The Curse Begins

by Abby James

  “You bitch,” she screeched. “I was only tryna help. I shoulda left you to fry on them drugs fucking up ya brain.”

  2

  I wove my way through the cafe, scanning for Nathan. I was ten minutes late because my four o’clock appointment wouldn’t stop talking about her neighbor’s affair. And since she was one of my best clients, turning up weekly to have her hair set, nails redone and makeup polished, I wasn’t about to cut her short and kick her out the door as I suspected her regular visits were more to do with her desire to gossip than her need for yet more beauty treatments.

  Nathan had found a table close to the cake counter, handy, and was talking to the young waitress, who from this distance looked about fifteen. He waved me over when he spied me and the girl disappeared to another table.

  “Sorry I’m late,” I slid down into the seat opposite. “You looked like you were having an interesting conversation.” I teased him. Nathan, as far as I could tell, had never had a relationship in all the years I’d known him, since my parents had died and he took my case, fifteen years ago.

  He flicked the young woman a quick look. “She’s one of mine.”

  Meaning he was her caseworker. And here he was having a coffee at the cafe she worked at. I felt a small stab of something uncomfortable in my gut. I was supposed to be the only one he paid particular attention to.

  I’d ended up in Nathan’s inbox from the start. From the time I was in foster care he’d fought vigorously to remain my caseworker. I loved him as much as I could love a caseworker who’d showed me more kindness and attention than a man in his position should. I thought of him more as a father figure, albeit a distant one, kind, thoughtful, caring and protective. Very protective. He rigorously screened all my assigned families and visited more than was necessary in the adjustment period to make sure each new family treated me right. And I would be forever grateful for that care. There had only been two times in my foster history the family turned out bad. But one call from me and Nathan had me removed and re-homed within days.

  I felt guilty about my jealousy. That young waitress deserved as much care, trust and friendship as I had done. And with all the terrible stories I had heard of the foster system, more children deserved to have someone like Nathan as their caseworker.

  “Lucky thing,” was all I could say. I wasn’t feeling the generous vibes yet.

  “She’s had a tough time of it. Caused a few problems in her foster families, but if you knew her past…” He looked at me, then quirked a small smile and ducked his head with a shake. “I shouldn’t even be saying any of this. Confidentiality.”

  I smiled through the warm feeling in my stomach. I loved the way he operated outside the boundary of professionalism because of how much he cared. I teased Nathan often enough about not having a date, but if he did end up with someone, I’d likely want to poke her eyes out just like any daughter who’d enjoyed her parent’s sole attention until someone else stole it away.

  The young girl returned to take our order, all smiles and friendliness, and I felt more guilt for my earlier jealousy. Order done, cinnamon scroll on its way, Nathan gave me his full attention. “To what do I owe this catch up?”

  “I’ve never asked much about my parents.”

  “I was wondering when you would. But I can’t offer you a lot, I’m afraid. I only know what is in the file. What is it you’re interested in?”

  “Their medical health.”

  His eyebrows wandered up his forehead. “Not the first question I expected.”

  “It’s important to know for my own medical health. And for my children as well.”

  “You’re not pregnant?”

  “No. You would have to have sex for that to happen.”

  He looked at the sugar bowl before him. “That’s a little too much information for me.”

  I smiled at him, but he was still staring at the sugar bowl to notice.

  “Does it mention if either of them had a mental illness?”

  He jerked his head up to face me. “Mental? Why would you want to know that?”

  I shrugged, trying to make light of my question. Despite all the bonding that should make him a safe haven for my secrets, I found I couldn’t say anything as it was too shocking, scary or maybe I didn’t want to face the possible truth that I could be going insane.

  “There’s so much of it about now. It’s something I want to be prepared for if it turns out either of them were psychotic or had some other mental illness.”

  He stared at me, his brown eyes picking my lie apart. I had not seen this expression on his face before, one devoid of humor but with an intensity to make me squirm in my seat. His eyes flicked back and forth between mine like data filling across a page as he silently analyzed and assessed the intention behind my question. “Is there another reason you’re asking about this? Has anything happened?” There was no denying the seriousness of his tone.

  “Why should there be? I’m curious, that’s all. But not just about their medical history. I don’t know anything about them. Not the important things, like how they met, what made them fall in love with each other, what I meant to them?”

  He sat back with a sigh. “These aren’t things I can tell you.”

  I mirrored him, also with the sigh and it felt like a bubble had burst between us with all the sudden tension easing.

  “I know. I’m not really expecting answers. At least not the personal stuff.”

  “If your parents didn’t love each other, they would never have had you.”

  This was him trying to be comforting and I appreciated it, but we both knew that wasn’t true. How many kids did he help re-home a week because the parents didn’t love each other enough to hold a healthy, happy family together? And careless sex could lead to many unwanted babies. It was the reason why Nathan had taken it upon himself to have a very awkward word to me about safe sex when I was thirteen. He worried no one had made the point clear enough. I’d tried not to laugh through his fumbling attempts to tell me about sex, then put him out of his misery, only once he’d finished, by informing him my foster mother had explained it all in full, plus the sex education I’d received in school, and that he was not to worry, there would be no unwanted babies.

  “I know. It’s just…most kids are told a heap of anecdotes from their parents about their lives before they came along. It gives you continuity of your life’s history.”

  He’d probably been afraid this day would come. I’d asked him little about my parents since they had died so long ago and I had little memory of them. They felt like two fictional characters who’d played a part in me being here because biology dictates it so, but were far removed from my reality. It was hard for me to think about them, since I didn’t even have photos of them. The fire that gutted the house until there was nothing left but charcoal on the ground took care of that. I would inherit the small amount of money they had accumulated in their short lives once I turned twenty-one, but I’d been told I shouldn’t give up my day job.

  Nathan sat forward, resting his elbows on the table. “I can tell you neither had a mental illness. That would’ve been recorded in the case file.”

  “None that anyone was aware of.”

  He shook his head, again his brow furrowing up in concern.

  “All I’m saying is whatever is in the files would depend on what had been reported before their deaths. If either had experienced psychotic episodes but had yet to seek treatment then that would not have been recorded.”

  “Where are you going with this?”

  I was pushing this too far. “Nowhere.”

  “You sure you’re all right?”

  “Totally.” I picked up my phone. “Oh gosh, look at the time. I’ve got to get back to work.” Or rather it was time to bail from the conversation. Nathan was right, there was only so much he could tell me. He never knew my parents except as a limited dossier in my case file.

  “I was going to ask if you wanted dinner.”

  “I’
m working tonight. There’s a funeral tomorrow. Thanks for the coffee.” I rose from my chair.

  “Samara, you know you can trust me?”

  “Yeah, of course I do. You’re the only person I do trust.”

  “Nothing you say would be too crazy.”

  If only you knew. “I know.”

  I left his penetrating brown eyes, which had become too uncomfortable now I was lying to him, and wove around the tables and out into the sunlight. It was moving on to six o’clock and if I hurried to work, I would have the deceased ready for the viewing first thing tomorrow before it got too dark. After last night I didn’t fancy being out late. Maybe any weirdness in my head was trigger by the dark.

  I caught the nine twenty to Park street then quick walked it the rest of the way to the funeral parlor. Hack was coming out, and I waved as I jumped the low hedge that rimmed the car park.

  “How were you feeling this morning?” he said, scrutinizing my face. “You look better.”

  “I’m fine. Must’ve been some twenty-four hour thing.”

  “You’ve got color in your cheeks at least. I swear last night you looked like you belonged in here.” He jerked his thumb behind him.

  “Felt it too.”

  “You here for Mr. Tucker?”

  “It’s an early burial.”

  Hack pulled his phone from his back pocket. Checked the screen then said, “I’ve gotta go. I’m meeting someone at six-thirty.”

  “Someone.” I nudged him with my shoulder. “Is this a date?”

  He shrugged, “sort of. Kind of. Probably.”

  “That’s not promising.”

  “We met online. It’s the first time out together.”

  “Why didn’t I know about this? How long ago did this happen?”

  “I was embarrassed and recently, like last month recently.”

  “What’s to be embarrassed about? Everyone meets online these days.”

  “You should try it.”

  I rolled my eyes, which was my usual reaction every time Hack or Laya mentioned the way I shied away from relationships. “Maybe.”

  “It’s been a while.”

  “That’s because I’m still recovering.”

  “How much longer is that going to take?”

  “Long enough.”

  “You got unlucky. Not all guys are jerks.”

  “I’ve lost my ability to tell who is and who isn’t. Stop worrying about my nonexistent sex life and think of your own soon to be busy sex life.”

  “I guess I’ll leave you to the dead guy.”

  He whistled a tune as he headed for his car and I couldn’t help but smile. Hack was the last to leave, which meant I was alone. If there was an early funeral I always worked late, so I’d experienced being alone here at night enough times to not feel freaked. After last night and the crazy hallucinations, however, I wasn’t feeling too settled and hearing my trainers squeak on the polished floor as I headed for the prep room made tickles run up my spine.

  Mr Tucker was laid out in his casket dressed in his best, his face already covered with the transparent pancake makeup to hide the open pores. I’d had a special request by his relatives to apply some camouflage makeup to disguise his sallow skin, a result of the chemotherapy. His hair had thinned and his cheeks were hollowed, but that was not something I could do anything about given his jaw had already stiffened shut.

  I gathered the brushes and curling iron from the cupboards and placed the few items of makeup I had bought with me. I stared at the photo the relatives had supplied. It was terrible how the body withered on death, but poor Mr. Tucker had long since faded away even before death. I leaned in close and inspected the creases and lines on his jaw and cheek to determine how best to apply the camouflage makeup to reduce the hollow cheeked look, then turned to plug the straightening iron into the socket.

  I heard the crack seconds before the hand came down onto my arm, fingers digging in like a vice. I shrieked and turned expecting to find one of the funeral directors, who’d maybe returned after having forgotten something, only to find it was Mr. Tucker’s hand on my arm.

  My heart seized for valuable seconds then did one giant lurch and pounded so hard it felt like it would burst my ribcage. I watched in horror as Mr. Tucker rose up from his restful state, maintaining his claw grip on my lower arm.

  “Jesus Christ,” I finally managed to blurt out. “Holy shit, holy shit,” I jabbered as I tried to yanked my arm free.

  Creaking and cracking, he swiveled his head around to face me. Then in a scream worthy scene his eyes popped open and I stared at whites. That’s when I emptied my lungs.

  The dead guy had a manacle grip, unmovable. I couldn’t even ply his pinky off my arm.

  “Let go of me,” I yelled pathetically at the vacant face of Mr Tucker. Weren’t they called zombies? And weren’t zombies a part of popular folklore along with witches, werewolves and vampires? This was me doing my insanity act again. But god it felt real. I glanced down at his fingers to see his long nails, which had been on my to-do list to cut, embedded into my skin, drawing small pebbles of blood and I hadn’t even felt the pain such was my hysteria.

  I hammered down on his arm. Even thin and bony it would not relent. In desperation I reached around and grabbed the first thing I could find, which was my eyeliner on the table beside the coffin.

  “If you can hear me, let go, or I’ll stab you,” I stammered, poking threateningly at the corpse with the eyeliner.

  His grip remained, and now he was climbing out of the casket like he was a nimble young guy and not a dead person. By this stage I was eating my heart.

  His leather shoed feet smacked onto the tiled floor as he landed, standing straight like he still had all his nerve pulses, ligaments and musculature to keep his body upright. I backed up, wrenching my arm. No matter what I did he kept a firm hold. Jesus, I was really losing it this time.

  “What are you?” I cried. “What is happening?”

  He may be able to stand up right and walk, but the corpse wouldn’t talk.

  Pull it together, Samara. This is not happening.

  But it was. At least it felt real enough. Mr. Tucker took a step toward me, his eerie white eyes looking in my direction. I took a few paces backward, but he snagged me toward him with one pull. As I tumbled into his bony chest I raised the eyeliner, gripped in my fist, and stabbed him in one eye. His grip weakened enough for me to pull my arm away. I spun to make my escape, but he hooked me again, moving with inhuman speed.

  I was close to the curling iron, so I swiped it off the bench and banged it down hard onto his arm. One, two, three times with all the strength I could muster, then staggered backward when his arm came away at the elbow with a loud crack.

  “Oh, Jesus Christ,” I cried again, dropping the curling iron in my shock. And before I could run, I tripped over it and fell onto my hip. The pain was a sharp shot I registered at the back of my mind, behind the fear of trying to escape a walking dead guy whose fingers and lower arm were still attached to mine.

  I shuffled back on my ass as Mr. Tucker continued to advance like a robot, awkward and mechanical like. I lashed out with my leg and kicked at his shin. My adrenaline was extra powered so my kicked had force, force enough to knock his knee cap backward and swipe his leg out from underneath him with another loud bone crunching noise. He went down in a heap of bones, smart suit and leather shoes. When he hit the floor his body collapsed back into its lifeless form.

  I fell backward onto the tiling and stared up at the ceiling, feeling like I wanted to cry. I raised my arm to cover my face but stopped when I saw his fingers still attached to my arm. Heaving myself up like I’d aged a century, I looked at the corpse sprawled out on his stomach, his left leg jutting at a weird angle because I’d kneecapped him, his left arm missing and an eyeliner protruding from his eyeball. And there was going to be a viewing first thing tomorrow.

  “Jesus, girl. That’s the last thing you need to worry about.”

&nb
sp; I had not snapped out of this weird funk to find Mr. Tucker still lying prone in his casket waiting for me to begin, which meant this was no hallucination. A dead guy had really come to life. I had his fingers digging into my skin to prove it.

  I slowly got to my knees and crawled closer. Gripping the eyeliner, I pulled, then jerked back and flung it away with a gasp. It flew through the air, hit the cabinet across the room and fell to the floor, the eyeball still speared on the end.

  3

  I’d used the scissors as a lever to ply Mr. Tucker’s fingers open, gritting my teeth with each crack as I popped small bones from their knuckle joints. I’d whimpered when the last finger cracked, then threw the lower arm away and staggered back from the corpse, too shocked to think of doing anything else.

  Finally I’d pulled myself together and fled. I should’ve put the body back in the casket and tried to put everything back in its rightful place, but I couldn’t stay in that funeral parlor a moment longer. And besides, his eyelids had frozen open and there was no way I would try and wrenched them down closed.

  And here I was in the bathroom of some diner, washing and washing my hands like I suffered from OCD. I couldn’t get my hands clean. But that wasn’t it. I was trying to remove the feeling of his papery skin on my fingertips, the sound of his bones cracking as I’d ripped them from their sockets. Thinking these things made me scrub my hands harder. I’d never get rid of the memories.

  I looked up at myself in the mirror and saw a haunted woman look back. I wouldn’t sleep tonight. Nor the next night. And what was I going to do tomorrow when everyone arrived at the funeral parlor to find Mr. Tucker in pieces on the floor?

  I swallowed the lump in my throat and blinked a few times when my vision blurbed. I could call Nathan. Tell him everything. He would know what to do. But I wasn’t psychotic or hallucinating. Mr. Tucker had come to life. I had cuts in my lower arm and a dismembered corpse to prove it. Not that anyone would believe the truth. These things didn’t happen in real life. Only they did because they were happening to me. No matter how hard I tried to dissuade myself there was no denying what I had experienced this night.