, stepping between us and pushing a microphone in my face.

  “Hi there, young lady. Molly Madigan with Channel Three News. I was told you’re one of the Fletchers, that your family owns the auction house.”

  “Uh, yes. Yes, I am. We do. Hi.”

  Another reporter with her own microphone and cameraman glommed onto Fox and hustled him off to one side. I saw him trying to fix his hair with his fingers.

  “And can you tell us your name?”

  “Huh?” My attention returned to the reporter beside me. The camera was right there, staring at me like a big black eye. “Uh … Josie.”

  “Okay, Josie. Can you tell me how you felt when you first saw the moth creature? Were you scared?”

  I thought about the first time I’d actually seen those red eyes and could truthfully answer: “Y-yes.”

  “Why do you think he’s here now? Do you think he’s trying to tell us something?”

  “I—uh.” I stumbled over what to say, realizing Fox was right about us sounding crazy. “He, uh, he was at Point Pleasant, right? He, like, warns people about disasters, doesn’t he?”

  “That’s what the stories say. Now, I understand you lost your mother a few years back. Are you worried the rest of your family might be next? What do you think your mother would say if she knew you had all been marked for death?”

  I glanced around, trying to find anyone wearing an expression like the sucker-punch surprise and fury I felt at her horrible question. But everyone listening in just nodded, waiting for an answer.

  I looked right at the camera. “I think, if my mother were here right now…”

  “Yes?”

  “She’d kick your skinny little butt halfway to Cleveland for your terrible manners.”

  I turned my back and stomped away, the lovely image of her shocked, fake-pretty face etched forever in my head.

  Fear, worry, and anger all churned around inside me. I slipped into the house, soaking up the quiet after the chaos outside. The noise of the crowd was muffled enough that I could hear the refrigerator humming. The bathroom faucet dripped. Birds chirped and cheeped outside the window. I could almost pretend nothing was wrong until the pin pulsed like a heartbeat, still painfully cold.

  “John?” I whispered, but he wasn’t there. I even took the pin off and put it back on again.

  Nothing.

  I slumped at the kitchen table. My stomach rumbled. Lunchtime had long come and gone.

  I called and ordered a couple of pizzas with Dad’s credit card number, which we kept on a Post-it note inside the kitchen cupboard for emergencies. I decided that a Mothman sighting counted as an emergency.

  Fox and Mason joined me a few minutes later. They sat down at the table without a word. I couldn’t think of anything to say, so I grabbed a jar of peanut butter and a sleeve of crackers from the pantry. Even cursed people had to eat.

  We sat munching in silence, staring with fascination at the crumbs we were leaving in the peanut butter jar. I focused on breathing in and out, in and out.

  Eventually Aunt Barb and Uncle Bill shuffled in. They stood there in the kitchen like they’d never seen it before, like they were in the wrong house, the wrong life. I offered them a chair and told them pizza was on the way. Uncle Bill chose to stand, fussing with his hat. Aunt Barb stood, too, looking us over. “How are you all holding up?”

  Nobody answered.

  “That good, huh?” She flashed a tired smile. “Listen, we will solve this, all right? No silly bug man is going to get the better of us, you hear me?”

  We nodded.

  “Do you think he’ll come back?” Mason whispered.

  “I don’t know, sugar.” She brushed a few stray cracker crumbs from Mason’s face. “Seems to me he’s a bully, though. All bluster. Hey, Mason, why don’t you let me talk to your brother and sister for a minute, okay?” she said. “You want to watch some TV?” He nodded and trotted into the living room.

  I wondered if it was time to come clean with everything we knew. From the look on his face, I guessed Fox was wondering the same thing.

  Before I could decide, Mason bellowed, “Uncle Bill! You’re on TV!”

  We all rushed into the living room, where video footage of Mothman played over and over under the heading Breaking News. They cut to interviews with several of our customers and neighbors, and then Uncle Bill popped up on the screen.

  “You look good, dear,” Aunt Barb said. “The gray in your hair—it’s distinguished. Don’t you think so, Josie?”

  “Aunt Barb! I think all of this is insane—that’s what I think. Don’t you even want to know why Mothman is here, why he showed up at our auction? Maybe we should be worrying about that!”

  She flinched. I felt awful for yelling. I knew she was doing the best she could, but I couldn’t help wishing that Dad were here instead. Or Momma. “Sorry,” I mumbled.

  “No, I’m sorry, honey. You’re right. Of course you’re right. I’m just a little off-kilter right now. Ever since we took on that Goodrich estate, things have been so upside down.” She sniffed and dabbed at her eyes.

  Uncle Bill slipped an arm around her shoulders. “Mason, turn that thing off, huh?”

  Aunt Barb looked down at her rumpled clothes, patted her unruly hair. “I must look a fright. Will you three be all right if we take a few minutes to get cleaned up?”

  “Sure,” I said. “We’ll wait for the pizza.”

  She and Uncle Bill headed out to their place over the garage.

  Mason went to the front window. “What are all those people still doing out there?”

  I moved the curtains aside to peer out at the cow pasture just beyond our property line. Seven more news trucks had joined the first two. Hundreds of people had set up lawn chairs, tents, and blankets, like they were waiting for a fireworks show.

  Fox joined us at the window. “They want to catch a glimpse of Mothman. Be a part of history.”

  “Who would want to see him?” Mason said.

  “People who don’t know any better,” Fox said.

  Many of the bystanders carried signs or watched the sky, looking worried. But others acted like it was all a big party. Somebody had a grill fired up and was turning hot dogs as they sizzled. Others were slapping a beach ball as it skimmed over the heads of the gathered crowd.

  Unbelievable.

  “I’m going for a walk,” I said suddenly.

  “Right now? Alone?” Fox said.

  “I just need to clear my head. I won’t be long.”

  He glanced at Mason, who clung to Fox’s sleeve with all ten fingers. “Just … be careful, okay?”

  I nodded. Grabbing my coat, I left the house and started walking, heading away from the circus our lives had become. The afternoon sun shone down, surprisingly warm. I followed the road, sticking close to the shoulder, but there weren’t many cars to avoid. They were all coming from town in the opposite direction, so I had the road pretty much to myself.

  Until I felt a prickle on the back of my neck.

  I looked over my shoulder to find John trailing me. My hand flew to my collar. I was still wearing the moth pin.

  He kept about five feet between us. He wasn’t walking, exactly. That is, his legs weren’t moving, and he didn’t really float, either. His image would just wink out, then wink back in the next second a few feet closer than before.

  I sighed and kept walking. I could always take the pin off, but for all I knew he’d still be there, out of sight. For some reason, I found that even more unsettling. I turned around and walked backward so I could see him.

  “Why’d you do it, John?” I asked out loud. “How could you take your own life? The letter from the lawyer said you had a terminal illness. Was that it? You got tired of being sick?”

  He shook his head. No.

  “Good. Because my mom was sick for a long time, and it was awful, but she still fought up until the end. So what was it? Were you trying to break the curse?”

  A nod. Yes.


  “Well, guess what? It didn’t work. Do you realize what you’ve done to us?”

  He hung his head. I rolled my eyes. I would not feel sorry for a ghost—no, sir.

  Then he looked up. Purpose had replaced his usual sadness. Save them, he mouthed.

  “Is that all we have to do to end the curse?” I said. “Then everything will be okay?”

  He looked away.

  I stopped walking. “John? Please, you have to help me figure this out.”

  But he flickered and disappeared.

  “John!” I turned in a slow circle, but there was no sign of him. I trudged back to the house, more confused and anxious than ever.

  I found Fox and Mason still staring out the window, eating pizza. I could hear Aunt Barb on the phone, her voice climbing and falling like the cars on a roller coaster. At this rate she’d probably be on the phone for the rest of her life. I thought about Dad and how worried he must be if he’d seen the news. I vowed to call him, just to check in and let him know we were okay.

  “What are you guys doing?”

  “All those people,” Fox was saying. “Think of how many ghost maps we could sell. Or bottled water, even. We could make a fortune! Josie, you could print out some more of those maps, right?”

  I glared at him. “Really? Is that all you can think about? No, I will not print any more of those stupid maps, you selfish, greedy infant.”

  “Whoa, what’s the problem?”

  I dragged him into the kitchen, struggling to keep my voice at a whisper. “The problem, since you’ve obviously forgotten, is that in two days a whole bunch of people are going to die, and the freaking Mothman just showed up at our auction, and you want to sell bottled water like it’s a sporting event! We have to figure out a way to keep people away from the Field House.”

  “I wasn’t being serious. Sheesh. I was trying to distract our little brother. Besides, I already thought of something,” he said, easy as you please.

  “What? You mind sharing this brilliant idea with me?”