Mothman's Curse

 

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For Bryce

 

1

When you live in the most haunted town in America, you've heard most every ghost story that's ever been spun about your corner of the world: the tumbledown houses, the shadowed cemeteries and wandering souls. Whether you believe the stories or not, you respect them—just in case.

Plenty of places
claim
to be the most haunted. But Athens, Ohio, has something those other places don't.

Mothman.

He's every bit as repulsive as he sounds: a dark, hulking figure, seven feet tall, with ragged, brittle wings and burning red eyes.

Technically he belongs to Point Pleasant, West Virginia, where dozens died when the Silver Bridge collapsed in '67. Scores of people spotted Mothman in the year before the disaster. No one knew if he was there to help or harm. He's been called a ghost, an alien, and a monster. I've always thought
death omen
described him best.

Point Pleasant is forty miles from Athens. Mothman was never ours to claim, and I was glad.

Until this spring, when Mothman claimed Athens instead.

*   *   *

Dad's voice rose and fell, hummingbird quick, his mustached mouth crowding the microphone. “Up next we have a food processor, that's a Sunrise food processor, make you some nice coleslaw right there. Do I hear a dollar bill, dollar bill? Now two, two, two dollar, two dollar, and who'll give me three?”

I stood in the back corner, sizing up the shoppers. Sharp-eyed regulars hovered around the tables of merchandise in their T-shirts and trucker hats, sussing out valuable pieces. Clusters of stooped men in overalls debated the odds of another wet spring, their work boots squeaking on the auction floor. Several dozen customers perched in plastic chairs. They hugged cardboard boxes close to their bodies with hands that were callused and winter-pale, itching to fill them with what my younger brother Fox likes to call secondhand swag.

The great Fox Fletcher himself prowled the room. I spotted an easy mark at Table 3: a round, middle-aged woman in pink capris and a tennis visor. She was admiring a figurine trimmed in fake gold—a terrier with a huge bow on its head.

I caught my brother's eye, tipping my chin toward the lady in pink. Fox nodded; he'd spotted her, too.

Time to go to work.

He sidled up beside her, batting guileless green eyes. I slipped closer to listen in.

“You must be new in town,” Fox was saying. “We know most of the regulars.” He nodded at the milling shoppers. “You're a lot younger and … truthfully, a much better dresser than our usual crowd.”

“Well, aren't you a smooth talker?” She propped a hand on her hip, pressed the other hand to her blushing face. “I happen to be visiting my cousin and her family, the Lesters.”

“Oh, sure. Mr. Lester teaches at the middle school, right? I'll be starting there next fall.”

“That's right.”

“So are you here for the ghosts, then?”

“Ghosts?”

“That's why most people come to Athens.” He pulled a stack of leaflets from his pocket and handed her a brochure titled “Haunted Tours of Athens County” from the top of the pile. “Some people say the town sits right on top of a spectral vortex. A doorway for the weird.”

“Oh, I don't really believe in ghosts.”

“A skeptic, huh? That's okay. Most people are.” He held up the next brochure in the pile. “That's because they only visit the touristy sites: the mental asylum, Wilson Hall, the Weeping Angel. But if you want the real story, this map has sites only the locals know about. Ghost stories that go back generations, with real eyewitness sightings. The best of the best.”

She took the flyer and unfolded it to reveal a hand-drawn map with blocks of careful printing in a child's hand. “Did you do this? What a lot of time it must have taken.”

I crossed my fingers and toes, knowing Fox's next lines would be a tough sell.

Fox shrugged and kept his gaze on the ground. “My sister and I did them together to earn a few extra dollars. Our dad runs this place. He says we're too young to be of much use, but money's been real tight.” He shuffled his foot, drawing attention to the ragged hole in the toe of his sneakers—the hole I'd watched him put there with a pair of scissors. Fox chewed his lip a little. Hung his head. Let his shoulders slump just so …

“I'd love to buy one! What do you charge?”

“Just one dollar, ma'am.”

“Oh, pish. Look at all this work you went to. So creative!” She pulled a ten-dollar bill from her fanny pack. “Here, now. You take this and share it with your sister, all right? The world needs more young people like you.”

I rolled my eyes, feeling a familiar twinge of envy and awe. Still, ten bucks was a good start for the day. I didn't always agree with Fox's methods, but it was hard to argue with his results.

“That's very generous, ma'am. Thank you,” Fox said. “By the way, that's a good piece you're looking at. Would fetch a nice resale price.”

“You think so?”

“You hang around here long enough, you get an eye for things.”

“That's real sweet of you. Thanks for the tip, young man. And the map.”

He flashed a smile, a deadly one-two punch of twin dimples and perfect teeth. “It's Fox. Fox Fletcher. Happy to help, ma'am. I also happen to specialize in haunted objects, if you know anyone who's in the market.” He strolled his way toward the exit, slowing down when something on Table 6 caught his eye. In one quick motion, he tucked the item under his T-shirt. Then, whistling, he breezed on out into the chilly March morning.

“Fox,” I murmured, the word sounding like a sigh. “What are you up to now?” I ducked out, too, determined not to let him stray from The Plan.

I fell into step beside him. “What did you take in there? You know it has to go back.”

“I'll take it back. Relax, would you? How about a thank-you for my flawless performance?”

“Speaking of which, can we
please
redo those maps on the computer? They look like a four-year-old drew them. It's embarrassing.”

“That's the whole point, Josie. They generate sympathy. Sympathy earns us more money.”

I flipped open my notebook and slid a pencil from behind my ear. “So what's our total so far? Was that a ten she gave you?”

“Nope. Just a five.”

“Uh-huh. How about the truth this time?”

He breathed a long-suffering sigh. “I'm tired of pooling every penny we make. Just once I'd like a Snickers bar and a Saturday morning without you and your notebook.”

“We all agreed on this. I have it in writing. Permanent marker, Fox.”

“I don't see you in there earning anything.”

“Not my fault you're the best liar in the family.”

“Fox! Josie!”

Our little brother Mason, a seven-year-old human wrecking ball, trotted over. He danced at Fox's other side, kicking up mud, his feet in constant motion. “What's under your shirt? Did you find something good? Let's see. I wanna see.”

“What makes you think I found anything?”

“Foooooooox! What'd you find?”

“You mean this?” He unveiled his prize with an extra flourish. It was a Polaroid camera—decades old, dusty, and dented, nestled inside a worn leather case. The camera was a boxy, clunky thing, but it had a certain charm, a kind of techno-geek chic. And in Fox's hands, any old piece of junk suddenly seemed worthy of attention.

“Wow!” Mason tried to grab it away. “Can I take it apart?”

Fox settled the leather strap across his chest. “Nope.”

I wrinkled my nose, pretending not to be interested. “What do you want that old thing for?”

“I like it. Besides, they won't miss it. It'll be hours before Dad gets around to Table Six. By then I'll have it back, safe and sound. Say cheese, Josie.”

“There's not even any film in—”

With a click and a whir, the camera spit out a white square of photo paper.

“The film's so old it won't even—”

The square resolved into a picture of my horribly freckled face.

I grabbed it and stuffed it in my back pocket, ignoring Fox's grin.

“Can I try, Fox?” Mason said. “How does it work?”

“It's an instant camera, short stuff. The picture pops out as soon as you press the button.” Fox handed the camera over for Mason to inspect. “Careful now.”

Mason examined every inch of it. “Where's the view screen? Is there a memory card?”

Fox took the camera back. “It's older than that. Cameras didn't have those things years ago.”

Mason's stomach rumbled loud and long, sounding like a question at the end. “I'm hungry. Can't we cancel The Plan, just for today? We haven't been to the corner store in weeks. Pleeeeaaase, Josie?”

Fox started in, too. “Pleeeeaaase?”

Being in charge wasn't as peachy as it sounded—not with two kid brothers who constantly ganged up on me. I sighed. “Go on, then!”

Mason tugged on my hand. “Aren't you coming, Josie?”

“Nah,” Fox said. “She's afraid of Old Man Hicks.”

“I am not,” I lied. The crusty old man who ran the corner store hated everyone and everything. I wasn't much in the mood to get yelled at for the sake of a measly candy bar.

“Hold my camera?” Fox thrust the case into my hands. Then he and Mason took off running before I could protest.

“Get me a Hershey bar, without nuts!” I shouted after them. “And it's not your camera!”

I kicked a stone and watched it skip along the gravel driveway, feeling guilty about choosing candy over my duty as Plan Enforcer.

To put it simply, The Plan involved saving up enough money to get us to the state fair in Columbus—home of the junior auctioneer's bid call competition.

Our great-grandpa Henry started Fletcher Auctions. The same house, same junk, same life got passed down from one generation of Fletchers to the next. Dad handled estates all over Athens County, selling the stuff people left behind when they passed away.