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“Because you’re the one who got out,” Devra yelled. “You’re the one living a life most people can only dream of while the rest of your family is stuck inside their homes, too scared to leave, too scared of more loss, of losing each other, because you—”

“An object, then,” Bradley interjected. “A talisman? An artifact? Something that fell into your possession at the same time the family curse began?”

“The family curse?”

“Yes,” Devra snapped. “The family curse, the one you were just talking about that has plagued us since before I can remember, the one you seem to have escaped. Did you do something, say something, kill someone, steal something, do anything—oh, I don’t know, say, kick a dog or run over a witch’s familiar—anything at all that was selfish and thoughtless and left us doomed? Tell me the truth, for once. Are you responsible for the family curse?”

Charlotte’s eyes appeared hollow, her face paling. “My god.” She slowly brought a hand to her mouth. “You don’t know, then, do you? Not really.”

“Yes, I really do.”

“No, you don’t.” Her mother’s voice wavered. “My dear girl. My poor sweet girl. It isn’t a family curse. It’s only…”

“Only what, Mother?”

A candle in the centre of the unused table flared.

“It’s you, Devra. You’re the one who is cursed. You and only you.”

DEVRA

The shrapnel of her mother’s confession sliced across her body. You’re the one who is cursed.

“I’m so sorry,” Charlotte continued, her hands doing that same dance between a caress, a push, and a hover. “When you spoke about the curse, I thought you understood. But I see now…” She muttered a few expletives under her breath. “Of course your father never admitted the real truth. I should have known he’d find some way to share this burden with you. But it isn’t his burden to carry. And it certainly wasn’t mine. Don’t you see? That’s why I had to leave. I had to get away from—”

“Me,” Devra finished for her. Her voice sounded far away, even to her own ears. “You had to get away from me.”

“Yes.” Charlotte buried her face in her hands. “I’m sorry. I really am. But every year as Christmas approached, I knew something awful would happen to you. That you would bring some tragedy down upon our household. And there was nothing I could do to prevent it. I couldn’t do anything. I used to flinch every time Christmas lights went up on the surrounding houses. For the whole month of December, I couldn’t sleep. And your father was no help. Comforting me would mean acknowledging the truth about you. That Christmas Eve, when I left, I could barely breathe, waiting, knowing it was coming, that every second brought something dreadful closer to me and my family. I simply couldn’t bear it a minute longer. I couldn’t keep waiting, watching, wondering what would happen to you, or to us, because of you.”

Because of you, her brain echoed. Devra’s mind was sprinting through her memories, playing back each holiday disaster under the dark lens of this new information.

The vat of hot chocolate falling onto her arm, all four of them spending the night in the emergency room. Another Christmas ruined, but it was only her who had been burned.

The fire. Their Christmas tree set aflame. The four of them fleeing the house in their pajamas, waiting for the fire truck to arrive. But in the end, her toy ponies were the only present damaged.

The Santa display that smashed through the window while only Devra was in the kitchen. The Christmas tree that slid into her car. Her broken leg. Her allergic reaction. Her broken heart. And while these tragedies often had repercussions for the whole family, it was always her at the centre of them. How could she have missed it? Her mother hadn’t abandoned the family but her and her alone. Her father and brother collateral damage.

Her father and brother. The three of them keeping their distance over the holidays. Staying away from each other or staying away from her? Afraid to be near her? The cursed child. She thought of David’s jokes, his stubbed toes, his “tragedies” recited as humorous anecdotes. She always assumed he was choosing to laugh instead of cry. And her father. All those texts. All good here, sweetheart. No need to worry about your old man. Focus on yourself. Not fatherly love, not putting on a brave front for the sake of his children. He was fine all along. They were both fine. As long as they were far away from her.

Her father’s heart attack.

Surely that couldn’t be?

But it could be. She had felt it in her bones from the very beginning. Had always known it was her fault. She just never comprehended how truly and wholly responsible she might be. Not just for bringing them all together that ill-fated night but for bringing them to her. She was the cause somehow. The root of their trauma.

It was too much. It was—

“Y-you must understand now?” Charlotte stammered. “You must see nothing good could ever happen to me in that house. Nothing good could happen to any of us as long as we stayed with…”

Devra’s vision blurred.

“So I had to leave. I had to. My dear, I’m so sorry. But I’ve worked too hard for this life. I can’t risk losing it all now. My god am I sorry. But I can’t let you ruin this. I can’t let you…”

You. You. You. The word kept leaping out at her.

“You should never have come. You shouldn’t be here. In December. You shouldn’t—”

“This is complete and utter bullshit, Devra.”