Mothman's Curse (5 page)

The house creaked and thumped as it settled for the night. Branches scraped the window. A dog barked somewhere far away. Our old furnace rumbled to life with a throaty cough. I peeked out of the covers just as two red pinpoints flared to life beyond the curtains.

I sat up with a gasp. A dark form moved past the glass, followed by a sound like flapping wings.

Then the lights, and the figure, were gone.

It was a barn owl. Had to be. An owl, or hawk, or—what other creatures liked to stay awake at night? It didn't matter, because it was no big deal. Just some bird out looking for its dinner. Or maybe a bat. Didn't bats have red eyes? I could look it up. Yes, definitely a bat. I crept to the end of the bed and pressed my nose to the glass, my quick breaths fogging the window. But there was nothing there.

I lay there for another hour, pulse thrumming, before sinking into exhausted sleep, dreaming of a thousand red eyes flung like stars across the walls and ceiling of my room.

 

4

Sunday dawned clear and cold. Outside my window, a layer of frost blanketed the fields and rooftops, shining in the morning sunlight. I sat up, kissed the photo of Momma, and sank my bare toes into the fluffy rug beside my bed.

I felt a prickle between my shoulder blades, a rising sense of being watched by unseen eyes. I glanced at the closet door. Maybe Fox would keep the photos in his room for a few days. But I was too chicken to ask him. Practical, predictable Josie, afraid of a few photographs? I'd never hear the end of it.

“Josie, you awake?” Fox waltzed in without waiting for an answer. “Guess what? I found a few very interesting items in that pile of papers.”

I stood and stretched. “Like what?” I said, still fighting the urge to look over my shoulder.

“I found surveyors' maps and aerial photos of Clark. And there were minutes from town meetings where Goodrich and his wife showed up to rant about landslides, trying to get an evacuation plan put in place or hire people to assess the danger,” Fox said. “They were trying to warn people about the disaster months before it happened.”

“How would they know about the landslide unless they had something to do with it?” I said.

“But why would they warn people if they did it on purpose?”

Good question.

“And get this,” he continued. “It wasn't just landslides. They donated all this money to buy fancy weather equipment, enforce stricter building codes, install more traffic signals, build a new fire station, add a wing to the town medical center. We're talking millions of dollars.”

I ran my hands through my tangled hair. Fox was already showered and dressed in khakis and a sweater-vest, an outfit that would turn most kids into instant bully magnets. But Fox wasn't most kids. He looked like an escapee from a young-executive training program. “How long have you been up?” I said.

“Long enough.”

“But how—”

“Look, we'll talk about it on the way. Just get dressed. Dad's going to Clark
today
.”

“What?”

“I'm pretty sure he plans to go this morning to avoid us trying to tag along.”

“Smart man.”

*   *   *

Fox and I were sitting in Dad's truck by the time he came outside. He saw us and stopped short. We smiled and waved.

He swung the driver's side door open and slid behind the wheel. “Just going out for doughnuts,” Dad said. “No need for you two to come along. I'll bring back your favorites, all right?”

“We're old enough,” Fox countered, arms crossed. “Why can't we come?”

“For doughnuts?”

“To Clark,” Fox said. “You already let us go through their stuff, encouraged our thirst for knowledge. You can't cut us off now when we're learning so much about our community's tragic history.”

Dad narrowed his eyes, calling bull on Fox's little speech.

So Fox resorted to a primitive but effective method of persuasion to speed things along. “Pleeeeaaase?”

I joined in. “Please, Dad?”

“Get your seat belts on,” Dad grumbled, blowing into his cold-stiffened hands. “Does your aunt know you're leaving?”

Fox grinned. “I left her a note.”

Dad was a man of his word. He stopped for doughnuts on the way out of town.

During the drive to Clark, Fox and I played Last Doughnut Standing, a time-honored game of eating as slowly as possible to see who could make their doughnut last the longest.

“You mind telling me what you two are hoping to find out here?” Dad said.

“Come on, Dad, everybody's interested in this place,” Fox said, chewing a microscopic bite of his cruller. “How could we turn down a chance to see inside? Besides, isn't there a good chance that whoever buys it at auction will have it bulldozed?”

He nodded. “That's right. There's already talk of a memorial being built on the site.”

The hills were a menacing presence as we drove, higher and steeper than in Athens. As I ate my sprinkles one at a time, I tried to imagine what it must have been like for John Goodrich and his wife. Fox had said they tried to warn the town. Had they really known about the landslide? How could anyone have known? I pictured Goodrich sitting calmly in his study, maybe drinking coffee or reading a book. Maybe he heard a noise—a low rumble at first, growing until it rattled the windows, until it deafened him. He must have looked outside to see half the mountain sliding toward him—

I startled when the truck's motion changed as Dad slowed and took the exit for Clark. I sat up taller, craning my neck for a glimpse of the ruined town. Finally, we rounded a bend in the road.

The hillside looked … liquefied. A river of rock and dirt flowed from hilltop to valley, much of it covered by a newer growth of brush and scrub trees.

We passed structures here and there along the road, long abandoned: the boarded-up brick school, the bare bones of an old gas station, a rusted playground. I pressed my face close to the window. All that remained of the playground were a set of monkey bars and one lonely swing, swaying in the breeze. Weeds and tall grasses had swallowed the rest.

A rush of dread filled me. I nearly insisted that Dad take us home. But Fox's face shone with anticipation. Dad gripped the steering wheel loosely, looking relaxed. The only one fool enough to feel nervous was me.

Dad turned the truck down a narrow, rutted road, and suddenly I was staring at the Goodrich house for the first time.

I'd always imagined it as a gloomy clapboard farmhouse with a sagging porch, a weather vane, and jagged holes in the roof. But the real thing was more unsettling than anything I'd invented in my head.

The house had probably been beautiful once, with thick wooden beams in angled patterns around the windows and a roof shaped by sharp peaks and valleys. But decades of neglect had left it scarred, layers of moss and black grime clinging to every surface. Tall, thin trees lined the driveway, their branches shivering in the wind.

Dad parked the truck and we scrambled out. A man I didn't recognize rose from a chair on the porch and approached to shake Dad's hand. Pale and blond with a baby face, he kind of looked like a kid and a grown-up all at the same time.

He was also over six feet tall and built like a pro wrestler.

“Mitch, I'd like you to meet my two oldest kids, Fox and Josie.” Fox shook the man's hand. I hesitated, a little afraid that he'd squash my fingers, but eventually I held out my hand.

Mitch took it in both of his own. His grip was strong but not crushing. “Pleased to make your acquaintance, Josie. That's a solid handshake you have there.” His gentle, soft-spoken voice was completely at odds with his mammoth size.

“Any problems out here?” Dad asked.

“No, sir.” He gestured to the pair of earbuds he wore, the cord disappearing into his coat pocket. “Had to bring along some music to drown out the quiet. It gets to you after a while.”

Dad nodded. “The kids and I came to gather the last few items for auction. And I'm meeting the inspector at ten. Will you give us a heads-up when he gets here?”

“Sure thing, Mr. Fletcher.”

We climbed the porch steps, and Dad unlocked the front door and led us inside. Our movements echoed through the empty space.

We stood in the center of a two-story great room. Underfoot, the scuffed wooden floors creaked and groaned. The ceiling soared overhead. Paneled walls and wooden beams made the room feel too dark, especially since the windows were shrouded by thick velvet curtains.

I walked over to yank the curtains aside, letting light flood the room. A thick chill hung in the air, creeping into my bones. I lingered at the window to let the sun warm my face, until I caught a clear view of the ruined mountain.

I quickly closed the drapes again.

I heard Fox and Dad climbing a set of stairs; soon their footsteps thumped overhead, their murmured voices drifting down through the ceiling. In the dining room, I passed three Persian rugs, rolled up and propped in a corner, and a handful of sealed boxes. I stepped into the kitchen. The oven was big enough to use in a restaurant, though outdated by several decades. Over the sink, a large picture window faced the mountain—another reminder of the disaster. Had John been at the window? Had he seen it coming?

I moved through an arched doorway, past a marble fireplace, and ran my hand along the smooth wooden banister that led up to the second floor.

Fox stood at the top of the stairs. “Is there a basement?” he said as he came down.

“Not sure. Where's Dad?”

“In the master bedroom. There's a safe in the wall up there. He's trying to work his magic. Couldn't crack it the last time he was out here. Says he might have to bring in Lucky Larry from town.”

“It's a pretty house,” I said, wandering back toward the windows. “Not what I pictured at all.” I fingered a section of peeling wallpaper. “But all that sadness and death … it feels like it's soaked right into the walls, you know?” My voice sounded dreamy, far away to my own ears.

Fox followed me and snapped his fingers in front of my face. “Josie, you in there? What's going on with you?”

I shoved his hand away. “Nothing. Everything! How can you not feel—”

A shout of terror came from upstairs, our father's voice in a tone I'd never heard, and then, even as we went running, a terrible series of thumps and thuds and grunts of pain.

We found Dad sprawled at the bottom of the stairs, eyelids fluttering, one hand opening and closing uselessly, his right leg twisted the wrong way beneath him.

“Daddy!” I stood stupidly, gaping, the scene so awful I couldn't move.

“Josie, get Mitch. Now!” Fox shook my shoulders and gave me a push toward the front door before kneeling and grabbing Dad's hand to still his fingers. I ran, shouting for Mitch. He barreled through the door, already punching numbers into his cell phone. Fox had started up a stream of calming chatter, pushing gently on Dad's shoulder each time he tried to get up off the floor. Fox had taken off his coat and draped it over Dad's chest. I moved to do the same, but Mitch beat me to it. I nearly sobbed in gratitude because I was suddenly so cold I couldn't catch my breath. My teeth chattered. As I leaned in close, I could hear Dad's distressed muttering, the same few words again and again: “Red eyes. He flew right at me with those red, red eyes.”

My gaze flew to Fox. I hadn't told anyone about the red eyes outside my window. What could it mean? But now wasn't the time to ask, especially when I saw Fox's impassive face. His eyes were shuttered, his body statue-still. In the years since we lost Momma, it had become his default setting anytime fear tapped him on the shoulder. He caught me staring and looked away.

Mitch, phone to his ear, squeezed my arm with one huge hand. I flinched.

Sirens wailed. People came and bundled Dad up and hustled him into an ambulance. Mitch made several calls—to Uncle Bill and Aunt Barb, to the inspector and the Goodrich lawyer. Fox helped, kept himself busy, seemed in his element organizing and making things happen.