The Thirteenth Curse

by Curtis Jobling

  “Where are you taking that?” she asked.

  “Back out.”

  “But you’re still exhausted!”

  “I know, but there’s too much to do. And besides, looks like you and Wing are all over the research side of things. I feel like I’m gate-crashing a book club here.” Max sidled close to Syd, his eyes on the boy who was lost in the computer. “Just how much does he know?”

  “About what?” she whispered.

  “Well . . . everything. What I do. Y’know . . .” Max made a goofy fanged monster face, hands above his head as he threw claw shapes.

  “I’m right here,” said Wing. “I might have taken a blow to the head, but I’m not deaf.”

  He finished the line he was writing on the notepad before sliding the pencil behind his ear and closing the laptop with a snap. He pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose and smiled at the two of them.

  “So listen, guys. We’ve known each other for a couple of years now, right? I’d like to think we’ve become friends. Also, though, throughout that time, I’m sure you’ve noticed I’ve got an interest in the paranormal, the unexplained. For argument’s sake, let’s call it an obsession.”

  Max started to speak, but Wing cut him off.

  “Hear me out, guys. We agree, I’m kinda all over spooky goings-on, not just around this zip code but wherever they occur. It’s no coincidence that my desktop is a picture of Nessie.”

  “Nessie?” asked Syd.

  “The Loch Ness Monster,” said Max.

  Syd nodded. Wing continued.

  “Every time I’ve mentioned something weird happening, a freaky sighting or something like that, you’ve always been so quick to pooh-pooh it. Which is the right thing to do, don’t get me wrong. Heck, if I was encouraging a younger kid to believe that monsters were real, were out there, and could bite your head off, I’d get into some serious trouble, you know what I’m saying?”

  Both Max and Syd nodded, feeling very much like they were being lectured to. Which they were.

  “So, when it turns out that monsters are real, that I haven’t just been living a deluded fantasy for the last two years, you can probably imagine I’m all kinds of blown away. And bummed out, too. Guys, you lied to me. You made me think I was living in Cloud Cuckoo Land.”

  Max shrugged. “We—Jed, Syd, and I—figured we had to keep it from you.”

  “Why?”

  “I was trying to be responsible. Your folks rent that apartment from us, and if they got wind of me filling your head with all kinds of supernatural mumbo jumbo, there’d be hell to pay.”

  “I could have kept it a secret,” said the boy sulkily.

  “You weren’t ready for that kind of knowledge, Wing. Heck, I’m not even sure you are now. But you’ve found out.”

  Wing was about to interrupt, but now it was Max’s turn to stop him. “I’m sure you have a million and one things you want to ask us, and you can, but not now, not today. Right now, we’re in a fight, and we’re trying to get Jed back. We’re trying to stop a big, bad monster.”

  The ten-year-old shrugged, seemingly satisfied with that explanation for now. “On the subject of stopping the Big Bad, Syd and I have turned up a few things.”

  Max turned to Syd. “You have?”

  “He has,” said the girl as she returned to her work on the counter. “He’s a maniac with that computer.”

  “What can I say?” said Wing. “The Internet’s your friend.”

  Max hopped across to the boy, who now opened his laptop once more and flicked through the pages of his notepad. Wing was smiling; it was hard to believe Vendemeier and his gargoyle had almost killed him last night.

  “Resilient little twerp, aren’t you?” said Max.

  “I’m epic,” said the kid with a grin. “The sooner you learn that, the better all around. I’ve got our enemy’s name.”

  “Udo Vendemeier,” replied Max, putting a damper on the boy’s moment of glory.

  “You found that out yourself?”

  “Yeah,” said Max, wincing as he recalled the previous night’s exploits. “I went and asked a few questions of my own. I’d better tell you about it now, in case I don’t live past sunset.” He filled Wing and Syd in on everything the earth elemental had told him. Syd was listening intently where she sat, while her fingers feverishly worked on the gear laid out before her. As Max wrapped up, Eightball whimpered beneath the counter, a half growl just to remind everyone he was still present.

  “I have to find Vendemeier’s remains, Wing. Destroy the heart of the guy who gave me the Mark, and I get to live. Fail to do that and I’m just monster bait until something inevitably takes a big old bite outta me. What did you discover?”

  Wing straightened his glasses once more, flipping his notepad to the first page as if he were a detective going over a crime scene.

  “Well, a lot of this, you already know,” said Wing. “Minister of All Saints Church in Gallows Hill, yada yada yada . . . busted in 1697 . . . hanged from the same tree as his victims . . . buried with his bible . . . exact number of victims unknown . . .”

  “Twenty-seven,” said Max.

  Wing gasped. Eightball whimpered. Syd almost skewered a screwdriver through her palm.

  “Twenty-seven?” whispered Wing. “There could only have been twenty or so families living in Gallows Hill at the time.”

  “Then every one of them got drawn into Vendemeier’s scheme,” said Max, his hatred for the warlock growing all the time. “Go on.”

  “The strange thing was, from the moment Vendemeier was hanged and dead, those members of his flock who had participated in the accusations and witch hunt all claimed to have taken leave of their senses.”

  “What a surprise,” said Syd, shaking her head. “Lynch mob claims insanity. They still get away with that these days.”

  “Yeah, but there are accounts from Vendemeier’s trial and the autopsy,” said Wing, excited now. “Every man, woman, and child who had gone against their loved ones claimed that a fog over their collective minds was lifted, right at the moment the reverend’s neck broke.” He made a yanking motion with his hand in the air, turning his neck to the side, ear to shoulder and his tongue sticking out. “Some claimed to have been in a stupor for years; one dude who had worked as a church sexton for Vendemeier couldn’t even remember the guy turning up in the parish. We’re talking about an entire village brainwashed, guys!”

  “If Vendemeier is a warlock, that kind of powerful magic would make sense. In fact, sounds to me like it’s not that different from the glamour a vampire might cast upon its thrall.”

  “Vampires are real?” exclaimed Wing, his eyeballs nearly rebounding off his spectacle lenses.

  Max raised his hand in defense. “Another time, buddy. Let’s solve this mystery first, eh? What about Vendemeier’s body—you find out where he was buried?”

  Wing sighed. “I looked, but there’s nothing online that pinpoints the exact whereabouts. Maybe there’s something in the hall of records at the central library in town, but I’d need a good day trawling through their reference section.”

  Max shook his head. “No time for that.”

  “There is one area of the burying ground that was reserved for the remains of criminals, though.”

  “Where’s that?”

  Wing brought up an old drawing of the burying ground from the municipal archives. He spun the laptop around for Max to look at, jabbing at a point on the map with a finger. “Down by Witch River, in the earth around the Hanging Tree. According to the births, deaths, and marriages website, that portion of the cemetery held the bodies of those individuals who had perpetrated the most wicked crimes in life over a span of two hundred years. The tree itself is unconsecrated, as is the ground around it.”

  “Great,” said Max, sucking his teeth.

  “I know. Like
searching for a needle in a haystack.”

  “Well,” said the teenage monster hunter, “at least we have a haystack, and that’s a start.”

  “What are you going to do?”

  “Search for a needle,” replied Max, clapping the kid’s back. “And a bible, apparently. Good work, Wing.”

  Max paused at the breakfast bar to rifle through the gear on the counter and throw a handful of goodies into his satchel. He pulled a folding shovel out of the closet and squeezed it into his straining bag. He holstered the flask of chowder inside his bomber jacket, ensuring it was a snug fit. Syd grabbed him by the elbow.

  “You’re really going right now? Rest. Eat. Grab forty winks. But don’t head straight back out there, back to—”

  “My death?” Max smiled as he donned the jacket and readjusted his messenger bag strap. “Jed needs me, Syd. That old fart’s always been there for me. Now the roles are reversed, and we’re the only hope Jed’s got. Vendemeier’s remains are out there, Syd. I have to find them. I destroy them, I destroy the curse.”

  “You can’t go alone.”

  “I absolutely can. There’s no point in you putting yourself in further danger. I was born into this role—”

  “And I chose mine, Max. Let me help you find that grave.”

  Max shook his head. “I couldn’t live with myself if you were harmed.”

  “We’ll all be harmed if you die, Max; if the curse and Vendemeier’s plans come to fruition.”

  “Then I won’t die.” Max smiled, charming, disarming, and wildly optimistic. “You need to look after Wing, Syd. And for goodness’ sake, make sure he gets back in his own bed before his mother comes knocking.”

  He turned to leave, but Syd kept hold of his elbow. “One more thing,” she said, “before you go.”

  “You’re not going to kiss me, are you?”

  “In your dreams,” she said, pulling back the tarp and dirty newspaper at the far end of the breakfast counter, revealing what she’d been working on. Max caught his breath.

  “Is that . . . ?”

  “Yep. It fastens here and here; this strap can tighten it. The cartridge slots in there, like so, and watch out for the spring-load. Be careful. I haven’t been able to field-test it yet, so the firing mechanism might be a bit temperamental.”

  “And does it . . . ?”

  “Yes, it does.”

  “And if I . . . ?”

  “It’ll take your finger off if you do that. Do you want to do that?”

  Max shook his head, fishing in his backpack. “I won’t need this anymore, then.” He tossed his old homemade catapult Wing’s way, the younger boy fumbling as he tried to catch it.

  “Okay,” said Syd, wrapping the device in an oily rag and handing it to Max. “What time is dusk?”

  “Six p.m.”

  “Enough lollygagging, then.”

  Syd placed a hand on Max’s shoulder as he opened the door, giving it an affectionate squeeze.

  “Be careful.”

  “When am I not?” he said as he bounded down the stairs, trying to act positive even though his legs felt leaden.

  “Every moment of every livelong day,” she called after him, closing the door with a fearful sigh.

  TWENTY-FOUR

  xxx

  THE BOX

  Syd sighed. Max was gone, but there was still plenty of work to do. “Okay, brainiac. What have you got?”

  Wing briefed her on everything he’d dug up in the past five minutes about Hastur, the King in Yellow—a surprising amount. “There are all kinds of references to him from ancient civilizations, like the Sumerians. He was a god of darkness, worshipped by a sect known as the Cult of the Endless Night.”

  “Vendemeier must be one of those crazies,” said Syd.

  “But there’s more,” said Wing excitedly. “According to medieval Germanic records, Hastur’s also the father of all vampires. The Knights Templar had a big hoo-ha back in the day. He was apparently a warrior prince of Carpathia who drank the blood of his enemies, gorged on their flesh, and fought only at night. Gotta be the same guy as the Sumerian god, right?”

  “Could it just be the same name popping up, but a different fiend?”

  “If you believe in coincidences.”

  “It sounds to me like whichever version of Hastur Vendemeier’s aligned to, it can’t be a good thing.”

  “Cunningham!” shouted Wing suddenly, causing Syd to leap back, fists raised and ready to fight.

  “Say what?”

  “Cunningham,” repeated Wing excitedly as his fingers blurred across the keyboard. “The security guard; he had a name tag doohickey!”

  “Badge?”

  “Bingo.” The boy grinned as he entered the name, followed by the words security guard, into a search engine.

  “Anything?”

  “Jackpot!” Wing clapped his hands. “From yesterday’s newspaper: there was a break-in at the Museum of Anthro-pology downtown. At the time the article was written, there was one item reported stolen, a sacrificial Egyptian dagger.”

  “The curvy blade he had last night,” said Syd, her own hopes rising.

  “In addition to the dagger going missing, police are also searching for a Mr. Wilbur Cunningham, the night watchman who was on security detail that night, whose whereabouts are currently unknown.”

  “Is that all?”

  “Gimme a second,” said Wing, fingers clicking the keys. “Just checking police records.”

  “You can do that?” exclaimed Syd.

  “What? You think I sit at home all day with my head in a book? Get with the program, lady . . .” Syd stifled a laugh. “No priors on Cunningham. There’s an arrest warrant out for him now, in light of the missing weapon. They’re recommending to approach with extreme caution. No sightings at all, though. Seems like he’s vanished.”

  Syd stepped away as Wing continued searching. There was something at the edge of her mind—what had she heard about the museum? It was something Jed had said. No, had he read something? Or had Syd read something of his? She approached the kitchenette counter where her tools were spread out.

  The two-day-old copy of the Examiner was now covered in oil and grime, but the information was there in black and white. She cleared her gear aside, straightening the page until the article was legible once more. It covered an opening-night event at the Museum of Anthropology. The theme of the new exhibition was “The Early Settlers of New England,” and above the article was a photograph of the lead curator, posing beside a few choice pieces from the collection. She leaned against a wooden pedestal, with a gibbet, gravestone, and bible-bashing preacher mannequin arranged menacingly around her. Syd squinted, before retrieving a magnifying glass from her tool kit. She held it over the picture, her breath catching in her throat.

  A box sat atop the pedestal, a metal plaque beneath it with a faint inscription: VENDEMEYER’S BOX.

  She called over her shoulder, “Search for Vendemeyer, spelled with a y. Throw the word box in for good measure!”

  Wing typed feverishly. “It’s listed as an artifact of the ‘Early Settlers’ exhibition, but what it contains isn’t clear. But it must be connected to him, right?”

  “You’d think so,” said Syd, snatching her raincoat off the door peg and tugging it on over her black sweater. She tried calling Max on her cell, but there was no answer. She pocketed the phone as Eightball rose from beneath the counter and joined her by the door. She gave him a friendly pat.

  “You’re coming then, pup?”

  He gave a hearty woof, his stubby tail smacking his butt cheeks like he might explode at any moment. She slipped his leash on.

  “I’m coming, too,” said Wing, scrambling out of the La-Z-Boy.

  “You are staying,” she replied, placing a hand on his chest and easing him back into the recliner. “You
’re a wizard, Wing. No, not a Hufflepuff. I mean with the Internet.” She patted the phone in her pocket. “Stay in touch, okay? I’ll let you know what I discover at the museum.”

  “Okay,” said Wing sulkily, shifting in the chair. “But I could’ve helped you out there. Max needs all the muscle he can muster.”

  Syd smiled. “You’re helping us here, Wing. Truly.” She leaned forward and gave him a gentle peck on the forehead. The kid blushed instantly as he returned his attention to the laptop.

  “I’ll stay on it,” he said, shoving his glasses back up his nose.

  “And Wing,” said Syd, slipping out of the door with Eightball, “stay epic!”

  He grinned as she thundered down the stairs. Once again he fidgeted in the La-Z-Boy, twisting to reach behind him. Something was jabbing at the small of his back, irritating him no end. He felt around, finally catching a piece of stiff paper and pulling it out of a fold in the leather. It was a business card. He stared at it intently, completely forgetting the task at hand and the computer on his lap.

  TWENTY-FIVE

  xxx

  THE GRAVEYARD SHIFT

  Max plunged his shovel into the pile of earth, slowly straightening his back in the process. He felt muscles and tendons pop and twang like broken guitar springs. He whimpered, which was fine, because nobody was watching. Max shuddered to imagine how he’d cope with life if he had to do a real job for a living. Aim him at the pointy teeth, wind him up, and watch him go; but give him a spade and ask him to dig? Watch him transform into a feeble-limbed norm. Still, it had been a busy afternoon in the dark heart of the burying ground, beneath the boughs of the Hanging Tree.

  Max looked up at the twisted branches that towered over him. Its enormous limbs arched away from the trunk like arms that had been repeatedly broken and healed, knots marking their length. Those people who had been guilty of the vilest and most heinous crimes had not been afforded the luxury of headstones. Pits had been dug around the base of the leafless tree, the corpses of Gallows Hill’s worst criminals tipped into them—no coffins, or prayers, for that matter. Max had unearthed a dozen of these graves so far, searching for the remains of the warlock who had cursed him. Thus far his quest had been fruitless. No bible; no warlock. All he’d discovered was twelve terrible corpses, and a fervent dislike of manual labor.