Page 5 of A Cursed Noel

Home for sure isn’thome anymore. It’s a building belonging to two broken souls.

“Listen, Aric. Mimiwants to talk to you—”

“That’s a hardpass,” I say, meaning it.

“Aric, wait.”

I shake off his claspto my shoulder and hop out. “Are you out of your mind, Martin? I’llonly end up pissing her off and she’ll only end up cursing me. Ican do without sprouting a tail on my forehead, thanks.”

If he tries to saymore, I don’t give him a chance. I take off in a rush, shaking offsome of the rage so the wards surrounding my house recognize me asfamily, not someone intent on harming anyone inside.

It works enough thatthe brush of the magic only mildly irritates me. A few years back,I’d barely feel it all. Now, I’m lucky it doesn’t reduce me todust.

The door unlatchesbefore I reach for the handle. Slowly, it opens, welcoming me inside.“What the hell?”

Wards protect, theydon’t invite.

I whip around,expecting someone there, only to see Martin maneuver his vehicle backto the road.

My backpack barelymakes a sound as I step inside and lower it to the floor. My jacketfollows. I don’t want to be tangled in my clothes if I have tochange.

I inhale deep, takingin my surroundings and the aromas filtering through the air.

A thin layer of dustcoats the wooden floors of the foyer and the staircase leading up tothe second and third floor. No one’s been up. No one’s been down.

In the dining room tomy right, a spider has begun to spin a web along the large picturewindow that looks out to the garden.

When Dad was alive, Momkept the house spotless, a hard task with me traipsing in mud fromall the adventures with my friends and all the clothes I droppedeverywhere.

Years ago, Spring wouldhave signaled it was time to prep the garden boxes Dad and I hadbuilt for Mom in his shed. She’d plant the vegetables first,tending to the herbs she’d start in the kitchen until they werestrong enough to transfer outside.

I keep up with thehouse just enough to keep bugs and vermin away. The garden boxes area mess of dead plants and rotting wood. The lawn, I don’t know,maybe the deer will keep it short enough. I wish I cared. I don’t.This place is nothing more than a mausoleum honoring what once was.

My frown deepens when Isense another presence. My hands ball into fists as I veer, expectingan attack. Only a view of the library greets me, the same book Dadwas reading left open to the same page on his desk.

I step further inside,careful not to alert anything that might be aware of my presence. Afaint scent of my mother wanders in from the kitchen. It’s a fewdays old, which means she hasn’t bothered leaving her suite since Ilast made her breakfast. Has she even eaten at all? I take anotherstep forward, my keen vision sweeping over the large foyer.

Something is here. Ifind myself turning back to the front of the house even as I watchthe door close behind me. “Mom?” I call, no longer bothering tobe quiet.

She doesn’t answer. Ididn’t expect her to, but still. I investigate the entire firstfloor and the cellar before jogging upstairs.

I don’t botherchecking my room. It’s on the other side of the house. My paceslows as I head to my parents’ suite. I hate seeing my mother thisway. I hate watching her slowly perish. I think she’s only waitingfor me to graduate and then she’ll leave me. Just like Dad.

She needs a reason tolive.

But I can’t find oneto give her. I stop just outside her door, my knuckles pausingbriefly before knocking. “Mom?” I whisper, wishing my voicedidn’t sound so weak.

“Come in, son,” shesays.

With as much strengthas I can muster, I step inside, my heart breaking further as Iapproach?

Messy white sections ofhair nudge through a pink blanket she’s cocooned herself in. Thecurtains are drawn. Aside from the very small crack between the thickdrapes, there’s no light.

It’s cold in here,more than it should be. She hasn’t bothered to turn on the heat orstart a fire in the hearth. In a healthywere, it would haveto drop below zero to cause more than a minor inconvenience. But Momis frail and thin.

I ease down beside her,my weight sinking the edge of the mattress. I want to yell at her, totell her Dad would be disappointed in what she’s become. But I’mnot Martin, and I won’t be cruel to her.

My hand slides over herhead, smoothing the oily strands against her scalp. I force down thelump in my throat when bits of hair pull away to join the otherclumps on her pillow. I meant to comfort her. All I did was causemore damage.

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