Cursed

by J. R. Rain

  “No, I think that’s all bait and switch,” Tabby said. “Nana was a clever one. You thought your greatest fear was mice, and she gave you that, but she also knew more about you than she let on.”

  “Wait a sec. You’re saying it gets worse than a furry little shit trying to dig its way into my pants?”

  I followed Tabby’s gaze and looked down at the mouse. It was an awkward moment no matter how you spun it. The mouse’s nose was not twitching, and its scrawny ribs weren’t moving. It was dead.

  “That might be a metaphor for your greatest fear,” Tabby said. “Magic is all about symbols, in case you hadn’t noticed.”

  I turned and stepped over the guardrail. Tabby started to follow but I held up my hand. “A little privacy, please. Some things a man just has to do alone.”

  With a gentleness that almost bordered on reverence, I cupped the mouse and wiggled it. My zipper went down an inch or so before the mouse came free. I laid it to rest in the tall grass, though I skipped any words of prayer for its eternal peace.

  Tabby was on the phone when I got back, reciting an address in the hills north of Fullerton. I deduced it was the deeds office on the line. Maybe when all this blew over, I’d give up my insurance gig and become a detective. Assuming I survived.

  When Tabby finished, I said, “Where did you get my keys?”

  “From your pocket.”

  I shot her my meanest glance. “When?”

  “While you were asleep. Or passed out, whatever you prefer. I couldn’t take the chance that you’d freak out and make a run for it, take the easy way out like you always do.”

  I thought of those strong, slender hands roaming over my body and I wasn’t sure whether I liked it or not. But for sure I didn’t like the accusation that I was going to let Gerda have her way with my son while I sat on a bar stool moaning about how badly the world had treated me.

  Like you’ve spent the past ten months doing?

  Sometimes you wish the voices in your head would just shut the hell up.

  “You have an address?” I said, deftly changing the subject.

  “Yeah, a ‘Louise Sanderson’ bought a cabin about 40 miles north of here two months ago. Remote but not totally off the map.”

  “So we go there?”

  “Yes, but we have another stop to make first.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Nana’s magic is strong. Very strong. We’re going to need some major mojo.”

  My mouth fell open. “No. Please don’t tell me this gets even worse.”

  She nodded. “I’m afraid so, Al. Worse, I suspect the mice are just a secondary curse.”

  I seriously did not like the direction this conversation was going. “What the devil does that mean?”

  “You’ve been cursed twice, Albert Shipway. I’m certain of it.”

  “Okay, that’s just not a very nice thing to say.”

  “Bait and switch. See, Amanda must have told Nana everything. And Nana figured out your greatest fear wasn’t just the mice, which she probably picked up from some offhand comment.”

  I swallowed hard. “I swear, I don’t have any other phobias. Snakes on a plane, bring ‘em on. Spiders, I love the little guys. Dentists, I’m a big fan of laughing gas.”

  Tabby almost grinned. Almost. “I think your greatest fear is having to face yourself. To look in the mirror and say, ‘Albert Shipway, you’re a sorry, selfish jerk who ruins everything he touches.’ Like you enjoyed tricking Amanda into falling in love with you while you were secretly married to a damaged woman. Like you knew you were cooking up all the plot ingredients for a Jerry Springer special, taking as much as you could get. Like you knew all this had to end badly, but somehow you’d come out looking like the victim, probably so you could cry on the shoulders of a few more women and have them fall into bed out of sympathy. While you laughed and drank and celebrated at the altar of the wicked little rodent between your legs. That’s what I think, Shipway.”

  I didn’t dignify the accusation with a response. All I could do, after an awkward silence, was change the subject again. “So, where do we get this major mojo you were talking about?”

  “Dada.”

  “Huh?”

  “Nana’s father.”

  I did a quick calculation in my head. That would have put him well over the century mark, maybe up to 150 years. I didn’t think I was going to like this, but what choice did I have?

  “Umm, we’re not going to have to summon him from beyond the grave or anything, are we?”

  “Depends.”

  “Great.” And here I was, thinking all I had to worry about was my wife mutilating my baby and mice treating me like a Thanksgiving turkey.

  Tabby headed for the bike.

  “Do I get to drive now?” I asked.

  “No.”

  Chapter Twenty-four

  We turned right off the twisting highway and into a tract of houses. The street was dark, for trees clustered thickly along both sides. I almost expected to hear the cry of a howling monkey, or see a lost Mayan temple rising from behind the thick trees. Instead, I saw huge houses of all shapes and sizes and ages, with gated yards and wild gardens.

  Tabby wheeled the bike in front of an iron fence. The fence sealed off the entrance to a long, snaking driveway that disappeared under a canopy of trees. I could not even see the house from where we were, just spiky pines trees and billowy brush.

  Tabby took her helmet off, and when a voice crackled over the intercom, I had to restrain myself from ordering a Big Mac Value Pack with extra ketchup. Apparently Tabby understood whatever-the-hell language was spoken over the intercom, and surprised me by answering back in the same jabberwocky. The next thing I knew, the iron gate had opened...so silently that I had not even been aware of it doing so.

  As Tabby accelerated onto the property, I noticed a red BMW moving very slowly down the street on my right. My mind told me that this was the same BMW that had sped past me earlier, and my mind also told me that if this BMW had been in such a hurry earlier, then why was it crawling through the streets now? And though Fullerton had its share of BMWs, it seemed like too much of a coincidence, but I had other worries at the moment.

  We drove on through the gate, seemingly down a private, winding interstate. We plunged under the canopy of trees and I felt like Ichabod Crane during his last trek through the dark woods of Sleepy Hollow. A bird suddenly squawked nearby—a fat crow—and I gripped Tabitha nervously. Or maybe I just liked squeezing up against her without mice between us.

  The lane turned lazily to the right, and I kept my eyes glued to the translucent white cobblestones that seemed to glow with an inner light, my only guide through this dark little forest. And just like that, the brightness of the morning splashed the cobblestones before us, searing my eyes with morning light while the canopy of trees thinned and finally opened to the view of an impressive edifice. Colonial columns, lots of glass, white paint and black trim, all three stories’ worth.

  “Some house,” I shouted over the bike. We followed the white cobblestone path as it circled a huge fountain of rather robust mermaids. “Reminds me of the goddamned White House. Who the hell lives here?”

  “My great grandfather.”

  I shivered a little—a good, funny shiver. “The Dada dude?”

  “Yes.”

  “This isn’t another one of those homes for retired witches and warlocks, is it?”

  “No, it’s all Dada’s.”

  She stopped the Harley near a cement path that led up a wide stairway, which, in turn, led between Colonial columns to the huge front doors. “Do I leave the bike here for Jeeves?”

  “Very funny. His name is Rudolph, but he’s a butler, not a valet.”

  “Rudolph the Butler. Sort of has a good, Christmassy ring to it.”

  I held out my hand. Tabby frowned and then gave me my bike keys. I could tell we were starting to develop a level of trust. Or maybe she just didn’t want to waste time arguing.

  I fo
llowed Tabby up the marble stairs. She pushed a good old-fashioned doorbell, which resulted in a deep, vibrating gong that seemed to emanate from the ground up.

  The door opened and Rudolph the Butler appeared. He had a tissue in his hand, and he used it to swipe at his red, wet nose. Rudolph the red-nosed butler wasn’t feeling too good, obviously. However, when he realized it was Tabby standing in the doorway, he broke into a big grin and said, almost too excitedly and almost too unprofessionally: “A pleasure to see you again, madam.”

  “Good to see you, too, Rudolph. Is Dada in his study?”

  “He is, madam.”

  “Is he...with us?”

  I didn’t like the way she asked that question.

  “Indeed, madam.”

  “We’ll find our way, Rudolph. Thank you.”

  The butler replied with something or other, but the words were garbled from under the tissue. We strode into the big, cool house in search of an ancient great-granddaddy who may or may not be dead.

  Chapter Twenty-five

  The house was indeed massive. We moved passed a wide wooden staircase with an ornate newel post. The mahogany floors creaked beneath our feet. Portraits lined the walls, more Meads than you could shake a wand at, and there was even an odd sculpture at the end of the hall. It was shaped like a hand, but there were six fingers.

  A few minutes later, we stepped into a massive study lined with dark oak bookshelves and a massive window in the back that was concealed behind a thick curtain. The room was gloomy except for a well-lit desk that was as big as a small Baltic country.

  The man sitting behind the desk seemed gnome-like. The hunch in his back would have inspired Victor Hugo. Two bushy eyebrows hovered over his eyes like storm clouds. His eyes were closed, and with his pale, waxen skin, he could have easily passed for morgue meat.

  I wondered if he was really “with us,” despite the butler’s assurances. Or maybe the phrase had a different meaning to the Meads, like maybe he was into astral projection or out-of-body experiences. With a body like that, I sure couldn’t blame him.

  As we approached with a hush of reverence, his eyes snapped open. I hope they were bloodshot. Otherwise, he had red pupils.

  He got up from his chair and hobbled over to us with the aid of a cane. He stood before us, though he was so bent at the spine that he appeared to be still sitting. He held out his arms and Amanda leaned down and gave him a hearty hug.

  “Sorry about Nana,” she said.

  He gave a dismissive wave. “Ah, she’ll be back.”

  I didn’t get a hug. Instead, he eyed me coolly, squinting, his wrinkles getting wrinkles. He pointed his cane at me, nostrils quivering like frightened guinea pigs. My eyes followed the silver tip of the cane as it proceeded to outline the contours of my body. He leaned forward and sniffed a couple of times, causing his gray nasal wool to quiver.

  “You are cursed,” he said simply. His voice sounded surprisingly young.

  “How do you know this?”

  He ignored me, but Tabby said, “He can see curses, Al. He can see them clinging to you. He can also see the trademark of the curse. He knows it’s from his own daughter.”

  “Why has my deceased daughter cursed you?”

  I told him all I knew. And some stuff I wasn’t sure about. And maybe a lie or two.

  He tented his chapped, trembling fingers in reflection. Finally, he said, “I will help you—but for a price.”

  I shrank back another inch. “A price?”

  Tabby spoke up. “What price are you talking about, Dada?”

  He stepped back, leaned on the cane, and was the perfect image of a man who looked as if he had lived far too long: loose skin, gray hair, with ears and nose much out of proportion to the rest of his face. He moved back around to his desk and sat down. “I cannot name a price, Tabitha. He must name the price.”

  “Dada—”

  He held up a now-steady hand, white and utterly colorless, the lifeline deep as a canyon. “Be still, Tabitha. This is now between the young man and myself. He has come here for my help. I can see the curse hanging over him like a dark cloud. It follows him everywhere, and it would do so until his death. It is a very powerful curse.”

  “How about a hundred bucks?” I said, looking over my head, but all I could see were the ceiling fixtures. That much cash could probably pay the taxes on maybe a square foot of the place.

  “Try again,” he asked, sitting back, crossing his hands over his small chest.

  I looked around the ornate room. The books on the shelves were ancient and bound in well-preserved leather. Each one could probably fetch a pretty penny. “You don’t need money,” I said simply.

  He raised his bushy eyebrows and rolled his fervid eyes in what I understood to be agreement.

  “I’m not sure I have anything you want,” I said.

  “Think again.”

  Tabby touched my arm, and I looked into her face. Her eyes were huge and unblinking. Her eyelashes seemed astronomically long, and I again was struck by her deep beauty. “Al,” she said. “My grandfather is a hundred and twenty-two years old.”

  I inhaled, and turned my gaze back to the old man. Beauty and the beast. He looked much younger than that. He didn’t look a day over a hundred and ten. There was an unhealthy eagerness in his flashing eyes. I felt like the last piece of bacon at a Denny’s buffet.

  “You want to live forever,” I said.

  He nodded, and his eyes glowed as if from some inner fire. “Not forever, my young friend. But I do not want to go just yet.”

  I stood there uncomprehending. I felt light-headed, in need of oxygen, as if my lungs weren’t working correctly. I inhaled and expanded my chest slowly. I let the air out loudly between my lips. “I’m not sure how I can help with that,” I said, thinking of Michael Jackson’s aerobic chamber, cryogenics labs, plastic surgery, and other expensive methods of longevity.

  Tabby leaned into me and whispered, “One of the rules to this, Al, is that he cannot ask you. You must offer.”

  “Offer what?” I felt my heart pounding in my chest.

  Her breath was hot in my ear. “You’d better figure it out for yourself.”

  I moved back into one of the plush chairs, sinking down into its depths. I held my head in my hands and stared through my fingers at the crazy old man in front of me. And he was old. Terribly old. Too old. But he somehow looked so indestructible.

  “Time,” I whispered. “You want more time.”

  “Yes,” he hissed from across the study, his hearing just fine despite the nest of wiry hairs that protruded wildly from his ears.

  “Are you a vampire?” I asked.

  He shook his head vigorously, and Tabby giggled next to me. “Vampires aren’t real, silly,” she said.

  “I do not kill, ever,” Dada said. “I just take...a little.”

  I swallowed hard. “How much is a little?”

  He paused, and his eyes flared like a struck match. “Five years.”

  “Dada!” Tabby’s tone was almost teasing.

  “Okay, three years.”

  Tabby put her hands on her hips, her jaw set in firm determination. It must have been a Mead character trait, because Amanda used the same expression.

  “Two years,” he said sheepishly.

  “How does this work?” I asked.

  “You will lose two years of your life,” said the great-grandfather, “and I will gain two years of life. How exactly it works involves magicks that you cannot begin to understand.”

  “Knowledge is power and you’re keeping it all to yourself, huh?” I glanced around the room at the opulence that now seemed like extreme decadence. “I will give you six months.”

  “A year and a half!” he squealed.

  “One year.”

  “Done!” he said, and slammed his wrinkled little hand down on the desk.

  I had made a deal with the devil. Or as close to the devil as I would ever come.

  At least for a while.
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  Chapter Twenty-six

  I lay on the brass-studded sofa that was upholstered in a skin I couldn’t recognize and was afraid to ask about. Tabby’s great-grandfather hovered over me like a wrinkled specter. He breathed loudly through his slightly open mouth. His front teeth were small and so remarkably clean that I wondered if they were still his own. His breath smelled medicinal and stale, not like the corpse-rot I’d expected. His short white hair hung to either side of his small head like dead grass. Outside, through the massive French windows, sunshine retreated behind storm clouds. I hadn’t been aware that it was going to rain.

  The old man arrayed votive candles around the room, mumbling constantly in what sounded like Latin. Tabby was gone, waiting in the hallway outside. It was just me and the old man, and I wondered how many other unlucky people had lain on this couch and given the old geezer a bit of their souls.

  He had me stretched on my back on the couch, arms and legs straight. Except that my left arm kept flopping off the couch and trailing on the shag carpet. Each time it did, he would reach over and place it along my body and shake his head. Finally, I just tucked my unruly hand under my buttocks.

  I lay prostrate on the couch, trying to get comfortable. The old man sat on a wooden stool and held in his hand an ancient book. The book was frayed along the spine, and the gold lettering was no longer legible. Besides, I doubted it was in English. He licked his fingers and flipped through the book, frowning and mumbling. I turned my head and looked toward the door, wondering what Tabby was doing and if she was worried about me.

  The old man slapped the book with the palm of his hand and teetered on the stool, which wobbled on uneven legs. Or perhaps the polished wooden floor was uneven. He kept his balance, looked over the book, and met my eyes with his own. He looked completely insane, like I imagine Adolf Hitler had looked the first time he’d held a glowing ember to a grub worm and considered the possibilities. Sweat stood on his wrinkled brow, and his frayed hair stuck in the sweat like flies on flypaper. He absently wiped the sweat away. Dada had looked as dry as parchment before, but the excitement must have gotten his juices flowing.