Cursed be the Wicked (7 page)

The phrase,
‘If looks could kill,’
crosses my mind and I divert my eyes.

I know it’s just the town that’s making my imagination run wild. It’s always been the town. I consider scrapping this whole idea and leaving when she slips her hand into the pocket of her apron and produces a silver house key for me.

I look at it but don’t take it from her right away. I was expecting papers, not a key.

There’s no way to be sure, of course, but I have a feeling I know what it opens. That’s the one thing I am not prepared to face while I’m here. One thing I could live the rest of my life without facing.

My parent’s house.

I stop breathing altogether as I force my hand to reach out for it and when I finally do, Liz snatches it back suddenly, cocooning it inside her fist once more.

“Follow me,” she says, and leads me to another room where things are more organized than the rest of the house. She walks over to an old desk, opens the top drawer, and pulls out a manila envelope. The sight of it strikes a nerve somewhere and a picture of my mother holding a similar envelope flashes before me.

She’s laughing and telling me,
“It’s manila, Coop, not vanilla.”

Her voice is joyful and I find it odd that I’m recalling her laughter. She never laughed. Regardless, the memory leaves a warm sensation behind and I smile.

“You okay?” Liz asks me with a look of intrigue spreading across her face. I focus on where I am again and nod.

“Yeah.”

She shoots me one last look of doubt, then sits down and motions for me to grab a chair. I settle into one near the desk. She pulls the papers out of the envelope, sets them on top of it, then turns them so I can see it’s the will and testament, along with those legal papers I need to sign.

As I begin to read through Mom’s will, Liz shoves a pen in front of me.

“It’s all well and good, Cooper. She’s leaving you the house. If ya want it.”

I can feel the pull of my brow knitting together when she says it. I still don’t get it. Why would she leave me the house? I hate that house. And she hated me.

And how is it she still had the damn thing, anyway?

“Um.”

“Ya gotta sign the papers if you want the house,” Liz says when it looks like I’ve lost all motor functions. Then her tone changes to a reassuring one and she adds, “Don’t feel like you have to, Cooper.”

I don’t know what drives me to sign, maybe the sound of Liz’s voice, maybe left over stubbornness from my childhood, but I do. I fill in some blanks here and there with my current information, and then ask Liz the burning question I’m having right now.

“Why did she keep it?”

“Hmm?” She shrugs. “How would I know, Cooper? Maybe she assumed you’d move into it someday.”

“And
how
did she keep it?”

Liz fidgets with some papers on the edge of her desk.

“She asked
me
to.”

I stop mid-signature and glare at her. Only I suppose I’m really glaring at Mom. I tried to visit her and was turned away on several occasions.

“You saw her?”

“Of course I did.”

“When?”

Her mouth draws downward. “Don’t remember really.”

Bullshit
.

“Did she say anything else?” I ask, disgusted. “Other than,
keep the house for me,
that is?”

Liz is visibly annoyed with me now. She scowls and stands and her hands fly to her hips.

“She asked me to keep the house, Cooper, and I did. I tried renting it out after you moved in with me, that worked for a while, but last year, about the time Maggie got sick for the first time, the renters said strange things were happening over there. Said they didn’t want anything to do with a haunted house. They made a big stink about it all over town, until I finally let them out of their contract. Haven’t been able to rent it since. It’s been sitting empty for about ten months now.”

She pauses for a few seconds. “And no, she didn’t say anything else.”

I could pick a few things out of her tirade to focus on here, but really, all I want to know is, “Why would she see you and not me?”

It hurts and that ticks me off. I thought I was over this. Past it. Apparently, I’m not.

My question hits a nerve because Liz’s demeanor changes when I say it. Her shoulders slump and her eyes are softer. Sympathetic. She sits down again and purses her lips before giving me her opinion on the matter.

“Your mother was a selfish woman, Cooper. She wanted something from me, it’s as plain and simple as that.”

It is simple, I guess.

After all, what did I ever have that my mother could possibly have wanted?

My aunt holds the key out for me one more time but doesn’t hand it over. She’s got one more thing to say before I make a decision.

“I know I wasn’t always there for you after they took her away, Cooper,” she starts and I have to fight to keep myself from commenting.
Wasn’t always there
is the understatement of the year.

She continues. “But I can always just sell the place for you. You wouldn’t have to do anything,” she tells me. For a second or two, I debate whether or not I should. Leaving things for her to take care of might be the smartest thing I’ve ever done. In the end, though, my arm reaches out and my fingers take a hold of the key.

“Thanks for the offer.”

She stares at me for a few more seconds before standing up to leave for the kitchen. I try to convince myself that signing for the house is a good thing to do. Worst case scenario,
I
sell the place, pocket some money and I get a nest egg to supplement my early retirement and travel. On my terms.

“Don’t thank me yet,” Liz says, interrupting my thoughts. The finality of her words give me the impression that our visit is over, and I am one hundred percent okay with that.

I pick up my things, including the papers I just signed. I fumble and drop everything in the process.

Nerves I guess.

My keys, my cell, the deed to the house, it all goes flying across the dusty floor. Liz helps me gather everything, hesitating only momentarily when she picks up my iPhone. It’s as if she’s never seen one before, and I wonder what kind of life someone must be living if they’ve never seen an iPhone.

Not my problem.

When I’m done collecting everything, I thank her again, and leave without another word between us.

In the car, I let out the air that’s been stuck in my lungs since I walked into that house.

Then I start up the engine.

I pull out the key to my mother’s house and stare at it while the car idles. I’m not far from my old home.

Every bone in my body is telling me to chuck this key. To forget it exists and forge ahead with my primary purpose for being in Salem. Something nags at me, still, though.

Why would my mother keep a house that holds nothing but terrible memories, for all of us, when she couldn’t live there?

And why leave it to a son for whom she held no goodwill?

It occurs to me that maybe, after all this time, my mother felt bad for what happened. Maybe it’s like Liz said. Plain and simple.

Adrenalin begins to gush through my veins and I back out of Liz’s driveway and then head over to my old home. I know I can do this. I can face the past and conquer it.

I believe these words until I turn down my old street off Jefferson.

It’s as if I’ve hit a brick wall when my foot stomps on the brake. I stare down the tree lined road, breathing heavy, determined, only I can’t bring myself to drive any further.

“Nothing to fear, Coop,” I remind myself. I get out of the car and begin to walk the short distance to my house, but as my feet step against some unseen boundary, I stop cold.

I glance around and pull my jacket tighter around me. The street is barren and cold; people are no doubt at work or school. It’s so quiet.

The morning fog should be long gone by now, it’s nearly noon. But, like a shroud, it still lingers here, trapped in certain pockets between the graying trees and worn out houses.

It reminds me of feeling trapped here myself, when I was younger. After Dad was declared dead and Mom was put away, I just wanted to be somewhere else or some
one
else, constantly. It was constricting, knowing either of those options were impossible.

That same constriction keeps me in this spot, refusing to allow me to move further down the street. My body is frozen. My feet are made of lead.

You’re a grown man, Coop. What is your problem?

“I don’t know, you tell me,” a familiar voice asks from beside me.

My stomach drops right out when I hear her and I wonder if I have been talking out loud to myself this entire time.

“Where did you come from?” I ask.

“Around,” she informs me, hooking a thumb over her shoulder. “I was taking a walk and something told me to head over this way.”

I can’t imagine passing by Finn and not noticing. Mostly because she’s wearing a skirt that doesn’t quite cover her knees, and flip flops again, of all things.

In
October.

She is sporting a light jacket though, so at least I know she hasn’t completely lost her mind.

“We got off on the wrong foot yesterday,” she tells me, staring forward. “I didn’t mean for it to happen that way.”

It’s odd the way she phrases it, but then everything Finn says is odd.

I blow it off and move on.

“It’s all good,” I tell her and then I peer down my street again. It crosses my mind maybe I’m not able to face my old home after all. So instead of fixating on my past, I center my thoughts on the present.

“You disappeared on me yesterday,” I tell her. Then watch as the corners of her mouth lift.

“I know.”

She glances down my street like she’s noticed something. I can’t be bothered with what it might be right now.

“Your, uh . . . grandmother’s quite the woman,” I say, for lack of anything more enticing to throw out there. For some reason I’m compelled to make sure she doesn’t think I was somehow questioning Geneva yesterday for the pure fun of it.

“I know that too,” she says matter-of-factly.

And now
I’m
smiling. She’s such a smart ass.

I love it.

“Is there anything you
don’t
know, then?” I ask, challenging her in a way

Her head leans to one side. “I don’t know why you’re standing in the middle of the street staring down this road the way you are.”

Her slight southern accent intrigues me, and suddenly I’m not all that interested in what waits for me down that street anymore.

“Where did you say you’re from again?”

She turns to face me, done with whatever it was that had caught her attention shortly before.

“I didn’t.”

“No, you didn’t,” I admit. When she doesn’t offer anything further, I ask her outright.

“So, where are you from?”

She smirks up at me. “Well not here, that’s for sure.”

And I laugh. “No kidding.”

Her eyes narrow in on mine. I’m sure if she wanted them to, they could cut right through me.

As it is, she prefers to give me a vague answer to my question, instead.

“Down South.”

“Down South,” I say and she scowls up at me.

“You say
everything
everyone else says after they say it like that? Or is it some kinda weird tick like a twitchy eyeball?”

“Do I do that?”

She nods. “You did it yesterday too, and the night you checked in at the Camilla Rose.”

I shrug.

“I don’t know,” I tell her, surprised at the fact she’d noticed something like that about me, of all things. “I never realized I did it.”

“Well quit it, it makes me feel like you don’t believe a word I say.”

“It does?”

Huh.

“And I’m no liar,” she insists.

“I didn’t think you were.”

As the words leave my mouth, I realize I’m not just saying it. I’m not sure why my instinct is to believe her every word, but I do.

“And stop staring at me. You’re making me nervous.”

I look away immediately but it doesn’t last long. At least I have questions to cover for my need to stare.

“Do you live around here?”

“Not far.”

“What brings you to this neighborhood?”

“You sure do ask a lot of questions, Mr. Stone,” she teases, so I mock her back this time.

“I’d apologize but I hear it’s overrated.”

Finn’s smile is back. “You’re catching on then.”

She takes another look back down my old street and I’m back to the inquiry.

“Why do you keep looking down there, Finn?” I ask and she’s quick with the comeback.

“I thought you weren’t here about Maggie Shaw,” she says, turning to me again.

Now I’m curious.

“What do you know about Maggie Shaw?”

Or better yet, what do you know about me?

“I know she used to live right down this street.” She points and nods in the same direction. She waits for me to react but I’m not sure how I should proceed.

I could just come clean. I could tell her I’m really Cooper Shaw, the kid accused of killing his father back in the day. That my mother was Crazy Maggie Shaw and I have no idea why I’m here. That my aunt gave me this key today and told me I’m the proud owner of a haunted house so I thought I’d just trot on over here and check it out.