Page 3 of The Curse

Chapter One

I didn’t want to leave Tennessee, but I suddenly began to feel like I didn’t have another choice. No, I didn’t for a minute believe that I was going to commit suicide on my twenty-fifth birthday, which was still weeks away. And I had absolutely no fear whatsoever that I would be tempted in any way to hurt myself. But something seemed to be driving me on, guiding my actions. It sounded weird, even in my own head, but since I read that letter, I’d felt almost a compulsion to find out why the rest of my family had taken such a different and tragic path.

Since my family history had all started in Marblehead, Massachusetts, I immediately started looking for jobs there that could justify me moving in that direction. I sent a letter to the dean, requesting removal from their Master’s program and I began to research jobs in and around the area of Marblehead. And—just like magic—I found one almost immediately. I came across an ad for an assistant position at the Goodheart Witch Museum in Salem, and I applied. I heard back that same afternoon and was offered the job. Again, just like that. I couldn’t believe my good fortune. It almost seemed too good to be true.

The night before I left, I lay out on the roof, smoking and talking to maybe the only real friend I had at Kempler, Evie Redd. I’d met her one day on the roof, a fellow smoker, and we’d kind of bonded over a shared history as foster kids.

“Are you excited about beginning your new adventure tomorrow, Nico?” Evie asked, blowing out a column of smoke and rolling over to look me in the eye. My name was Nicholas, but Evie had always called me Nico. It struck me as really weird now, knowing that was the name of the man I was supposedly the reincarnation of.

“Who would have ever thought you would be headed to Marblehead, Massachusetts, and I would be leaving for New York City? When I imagined our futures, I always pictured us staying in Tennessee—maybe moving to Knoxville and turning into a Volunteer fan.”

“Get a grip. You know as well as I do that I’ll never be a Vols fan—I’m Crimson Tide through and through, and we hate all things orange.” Evie was the only person on campus that I would miss, actually. She was the first woman I’d ever made love to, before we realized we were better friends than lovers, and she was the only person who knew about my parent’ssuicide.

It wasn’t something I liked sharing with other people. It wasn’t that I was ashamed that they’d committed suicide, exactly, but more like I was ashamed they’d left me behind. I hadn’t, however, told Evie anything about the supposed family curse that would require me to take my own life the fifteenth of May. “Anyway, who says that both of us won’t be back here in Tennessee before the year is up? There’s no reason for you to give up on your dream of us making Knoxville home—just that really stupid part about me ever becoming a Volunteer fan.”

She snorted. “That would be nice, wouldn’t it?” She reached over and wrapped our hands together. “You have to promise you won’t forget me, Nico. I really am going to come visit you, you know, just like I said. You know I don’t make friends easily and I just know I’m going to be a lost country girl in the big city. I’m afraid I’m going to be swallowed up and forgotten.”

“You’re fucking gorgeous, Evie. I hardly think you’ll be overlooked or swallowed up,” I argued. I wasn’t just doing lip service either. She was gorgeous. Tall and curvaceous, beautiful auburn hair, bright green eyes, and pretty pink lips. Every guy and a few girls had fallen in love with Evie at one point or another over the past six years. Hell, I’d fancied myself in love with her every damned day of our freshman year. Thankfully, it had only taken one disastrous fuck for us to realize it wasn’t meant to be.

“Thank you, Nico,” she answered shyly, totally in denial of how beautiful, inside and out, she truly was. “What about you though? Isn’t Salem like really close to Marblehead? You’ll have every little witch in Salem trying to cast spells to get you into their beds. I can’t wait until I get to visit. I’ve heard that the tourists wear witch costumes and pointy hats while enjoying the local tourist traps. I can’t wait. I’m going to buy myself the coolest witch hat on the market and totally embarrass your pretty ass. It’s going to be awesome,” she teased in a singsong voice.

“You could never embarrass me, babe. Never. And I can’t wait either.”

“I’m going to miss you, Nicholas Bailey. Take care of yourself and have a wickedly hot warlock picked out for me when I come. I’ll need something to play with on my first visit.”

“I’m going to miss you, too, Evie Redd,” I said. “And don’t worry, one wickedly hot warlock will be available for you to play with when you come to visit. Witches’ honor.” All this witch talk felt weird after my great-aunt’s visit, but I played along anyway.

She growled. “But you’re not a witch! Were you a Boy Scout at least? Try Scout's honor,” she pleaded.

I shook my head. I definitely wasn’t a Boy Scout.

I may have been teasing about witches with Evie, but I had a real purpose in mind for moving so far from home, and it had nothing to do with witchcraft. I needed to find out why the hell my male relatives all seemed to lose their minds on their twenty-fifth birthdays. In my research, I’d discovered that my male relatives had indeed all committed suicide on their birthday, and I mean likeallof them—stretching back to my great-grandfather’s suicide by walking off a cliff on his twenty-fifth in 1817 to another great-grandfather standing up and walking into the German gunfire on the battlefield in Arras, France, on April 5, 1917. My own father killed himself with a single bullet to the temple in 1992. As to why they did this unthinkable thing? On that, I came up blank. Nada. Nothing.

I keep telling myself it has nothing to do with witchcraft or curses.

Surely there had to be a logical explanation as to why the Bailey men felt the need to off themselves, and sometimes their significant others. There had to be one, but I sure as hell couldn’t figure out what that fucking explanation might be.

The next morning I overslept, missed my flight and had to wait three hours for the next one. Once I arrived in Massachusetts, there weren’t any rental cars available, and I ended up having to take a fucking taxi all the way to Marblehead—where I’d rented a small cottage for the duration of my stay. I didn’t have a clue how long that would be, but I wasn’t going into it with the idea that Marblehead, Salem, or anywhere else in Massachusetts would be my forever home. I simply needed to do some research about my family history, and, if one believed in family curses, I probably only had weeks left to get all my researching completed.

“This is the address, kid. Looks like you owe me three hundred and twelve dollars, plus a tip, of course,” the man behind the wheel said.

He had a grin on his pocked face that told me he was somehow involved with the fucking car rental place at the airport. Them not having my car available and me having to pay over three hundred dollars was not nearly as innocent as they’d tried to make it appear. Fucking pricks. It was like I was cursed or something. Ha!

“I hope you take plastic,” I muttered as I reached into my wallet to pull out my check card. I handed him my card as I realized my new life was starting out about as sucky as possible. Perfect.

When the card was approved, he ran the ticket and handed it to me. “Don’t forget the tip. This here trip took me away from my little one’s birthday party.”

Here’s a tip—hygiene’s important. Instead of saying it, though, I added a generous amount and handed it back to him. I had enough bad mojo going on, and it wasn’t like I could take it with me when I died. Maybe he would invest in some soap and toothpaste. It could be my last contribution to society.

Weird, my death jokes weren’t funny at all anymore. Why did I keep pulling them out of my ass? Maybe it was like whistling in the dark—trying to get my courage up and convince myself that all this was just some crazy ass coincidence or some kind of inherited madness that I’d been lucky enough to dodge.

Forty-five minutes later, I was sitting on the front porch of the small colonial cottage, waiting for someone from the rental office to show up with a key. Because, naturally, it hadn’t been left for me as they’d promised. Seriously, what was going on? I hadn’t been the least bit surprised when taxi driver hadn’t even offered to help me get my luggage out of the back of the taxi, nor was I surprised when the key wasn’t under the flower pot like they’d promised. What I was surprised about was that it wasn’t raining. A savage New England coastal storm would have fucked up my fucking arrival even more.

Frustrated, I leaned my head back against the back of one of the cozy chairs that decorated the small front porch. A rain drop splatted against my forehead.

Fucking perfect.

By the time the guy from the rental agency arrived, I was soaked to the bone and most of my belongings were soaked as well since the overhang on the small porch hadn’t been large enough to protect it from the fierce storm that sent hail and cold rain down on me with a force that would probably leave bruises. I was tired, hungry, and pissed off. I was also lonely.

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