Finally, he shouted, hoping that someone would hear him. "I am not leaving until you talk to me about the curse!" At that, Mr. Vladimir finally opened the door.
But not all the way; he only opened it a crack. "Go away. I can't help you. I don't want to catch it from you."
"Tell me what I can do to stop it," Mark said, fear running through him in a cold wave.
"You can't," Mr. Vladimir said. And he started to close the door again.
But Mark put his foot in the way. "Tell me."
"There is nothing you can do," Mr. Vladimir hissed. "If you don't leave, I'll call the police."
Mr. Vladimir slammed the door. Mark cringed as the wooden door smashed his foot. He body-slammed the door and pulled his boot out. The door clicked shut, and there was nothing more he could do now. He trudged back to his truck angrily, fists clenched. But before he climbed inside, he saw the little yellow bug. This, he thought, was the witch's car. He took down her license plate. He was hoping he could look her up and find out more information about her.
He hated to go home to Kelly and tell her what happened. He was a failure, and he had gotten their family cursed.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Coralina had broken her right arm. His wife Kelly had walked on the roof in her sleep, and he still had a fucking bloody nose. He drove back slowly, holding his nose tightly.
He kept thinking about how he followed that old lady, the lady he thought was the witch. How he had contemplated killing her? He had her license plate now. What if she wasn't even a witch? His mind was spinning around all the possibilities. What if he killed a woman who wasn't a witch? His teeth were clenched painfully tight as he drove, and he realized he was hunched over the steering-wheel like an old man.
Maybe he was going crazy.
But if they were going to have a new symptom, or a new stage every day or so, which was what it looked like, and they were only about four days away from him killing them all.
Or five days from Coralina killing them, or six days from Kelly killing them all. Fuck. He needed to find that witch. She would have to cure them. Or he would do whatever it took.
His finger was throbbing as he tried to drive one-handed, his other hand clasping his nose. Mark was exhausted. He hadn't slept more than two hours in the last night. He'd stop by the house and grab his gun, tell Kelly his plan, then bring the witch back and have her fix this. With whatever the fuck witches did.
When he got there, there was chaos. Beth was crying, Coralina was screaming, and Kelly was nowhere to be seen.
"Girls?" he said, quickly checking Beth. She was covering her eyes, but she didn't appear to be injured.
"Blood," she said with panic. He turned and stared at the kitchen, and there was a lot of blood.
"Daddy, it won't stop," said Coralina between big hulking sobs. It sounded like she was practically choking to death on her own tears. And her nose was gushing. Stage three. Her nose was gushing blood. He grabbed a kitchen towel and pressed it to her face, showing her how to tilt her head and pin her nose.
"Stay like this. Where is your mother?" he said, a bit of panic running through his soul. The shock of the blood everywhere was lessened by his own knowledge that he had been gushing from the nose, and he was fine, not even lightheaded. But it was still unnerving. Why had Kelly left them? How could she leave them like this? Where had she gone? "Kelly!" he shouted, hoping that his wife's call would answer him.
But he didn't hear anything. Finally, he ran up the stairs, glancing around their bedroom, and he saw her foot sticking out from the bathroom door. He ran in, and she was unconscious on the floor, her ankle twisted in an unnatural angle. Bone snap, stage two. Fuck.
She was slowly waking while he was shaking her. "You look like you hit your head. Are you okay? Do you remember your name?"
"I remember your name, dickhead," she said with a certain amount of sass even as she reached up and touched her head. Pain ran across her eyes as she gingerly touched a large goose-egg forming. She shifted slightly and then pain ricocheted up and down her body. He'd seen her this way before; her body shuddered from pain. But only in childbirth. Right before they managed to get that epidural in place. He hated to see his wife in so much pain. Her eyes grew wide with shock, and she let out a whimper.
"Kelly, stay still. Your foot is definitely broken." He wrestled his cell phone out of his pocket and called 911. Not fifteen minutes later, Kelly was packed in an ambulance, flipping him off subtly with a wink as she was wheeled inside.
She was gonna be okay.
But they had to stop this fucking curse.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Fury
As Kelly rode away in the ambulance, Mark decided he would follow her, but only after he finished a simple task. He was going to find out if this dollhouse really was fucking cursed. Mark grabbed the thing and carried it out to the driveway. He pulled out the big fat sledgehammer that he used to demo. The long-handled sledgehammer, and he positioned himself three feet from the wooden dollhouse when the big iron head smashed through the roof. It shattered. Little bits of wood splintered out in every direction like a firework.
And then Beth screamed. Mark's eyes went wide as he realized the look on her face was exactly the same as the look on his face when his dad for no reason known to him destroyed his most prized possession. The cycle of abuse. It was strong and well within his soul.
And he had survived it, and so would Beth. With fury, he swung again, this time hitting it like a golf club, smashing into the side of the house. Little tiny bits exploded, tiny pieces of glass and wood flying across the yard. Beth let out another scream, collapsing to the ground and sobbing hysterically. "Honey, I know you don't understand, but I just can't explain it. I will get you something better." A sick calmness washed over him. He had survived it. She would survive it. If this was a cycle of abuse, well, fuck it. The last stage of this curse was murder.
He threw the sobbing Beth into her car seat in the car, and went in and grabbed Coralina. Her shirt was soaked in blood, and her nose had either started bleeding again or hadn't stopped yet. Once they were all inside his red truck and Beth's muffled sobs was all they could hear, he turned the key until the engine started up its rat-tat-tat noise again. The clunking and grinding sound was getting louder, and he kicked himself for not dumping in more oil. But he needed to go to Kelly.
He put on his sunglasses, the anger and frustration blazing behind his eyes. "Ladies, I think that dollhouse is why we are breaking all our bones lately. I broke my finger, Coralina broke her arm, and now your mother has broken her ankle." He said this with the kind of laced anger you would say to someone after they had destroyed something of yours, not the other way around. He had no compassion and no kindness in his voice. In fact, all he could feel was righteous anger. Fury from the heavens. The kind of anger that Christ must have felt at the temples.
Beth did not talk, as she never talked, instead choosing to stare out the window with big loud sniffles every once in a while.
"Shut up!" Mark shouted, his anger boiling out of him. It was coming off him like steam off of a casserole. He could not concentrate. The anger was all he could feel. How could Kelly have broken her fucking ankle! This was going to cost them way too much money. Here she wasn't even working, and she was racking up hospital bills left and right. First Coralina, then herself. He had the decency to break a bone and stay home and deal with it himself! Where was her decency? A driver cut them off slightly, and his red truck tapped against the rear bumper of the car in front of him.
He wasn't slowing down; he was accelerating, almost pushing the car off the road in front of him. The driver in the front was waving their hands frantically and looking really unhappy.
"Well, bitch, don't cut me off, you fucker," he growled under his breath. He could practically see the hate in the air lingering in front of him like a spider web. He was clenching the steering wheel so tightly that his knuckles and turned completely white, and his heart was poundin
g. He slammed on the gas and bumped against them again.
"Dad!" said Coralina with a frightened little sound. "You're scaring me." Coralina’s nose was still bleeding, her towel soaked in blood.
"Fuck you," Mark said, and the first time in his entire life, used the F word at his daughter, like his dad used to say to him. Cycle of abuse. No use stopping it now. She let out a wail. What the fuck could he do about it? Nothing. That's what. Eventually, the car in front of them turned, carefully driving away from the angry, caustic driver behind them.
Mark squealed the truck into a parking spot. It shuddered at the force of the stop. He got out of the car, and Beth got stuck for a moment in her car seat. He opened the door and picked her up, car seat still stuck to her bottom and he shook her until the plastic little booster fell inside the car. He set her on the ground roughly, slammed the door, and locked it. "Let's go." It took everything in him not to slap her. Both girls were so stunned by the complete fury of their father that they held hands tightly together, fear coursing through their little tiny veins.
He should be out hunting that mother fucking witch instead of picking up his bitch. His broken ankle, useless, jobless, practically homeless bitch. He had, never in his entire life, felt so incredibly furious. It took every ounce of his skill not to knock over something on the receptionist desk while he asked which room was Kelly's. The secretary behind the counter looked very concerned at him as he clenched and un-clenched his fists over and over again, his broken finger sticking awkwardly out. She stared at Coralina’s bloody shirt. “What happened here?”
“I am here for my wife. She broke her ankle,” said Mark, using every muscle to fake a calm voice.
“And the girl?” the secretary said with a frown, pointing at the blood.
“Bloody nose. Her mom fell,” Mark said, miming that his wife fell on his daughter. The secretary chewed her lip for a moment, then let him go down to her. To Kelly, the bitch.
"How bad is the break?" he said abruptly, trying to control the anger that he felt.
"They just did x-rays. We’ll find out in a minute," Kelly said. "But probably won't need surgery is what he's guessing. Probably just need to cast it."
"Take the girls. I'll be back in a couple of hours." And he turned and he left.
Chapter Twenty-Four
I'm going to kill that witch.
Mark drove like a lunatic down the road, swerving and cutting off other vehicles. He didn't give a fuck. He flipped them off, rage fueling his vehicle. If the engine stopped on this death drive, he had so much fury he could just pack the truck on his back and take it with him. He was superhumanly angry.
He was going to get his rifle.
And he was going to shoot the shit out of that stupid bitch. That bitch. Broke her ankle, and then... no, not that bitch. The witch. His eyes blurred a moment, and he took a breath. The curse wanted him to kill the bitch, but he wanted to kill the witch. It took an effort to keep it straight. The tires screeched as he stopped the truck. He barely slammed on the brakes in time. The front bumper of his red truck dinged the garage door. He didn't give a fuck.
The hair on the back of his neck was standing tall, like soldiers at war. His breath was fast and bursting from his chest in angry waves. And he could hardly wait. The gun was calling him. He opened the door and slammed it with such force that the entire house let out a scream of pain. The same scream that bitch would be yelling. Witch, that witch. He stomped up the stairs and slowly spun the dial, opening his gun safe. He had three rifles in there: one for him, one for his wife, and one for his girls. They went hunting at least once a year, and at the bottom of the gun case was a nice large pile of bullets.
He grabbed his camo hunting jacket from the closet and he loaded up with bullets and grabbed his gun. He held it up to his eye and adjusted the shot just a smidge, making sure that the scope was clean and ready to go. He aimed at the bed and imagined his wife’s exposed breast just an evening or so before. The rage inside him was so overwhelming he almost pulled the trigger just to hear the boom, so his ears would ricochet from the pain of the bullet leaving the gun. He felt so angry he could snap this gun in half with his two bare hands. With a smirk, he turned and stomped out of his bedroom and started to head down the stairs. And then he saw it – the dollhouse.
He felt the blood drain away from his face. It sat in the living room, perfectly unharmed. He remembered exploding it with the sledgehammer. Had there been pieces in the driveway when he drove up? Anger clouded his judgment, and he couldn't remember. Had he even looked? His attempt to beat the shit out of it with a sledgehammer was ineffective.
The tiniest flicker buzzed inside his brain, maybe he was angry because it was one of the stages. But he shook it off and stomped down the stairs and he lifted the rifle to his face and he aimed at the dollhouse, ready to blow it to smithereens. Not because he thought it would work, but because he wanted to shoot something right now. He wasn't sure he could wait another second. And as he got that perfectly tiny shingled roof in his sight, he felt a huge wave of relief run across his body. It was like... It was like he had just orgasmed. It was like that very first time he kissed Kelly in the back of his truck. It was dirty, she was crass, and it was the most fun he'd ever had in his entire world. The relief, like a splinter was finally removed, sweet relief as the thing causing him pain suddenly slipping out of his flesh. He felt... happy.
And he lowered the gun and dreamily grinned.
Chapter Twenty-Five
Elation
Not an hour later, he was sitting playing with the dollhouse, all grins. He felt so content. His problems had faded. Why was he worried about if he was a good dad, or if he was a good husband? It amused him that he ever worried if this dollhouse had cursed his family. But not anymore. Now he was relaxed. Mark felt enlightened, almost high with a pleasurable drug. If he could bottle this feeling up and sell it, he'd be a millionaire overnight. If he could've shared it with the world, there would be no crime, there would be no pain, there would be nothing.
Just bliss.
He had figured out that if he spun the stool in the kitchen, the pantry would open. He was incredibly pleased with himself for figuring out the tiny secret latches in the dollhouse. But his phone started ringing. Who would be calling him at this time?
Kelly's name flashed across the screen. He grinned. Oh, his lovely bride! "Hello, honey? Are you having a good day?"
"You fucker, pick us up from the hospital," said Kelly, annoyance ringing through the phone. But it didn't faze him.
"Okay, baby, sure. Do you want me to pick up flowers on the way? It's just... such a great day out. We can stop at the park!" he said, completely enthralled with the idea of seeing his loves.
"My ankle is broken, and you dickhead, you ditched us at the hospital. Pick us up," she said, her voice laced with threat.
Mark shrugged. "Okay, if you say so. I'm sorry that I left you there, I don't even remember doing it. I'll come get you right now. Then we can go for ice cream?" She hung up.
He came out to his truck and turned the key. The engine rattled like an old tuna can rolling down the road. There was a loud popping noise, and the sound itself was a big warm hug from his grandmother. He smiled and slipped on his sunglasses, drumming on the steering-wheel. He didn't even seem to notice when he thumped his broken finger on the wheel by accident. The pain running up his arm from the cracked bone seemed miles away.
Not twenty minutes later, he had his three favorite people in the car. And he couldn't stop grinning looking over at Kelly. She had the cutest crutches. She was not grinning; her arms were crossed, scowling out the window like there was some sort of spider on the other side of the glass.
"You guys want to play a game?" Mark said, his words happy little bubbles bouncing from his throat. He wished they could go to a trampoline place. Or maybe Chuckie Cheese! They hadn't been there in ages. "Or go to Chuckie Cheese?" he said. He could hardly stop himself; once he had the thought, it frolicked out his mouth
.
"Take us home, you dumb shit head," said Kelly. "Girls, I told you this dollhouse is changing things, and I think it's affecting your dad more than the rest of us. And we’ve got to figure out... how to stop it." She was seething but refused to yell at Mark. In his current state, it would be utterly useless.
"Okay, okay. That sounds like fun too! Maybe we could make pizza? I love pizza. Don't you girls love pizza? Coralina? Beth? We can put your favorite toppings on it. What if we make it look like a smiley face?" Mark started singing to the radio before they answered. He was drumming his hands, his broken finger knocking against it without any regard to the pain. Kelly stared at him, and his permanent, glossy grin on his face.
The anger on her face shifted to alarm. But she said nothing, instead silently dipping into deep thoughts.
Soon they were home again. Mark was inside making pizza. Kelly pored over the books he brought home from the library. She was pale and terrified. Every time she looked up at her husband, laughing and making pizza, she felt her stomach turn a little further. Beth left the pizza-making session and tugged on her mom's hand.
"Who fixed the dollhouse?" she whispered.
Kelly frowned. "What?"
"When you went in the doctor van with the lights, Daddy smashed the dollhouse. How did it get fixed?" Beth said. She had uncertainty in her tone and shuddered slightly. She hesitantly stepped forward and touched the perfectly shingled roof.
"Go help Dad make the pizza," Kelly said with a sudden hoarseness. She didn't want Beth to touch that thing again. Her heart was caught in her throat as she stared at the tiny house.
“Thanks for making dinner; the pizza was delicious," said Kelly as Mark washed the dishes. He was whistling, and he seemed the happiest he had ever been in his entire life. Her stomach was churning, but she was hopeful that he would be capable of holding a conversation.
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