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I tried to answer every single one of those calls.
I glued myself to the phone. Just so Brian wouldn’t have to hear them. When he finally realized what was happening, he disconnected the phone altogether.
If anyone asks, I’m glad my brother didn’t die. He’s grouchy and mean, but he’s the one who kept a roof over my head when my dad was on the lake for eight months. Brian made me pancakes in the morning, and he’d help me decorate our little apartment above the bar for Christmas.
He’s the one who took me to the local clinic when I told him I wanted to go on birth control. He’s the one who baked me an awful, inedible birthday cake for my sweet sixteen. He was the one who begged me to stay in Mistpoint Harbor.
So for as much as this town hates Brian Durand, I’ll never hate him. Not for a second.
We continue down the hallway, and Parry says strongly, like he’s convincing himself, “Nothing that bad will happen to you.” But his concern pierces through his seafoam green eyes. It won’t be your fault, Parry.
I can’t fret over a future that hasn’t come to pass, and the more I worry about my curse, the more grief I’ll cause Parry. So I choose to focus on the task at hand. Find the books.
“You’re probably right,” I tell him while we pass a row of artifacts. A bloody Maroon 5 band T-shirt. A baseball bat fractured in three pieces. A sizzled, fried toaster. And yes, Aaron Brambilla, one of October’s many cousins, was electrocuted by that toaster. He survived. October said he was a little skittish afterward, but that’s to be expected.
We enter the center room where I expect to find the row of leather-bound books. Instead, a projector plays a film on the wall. Empty chairs and couches face the screen.
“Did they move the books?” I wonder.
“They’re further back. This way.”
I ignore the grainy image of the town, showing the historical parts of Mistpoint Harbor, like the old railroads, and I follow Parry to the last room. Here we go.
A dozen thick, leather-bound books lie on ornate podiums like the most prized relics. Gold decorative lights hang from the ceiling and shine on each one.
Years are etched in each leather cover, as well as the words Historical Records of Mistpoint Harbor Curses. Each book features a set of decades. I reach the book at the end of the row. It’s already flipped open to the last page.
Edgar Johnson
Cursed at Age 71
Developed hay fever and permanently lost his sense of smell
A photo of an older man with a thick mustache and grayed beard stares back at me. A small section underneath the picture details the life of Edgar Johnson, but I know most people skip over that part. They’re just here to see the curses.
As am I.
“What are we looking for?” Parry asks, flipping through the book beside me. “Maybe a relative to Augustine Anders? We could track down her mother’s maiden name.”
That is what a Mister Mistpoint would do.
My stomach knots. “Before all of that…I need to find October’s curse.”
He pauses, fingers on the worn pages. “What?” Frown deepening, wrinkles form in the space between his brows. “She didn’t tell you?”
I shift my weight. “No, and I probably shouldn’t be looking it up either. But I just need to make sure it wasn’t something horrible.” It has to be horrible. She wouldn’t be going around professing her ghost-status if the curse was benign.
“Curses are always horrible, Zo,” Parry says strongly. “It’s why they’re called curses.”
He’s not wrong. I avoid making eye-contact with the thick puffy scar on his face, and I scour the pages of the book. One more page-turn, and I freeze.
The photograph of October steals my breath in the worst way. She’s staring right at me with a haunted expression. Eyes that appear soulless but weaponized. Fuck, this doesn’t even look like October.
Not the October I know.
My eyes fall off her photo and pin to the words.
October Brambilla
Cursed at Age 25
Died for 10 seconds after nearly drowning in the lake. Resuscitated by her aunt
She is a ghost then.
“She almost drowned?” I whisper in confusion. Why wouldn’t she tell me? It’s not something that I’d think needed to be secret.
Parry watches me. “The Brambillas kept the whole thing pretty quiet. No one knows what she was even doing on the lake. Brian has a theory that she was trying to…you know.”
My brows shoot up, and pain pierces my heart. “You think October was trying to kill herself?” My whole body feels unsteady. Like one finger-push and I’d keel over like a bowling pin. I shake my head vigorously. “No, that doesn’t sound like Kenobi. And it’s not something to even joke about.”
Parry’s gaze softens. “I’m not joking, Zo. I actually take this shit seriously.” Concern washes over his face when he realizes how much this is tearing me up. He touches my shoulder gently. “Maybe she was just going for a night swim and tired out or something. It’s probably explainable.”
