Mothman's Curse (14 page)

“Let's call that a last resort,” I said. “What else?”

“I thought of something,” he said with a crooked grin, “but you won't like it much.”

“Tell me.”

“We burn down the building Sunday night. Then nobody can be in it on Monday whenever the disaster strikes.”

“You're right. I hate it. Next?”

His gaze shifted sideways. “I'm working on it, okay? Feel free to chime in with any plans of your own.”

“The problem is we have no idea what kind of disaster we're supposed to stop or what time of day it's supposed to happen,” I said, pacing. “I wonder if John knew. I wish we could talk to him.”

A knock at the door caught us by surprise. Uncle Bill swung the door open and poked his head inside. He whistled when he caught sight of the broken window, which we'd covered over with garbage bags and duct tape to keep out the worst of the cold. Luckily we'd already swept away the chalk scribbles with a push broom.

He didn't ask about the window, though. He just scratched the back of his neck and said, “Fox, your dad wants you to call Saturday's auction. He thinks you're ready, and so do I. We could sure use the extra help.”

Fox's smile made the whole room seem brighter. “Really?”

Uncle Bill nodded. “You'll want to get some practice in before Saturday.” He gave a sort of half wave and let himself out.

“Wow.” Fox's happy mood lasted for all of three seconds. His smile disappeared when he glanced at the papers taped to the table. “Oh. I guess this is kind of more important, huh?”

The past several days had taken their toll. Both of us were anxious and low on sleep. We'd all but forgotten our plan to go to the state fair. We'd pretty much forgotten about
anything
simple or fun.

I took his arm and led him out of the Cave, shutting the door behind me. Dusk was already starting to creep across the sky. We had only a few hours left before bed. “Go and practice, just for an hour or so. You've been waiting for this for a long time. I'll keep researching and let you know if I find anything. It'll be fine.”

His brows scrunched together, his expression doubtful. “Josie.”

“Go on. All we have to do is figure out how to keep people away from the Field House on Monday. It's not like it's a landslide or a faulty bridge. It's just a building. We're Fletchers. We'll get it done.”

Fox did something then that he never, ever did—at least not since Momma died.

He hugged me.

I stood utterly still, overcome by shock. “Thanks, Josie. One hour, then I'm right back in this, okay?”

He ran for the house as I continued to stand there, wondering what other surprises the day might bring.

*   *   *

I claimed Dad's study so I could use the computer. I could hear Fox upstairs practicing his calling skills behind his closed bedroom door, smooth voice rushing along like a bubbling stream. I tried to feel happy for him as I read about one terrible disaster after another.

I started in Ohio, then moved on to Kentucky, Indiana, and West Virginia, searching all the way back to 1880. From what we knew so far, wherever Mothman appeared, disaster followed. I read about collapsed mines and sunken riverboats; about plane crashes and fifty-car pileups; about floods, and fires, and hundred-year blizzards. I sat with a notebook open in front of me, mapping out a time line to find some connection between the disasters, some way to tell if Mothman had played a role. After a while I realized there were tears dripping from my cheeks to the notebook page, making the ink spread in splotchy circles.

Dad's chair squeaked as I leaned my head back and rubbed at my eyes. Sadness gripped me, so thick and heavy it made my whole body ache. The stories were all so awful. I couldn't let something like that happen in Athens—I just couldn't.

I found myself wishing our ghost was there, just so I'd have some company. How twisted was that? But he understood. He knew things I needed to know. He'd lived through one disaster and was still trying to stop another, even in death.

“Mr. Goodrich?” I whispered. I wasn't quite ready to put the pin back on yet, afraid I'd get caught up in another vision. But I wondered if he was nearby, if he could hear me. “John? I could really use some help, if you have any suggestions.”

A chilly gust of air curled up from the floor and swept across the desk, scattering the papers piled there. I scrambled to catch them as they fluttered to the floor. As I shuffled the stacks around, trying to make everything look like it did before I got there, I spotted a manila envelope with Dad's name on it and the word
Goodrich
printed in block letters.

It had already been opened, so I didn't hesitate. I tipped the envelope, and a letter slid into my waiting hand:

Mr. Fletcher,

I'm writing on behalf of my client, John Goodrich. John passed away yesterday afternoon. He left strict instructions that you be the one to handle his estate in the event of his death. I know you spoke with him at length just this week, and I believe the terms you discussed align with what I've summarized below.

A contract is being written up with details of payment for your services. You can expect to receive your standard 30 percent fee of the proceeds, and are invited to select any pieces from the estate that you may wish for your personal collection. The remaining funds are to be used to create a disaster relief fund for the city of Athens.

You undoubtedly know some of the history behind the Clark landslide, although I don't believe you knew John personally. I request that this matter be handled in the strictest of confidence. The details of John's death, specifically, will create quite a stir when they come out, so I will tell you now that John took his own life. As you know, he was terminally ill, and it seems the long years of pain and grief finally took their toll. An autopsy will be performed to confirm this, but I received a letter from him by courier that same day, making his intentions clear and spelling out his last wishes in detail. Once word of the suicide gets out, both the public and the media will show no mercy in uncovering every gruesome detail.

John left items in the bedroom safe for your eyes alone. I do not have the combination, but I'm sure you have connections to assist you with that.

You may expect the contract to arrive by courier in the next few days. Thank you for your assistance and your discretion.

Sincerely,

Robert Latimer

I read the letter twice more, staring at the word
suicide
in anger and disbelief.

“Is it true?” I said aloud to the empty room. “You killed yourself? You dumped this curse on our family because you couldn't handle it anymore—is that it?”

I picked up the nearest pile of papers and threw them. Had he really given up? He'd lived in that house for forty years, waiting for some disaster he was supposed to stop, then killed himself a few weeks before it was supposed to happen? It didn't make sense.

I had no idea how to prevent a disaster or end some mysterious curse.

I felt scared, and furious, and more alone than I could ever remember. So I did what I knew Momma would do.

I kept looking.

 

11

Thursday and Friday flew by in a blur of school, auction preparations, and research. My teachers were no longer taking it easy on me, and with Dad gone, we all had to shoulder the extra work.

Fox took the news about John's suicide much better than I did. He arched an eyebrow in surprise and went back to perfecting his calling skills. He still tried to help where he could, but I knew the auction had claimed the bulk of his attention. I just hoped I'd get it back when the auction was over.

On Thursday, Dad felt up to talking on the phone, and on Friday, we spent almost an hour at the hospital with him awake and sitting up and everything. He was still so tired, though. I ached for him to be his indestructible self again, to leap out of bed and make everything okay. He stayed awake long enough to insist that we quit fussing over him, and to give Fox some last-minute coaching on calling the auction. I could see that Dad was proud of Fox, who soaked up every word, his face at once solemn and eager.

I pretended not to feel the twinge of jealousy that zinged through me as I waited for my turn to say goodbye.

*   *   *

My research dug up plenty of newspaper articles scattered across the last hundred-plus years about sightings of a part man, part moth—more than I'd expected. They were almost always buried on the back page, the paper going out of its way to make the witness look like a raving fool. None of the encounters came close to the level of notoriety reached in Point Pleasant. After a man named John Keel wrote a book about the sightings there, Mothman went mainstream, earning his spot in the monster Hall of Fame.

Still, many times the sightings were concentrated in a particular town, and when I searched those towns for disasters, I almost always found one, including an 1886 train derailment in Ravenswood, the town where Elsie had lived.

But my best find was a page-long interview in 1902 with a politician named Benjamin Park, who was running for city council. He said he'd been singled out to warn his town of a looming disaster, though he couldn't say what kind. Jacob Jeffreys, a friend of the family, had died in a nearby town trying to prevent another disaster, and had provided Benjamin with a powerful, mystical method of divining where tragedy would strike next. Mothman wasn't mentioned, but the article said that if elected, Benjamin claimed he “would have more influence to avert certain doom.”

In the photograph of Mr. Park, I could see a tiny gleam of gold at his collar. I grabbed a magnifying glass for a closer look. Sure enough, he was wearing the moth pin.

Further reading revealed that Benjamin Park lost the election, and twelve people died when a mine collapsed a few weeks later.

I worked up the courage to try on the pin again, more than once, but nothing happened. I didn't even see John's ghost. I wondered if he stayed away because he felt guilty about the suicide.

*   *   *

Our Saturday morning started at 4:30 a.m. By the time most kids were just waking up, Fox, Mason, and I were already exhausted from hours of fetching and carrying.

People started lining up outside the auction building before dawn for the eight o'clock preview. By 6:00 a.m. the line snaked all the way down one wall and around the corner.

Aunt Barb, face flushed and sweat already dampening her shirt, bustled about in a state of near hysteria, as Mitch and Uncle Bill wrestled a few last-minute furniture pieces into place.

Fox paced back and forth in front of the podium, trying out auctioneer voices.

The only one who seemed to be enjoying himself was Mason. He ran from the storeroom to the auction floor to the office to the bank of windows where he could gawk at the gathering crowd outside. I couldn't help but smile as I watched him.

My smile faded as I felt the weight of the moth pin near my collarbone. I'd changed my mind a dozen times that morning about whether to wear it. In the end, I fastened it to my T-shirt and covered it up with a sweater to avoid any questions.

At eight o'clock, Uncle Bill opened the doors.

The morning had dawned cool and foggy, a fine drizzle seeping into the clothes and hair of all those waiting customers, adding to the overall restlessness. I recognized all our regulars, but there were many, many more faces I was seeing for the first time. People from neighboring towns in all directions had come to gawk, or maybe to be part of something that didn't happen often: the life of a local legend on display for all to see.

I thought of John's sad eyes and bowed shoulders, and even though I was mad at him, I suddenly wished I could send all the gawkers away. They crowded around the tables, handling and pawing every piece, jostling one another for position. I realized I actually
wanted
to see John again, mostly because I felt like he owed me an explanation for what he'd done.

I ducked into the storeroom and closed the door behind me. By the end of the weekend, it would be filled with someone else's possessions, but at the moment it was blessedly empty.

I took a long, slow breath, soaking in the quiet. When I opened my eyes, John was there beside me.

I startled and clutched my chest. He moved back a few feet to give me some space.

Save them
, he mouthed, and even though I couldn't hear the words I understood them well enough.

“I'm trying. But I have to know why you killed yourself. I deserve to know.”

He glanced over his shoulder. I followed his gaze and saw … a woman.

A ghost. She was tall and thin, with limp hair and a pinched face.

Nora, I realized with sudden clarity. I recognized her from the photo albums.

“Mrs. Goodrich?” I whispered.

She blinked at me, her face twisted in torment. She was just as we'd seen her in the albums, except now she was drained of all color like John. Her image flickered in and out, like a dying streetlight.