The Curse Girl

The Curse Girl

A Novella

By

Kate Avery Ellison

© 2011 Kate Avery Ellison

This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to persons living or dead is purely coincidental. No part of this book may be copied, reproduced, or distributed, either electronically or otherwise, without written permission from the author.

ONE

My father drove me through the woods in his truck, the wheels shuddering over the dirt road while the air hummed with all the unspoken words between us. The tears wriggled down his wrinkled cheeks only to get lost in his beard. The mark on his wrist burned at the edge of my peripheral vision, as if it were glowing.

I sat silent and immobile, a statue, a paper doll, a frozen thing of stone.

When we reached the gate I drew one shuddering breath and let it out, and my father put his hand on my shoulder. His fingers dug into my skin.

“He promised he wouldn’t hurt you, Bee. He
promised
.”

I shifted. His hand fell limply on the seat between us. He didn’t try to touch me again.

Dad turned off the engine and we sat wrapped in the silence. I heard him swallow hard. I slid my fingers up and down the strap of my backpack. My mouth tasted like dust. The car smelled like old leather and fresh terror.

Nobody knew if the legends were lies, myth, or truth. But they all talked about the Beast that lived in the house. Some said he ate human children, some said he turned into a vicious creature in the night, some said he looked like a demon, with flames for eyes.

A trickle of sweat slipped down my spine.

“You don’t—” My father started to say, but he hesitated. Maybe he’d been hoping I would cut him off, but I didn’t. I just sat, holding my backpack, feeling the crush of responsibility slip over my shoulders and twine around my neck like a noose.

Through the gate I could see the house, watching us with dead eyes. Trees pressed close to the bone-white walls like huddled hags with flowing green hair, and everything was covered with a mist of grayish moss. I’d heard the stories my whole life—we all had—but I’d never been close enough to see the cracks in the windowsills, the dead vines clinging to the roof.

Magic hung in the air like the lingering traces of a memory. I could almost taste it. Voices whispered faintly in the wind, or was that just the trees? The knot in my stomach stirred in response.

My father tried again, and this time he got the whole sentence out. “You don’t have to do this.”

Of course I did. Of course I must. I wasn’t doing this for him. I was doing it because I had no choice. With the mark on his wrist, he was a dead man. Our whole family was doomed. He knew it and I knew it, and he was playing a game of lame pretend because he wanted to sooth his own guilt. Because he wanted to be able to look back at this moment every time it crossed his mind in the future and feel that he had offered me a way out. That he’d been willing to rescue me, but I’d refused.

Instead of responding, I opened the door and climbed out. The gravel crunched under my shoes as I stepped to the ground. I shouldered my backpack and took a deep breath.

The gate squeaked beneath my hand. I crossed the lawn and climbed the steps to the house, feeling the stone shudder beneath my shoes like the house lived and breathed. The door didn’t open on its own, which I had half-expected, but when I put my hand on the knob I could feel the energy humming inside it like a heartbeat.

My father waited at the car. I looked over my shoulder and saw him standing with one hand on the door, his shoulders pulled tight like a slingshot.

All I had to do was step inside. One step inside and the mark would disappear. And I could run home. I could outsmart this house. Couldn't I? I sucked in a deep breath and rolled my shoulders.

Maybe I believed that. Maybe I didn’t. Why else had I brought a backpack full of clothes, toiletries?

“Bee,” my father called out, and his voice cracked. I paused, waiting for more. Maybe he really was sorry. Maybe he really didn’t want me to do this …

“Bee, I just wanted to tell you how thankful your stepmother and I—”

My throat tightened. He wasn't going to stop me, was he? I shook my head, and he rubbed a hand over his face and fell silent.

When he’d come home two weeks ago at 3 AM, the sleeve of his work uniform torn, his lip bleeding, and his eyes full of fear, my stepmother had cried. Really cried—wrenching sobs that made her double over and clutch at her sides. She almost looked as if she were laughing. I’d looked at him, and I could smell the magic on him. I’d known exactly where he’d been.

And there was a tiny part of me that knew then too that I’d be the one who would pay the price for his foolishness.

All I had to do now was step across the threshold. Then the mark on his wrist would vanish, and he would be free. Everything would be okay. That was all we’d promised, right?

I pushed open the door and stepped into the house. I held my breath.

Across the lawn, my father made a sound like a sob.

Was that it? Was the mark gone?

“Daddy?” I choked out, not daring to move. “Is it—?”

“It’s gone, honey!”

I started to turn, but I wasn’t fast enough. The door snapped shut like the jaws of a hungry animal. I grabbed the handle and twisted, throwing my shoulder against the heavy wood. I shrieked, wrenching the handle harder.

It was locked.

I clawed at the wood with my fingernails until they bled. I pounded with my fists.

The door didn’t budge. It was strong as stone.

Through the slip of glass, I saw the headlights of my father’s car flick on, and the engine revved.

He was leaving me.

I slid to the floor. My sneakers squeaked against the shiny marble, my fingers slipped down the polished mahogany of the door. I didn’t want to look behind me into the mouth of the house, into the darkness that was going to be my home. Or my tomb. I didn’t want to think of how my father would go home and my absence would be like a ripple in the house, felt for a moment and then gone from their minds. I didn’t want to think about who would miss me at school. Violet. Livia. Drew.

Drew.

Grief stuck like cement behind my eyes. I wanted to cry, but I had no tears. I never had tears. My eyes burned and my throat squeezed shut, making it hard to breathe. I crouched on the floor and put my hand over my mouth and thought of Drew’s hair, his eyes, his smile.

I might never see any of those things ever again.

Terror—real terror—charged through me like a storm. It pulsed through my body, pushing at my skin, wanting to get out. Like my own soul was fighting to be free of me, like my own self couldn’t stand to be trapped here at this moment. It was a surge of blinding intensity, like lightning. Then I fell, panting, my hands braced on the cool floor.

“Stop it,” I said aloud. “Stop this.”

I didn’t have to stay here. The mark was gone and we were free and I could go home—if I could just find a way out. The idea, planted in my fear-frozen mind, cracked my terror like spring warmth. Escape.

After all, I wasn’t dead.

“Yet,” I muttered, and the echo of my voice, soft and velvet, whispered back to me in the stillness. I closed my eyes tight, counted to five, and opened them. And I looked at the place that was going to be my prison.

The foyer stretched up like a bell tower. A shattered chandelier lay three feet away, crystal droplets spread like frozen tears across the marble. Light slanted into the hall through arching windows, illuminating the rest of the room and striping the broken furniture and torn books with golden sunlight. In the middle of the room, papers and quills lay scattered around on the floor. It was as if a great monster had gone into a rage and shredded the room, and then fallen into a peaceful slumber after exhausting himself.

Behind me lurked a gloomy hallway, lined with doors.

I was stuck in this house. My friends couldn’t help me. Drew couldn’t help me. My father wouldn’t help me.

A sigh slipped through my lips as I stood to my feet.

I was alone.

Alone in the house of the Beast.

TWO

I needed to find a way out. A window, maybe? The only light in the foyer came from the glass panel in the door and a few portals high in the vaulted ceiling. My gaze slid to the doors lining the hallway.

I’d have to go through one of them.

For a second I wondered if I could just stay here, clinging to the front door praying my father would come back with an axe to save me. But I knew that was stupid.

He wasn’t coming back. I knew that deep in my bones.

Gathering a lungful of air, I rolled my shoulders and bounced in place, loosening my muscles in case I needed to run. I stepped towards the first door.

A blast of musty air fanned my face as I stared into utter darkness. A shudder crawled down my spine, and I slammed the door, my heart thudding.

I moved to the second door, but it led to blackness too. Were there no windows in this house? I'd seen them outside. They should be here somewhere.

I tried every door, and every door opened to darkness. Darkness it would be, then. Spotting a candle in a bracket on the wall, I stood on my tiptoes to grab it. I’d need light.

As soon as I’d wrapped my fingers around the waxy stick, the wick ignited in flame. I screamed and dropped it, and the fire went out. The candle rolled away, and I stumbled back, shaking.

Get a grip, Bee.
I bent and snatched it up grimly. The flame flared up again as soon as my fingers closed around it. I stepped forward into the first door I’d opened.

The candle illuminated a patch of room around me. A draft from overhead swirled around my shoulders, making the flame flicker and dance. I cupped my hand around the bit of fire and walked faster, scanning the walls for windows or doors that might lead outside. I saw only dusty chairs and cobwebbed ottomans.

Memories swirled over me as I walked. Memories of my grandmother, whispering tales to me in the dark about an old house under a spell. About a monster held captive by the words of a witch. I remembered being six years old and sitting in the backyard sandbox while Sarah Albright, my next door neighbor, told me with wide eyes about how the cursed beast who lived in the house in the woods ate little children for breakfast. She swore her brother had almost been eaten and escaped at the last moment. I’d slept with a nightlight on for weeks after that.

This house was the monster in the closet the town only whispered of, and now I was swallowed inside it.

I crept on, like an explorer in a cave. I passed through another door, and the walls expanded. My footsteps reverberated in the blackness, and I knew I was someplace huge. A ballroom? Maybe it was the air flow, or the change in smell, or the way my footsteps echoed. Once air brushed over my skin as though someone had moved past me, and I whirled, my heart beating wildly and panic clawing at my throat.

“Hello?” My voice fluttered like a lost bird in the darkness.

A figure stood behind me, clutching a light, their movements mimicking my own. My heart stuttered before I realized it was my reflection in a mirror. Cracks in the glass scattered the candlelight, making ribbons of light dance over my face and hands. I tipped my head back and stared up, but I couldn’t see how far it went.

I moved forward again, coming to another door. I turned the knob and stepped inside. My candle cast light over a table and a massive cylindrical shape covered with a silk cloth. I reached up to touch it, curious, and the cloth fell away beneath my fingertips.

My mouth dropped open.

A massive hourglass sat on the table, glittering in the firelight. Inside the glass a steady stream of sand was pouring down, glittering faintly as if the grains were phosphorescent. Most of the sand had already slipped through the center and piled in the bottom part of the timepiece. I could hear the rasp of the sand as it trickled down. I stretched out my fingers to touch it. For some reason, it filled me with fear.

The voice spoke from behind me. “Who’s there?”

Terror shot through me like lightning, and I jerked around, almost dropping the candle. Someone was in the room with me! “Hello?” I gasped the word out as I stumbled away from the table.

Wind slipped over my arms. The flame of my candle shivered.

“Who are you? What are you doing in here?” The voice was just a whisper, but it was laced with anger.

Fear slithered down my spine. I took a step back. “My name is Beauty.”

I don’t know why I used my full name instead of Bee. The word had leaped from my tongue, almost involuntarily.

He moved slowly—I couldn’t see him. I heard the scrape of his feet against the ground. “What are you doing in here? You’re supposed to be waiting in your room until you are called, Curse Girl.”

Curse Girl?
“I . . . I’m sorry.”