Mothman's Curse (15 page)

“You want to free her?” I said to John. “Is she still trapped by the curse?”

John nodded.

“Are there others who have been cursed over the years? Are they trapped, too?”

He nodded again.

“So if we stop this disaster, then the curse is broken and you can be together, at peace?”

One more nod confirmed my hunch. John glanced again at his wife, then back at me.

My eyes filled. My throat burned. I felt so sorry for them. I had to help, even though I still hadn't figured out
how
.

“Josie?” Fox poked his head into the room. “There you are! Quit wasting time and get out here. Aunt Barb needs help handing out numbers.”

“Coming.” I kept my back to him so I could swipe at a couple of stray tears.

When I looked up again, John and Nora were gone.

I left the pin on in case they came back.

The crowd had mushroomed even more and was still growing. People had already claimed all the seats and were now lining up against the back wall. The rest spilled out through the garage-sized doorway, the sliding door left open to accommodate them.

I shuffled and squeezed my way into the office to help Aunt Barb hand out bid cards, recording bidders' names and addresses and collecting five dollars per head, making change, and answering endless questions.

“Got any maps for sale today?” said a sweet Southern voice. I squinted through the plexiglass window to see Amelia, wearing the same visor and fanny pack.

“Hi there!” Her whole face smiled. “Josie, right?”

“Yes. Hi! Still in town, I see.”

“Oh yes. Couldn't miss this one. How's that new camera of yours working out?”

I'd forgotten all about it, our sixty-dollar investment lying in the Dumpster in a dozen pieces. And I could see John just fine without it now. Had it been only a week ago? It seemed like a lifetime.

“It's great,” I said, and changed the subject. “You got your eye on anything special today?”

She frowned. “Not yet. So many rubberneckers here this morning.” She giggled. “Guess I'm one of them.”

“Well, good luck to you,” I said, glad to see a friendly face, wishing we could talk longer but well aware of the twenty people in line behind her still waiting to be helped.

The auction started at nine thirty sharp. As usual, Uncle Bill served as spokesmodel and Aunt Barb manned the logbook. But this week, it was Fox who stood at the podium, beaming at the crowd. He'd agonized over what to wear, finally settling on the dress shirt and tie Aunt Barb had bought for him to wear to church on Christmas Eve.

Fox put every ounce of his charm and humor on display. His voice galloped and coaxed, baiting, chiding, getting those bids up when they faltered, using every tool in his toolbox to sway the crowd.

I had the unglamorous job of runner: if items were portable enough, I'd run over and hand them to the winning bidder as soon as the bidding ended. Then the buyers settled up what they owed once the auction was over. I stayed so busy I didn't have time to keep an eye out for John and Nora.

Finally I got the chance for a quick breather. I found an empty spot of wall at the back of the room and leaned against it with a sigh. A conversation nearby interrupted my thoughts. Two old women were carrying on in overloud whispers. “Did you see this morning's article about John Goodrich?” I leaned closer as casually as I could.

“The autopsy report said he didn't die of natural causes.”

“Don't tell me they suspect foul play.”

“Worse. They think it might have been a suicide.”

All other sound and motion faded from my notice as I zeroed in on the conversation, trying to learn anything new. I scanned the room and found John hovering just behind Fox's shoulder. He gave a single nod in my direction, meeting my gaze over the heads of the crowd. The suicide was a crucial detail, I could tell, but I didn't know
why
.

Suddenly a look of fear crossed his face. He vanished.

The lights far above us flickered off and then on, then stayed off. Sunlight still streamed in through the open sliding door, but murmurs of unease crept through the crowd.

“Now, now, folks,” Fox said. “There's nothing to worry about. Just a minor—”

Someone screamed.

Red eyes glowed from high in one corner of the room, up near the ceiling. The shadowed outline of a winged figure hovered there.

Another person screamed, and another. Chairs scraped the floor as people got to their feet. Panicked murmurs spread, voices rising.

“What is it?”

“What's happening?”

“Is it real?”

Uncle Bill took the microphone from Fox. “People!” His amplified voice filled the room. Fox banged the gavel on the podium several times. It seemed to quiet the crowd for a few seconds, until, with a great swell of air and a mighty flapping, the creature swooped low over the crowd, crossing to the opposite corner.

More screams erupted. Feet thundered as people shoved their way toward the exit. I was swept along with the rest, fighting just to stay standing. People rushed toward the big square of light like it was salvation itself.

I found myself outside without knowing how I got there, glad I was still in one piece.

A tiny old woman stumbled on the threshold of the doorway as more customers streamed out; I quickly grabbed her arm and pulled her to one side before she could fall and be trampled.

“Thank you, dear,” she breathed, her hand to her chest.

The crowd gasped and looked to the heavens as Mothman whooshed out of the building and into the bright sky, a dark stain against brilliant blue.

“Mothman!”

“It's Mothman. He's returned!”

Finally, Fox, Mason, Uncle Bill, and Aunt Barb made it out of the building, the last few, just in time to catch sight of Mothman as he looped around for another low pass over the crowd.

People were screaming, crying, and taking pictures with their cell phones. I watched my family as recognition dawned on their faces—along with a healthy dose of horror.

“What in the name of heaven and earth is that creature doing here?” Aunt Barb shouted. She had scooped Mason up and he clung to her, his arms around her neck. When he saw me, he squirmed in her grasp and reached for me. I rubbed his back but left him where he was.

Most in the crowd were still occupied with Mothman's show, but a few spotted Uncle Bill and pounced, ranting about publicity stunts and tasteless pranks.

Even with his eyes glued to the skies, Fox found me, gavel hanging from one hand, forgotten. He whistled long and low. “It's really him. What's he doing here? Why now?”

I swallowed. “I don't know.” In a way it was a relief to know we weren't crazy, that we hadn't dreamed up the whole thing. But the sight of Mothman also filled me with dread. He was the most terrifying thing I'd ever seen. “Do you think he's trying to distract us from stopping the disaster?”

Fox was too preoccupied to answer. Confusion grew as people tried to either get to safety or find a better vantage point. Frantic customers ran every which way, calling for friends or family members. One crashed into Fox's shoulder and almost knocked him over. Another stepped on my foot as he stumbled past. Fear rippled through the crowd like a wave.

Suddenly I sensed a figure move to stand beside me, uncomfortably close. Just as I realized it was John Goodrich, several things happened in rapid progression:

Mothman lurched down and stopped in the air just above us, his gaze fixed on John, crimson eyes burning with hatred.

John's image cringed and flickered, but he returned the stare, chin lifted, jaw set in anger.

Mothman stretched out one bony finger and pointed … at me. Though there was only a dark void where his mouth should be, I
felt
a grin twist his features. I shrank back, numb with fright. The pin burned cold against my skin.

John raised his arms as if to shield me.

Then I watched Mothman's gaze slowly shift to study my family one by one.

He turned to survey the chaos of the crowd, nodding once as if pleased, his coal-black robes fluttering in the breeze.

And then, with one final swoop, he soared high into the air and disappeared.

 

12

The power blinked back on inside the auction building.

The world around me came into focus again. My heart raced. The pin pulsed with energy, bitterly cold.

John was nowhere in sight.

Fox stepped close to me, our shoulders touching. Mason wriggled free of Aunt Barb's grasp so he could grab my hand and hold on. We'd all felt the weight of Mothman's stare, the reality that for whatever reason, he'd set the Fletchers in his sights.

Aunt Barb and Uncle Bill stood huddled in conversation as the crowd grew more and more restless. Truthfully, Uncle Bill listened while Aunt Barb did all the talking.

Poor Uncle Bill shied away from drama of any kind. If it was up to him, he would march back inside, continue the auction, and pretend none of this had ever happened. But he and Aunt Barb were trapped in the thick of the unhappy crowd, some pointing fingers and shouting accusations of a hoax, others hysterical and carrying on about impending doom.

It didn't seem to matter that several people got in their cars and left right away, because more showed up in their place. The crowd swelled as reporters and TV trucks and hundreds of locals flocked to our property.

*   *   *

After Uncle Bill and Aunt Barb insisted a hundred times over that it wasn't a stunt, people generally agreed that what they'd seen was real. With that many witnesses and the clean light of day as a backdrop, Mothman would've been awfully hard to fake. Plus the locals knew our family. So we didn't get the blame, just lots and lots and
lots
more questions.

People wanted to know if we'd seen Mothman before today. Had he ever spoken to us, and if so, what did he say? Did we have any idea where he came from, or what he wanted? Had we ever been to Point Pleasant? Had we seen the movie? Were we going to reschedule the auction, or shut the business down altogether? Was Jim Fletcher still in the hospital, and how was he doing, and when was he expected home? How would he react to the news? Did we plan to sell our story to CNN, or maybe the Syfy network?

On and on it went, with no end in sight.

I pulled Fox aside and whispered, “With all these cameras here, maybe we should try to warn people about the Field House.”

“What are we supposed to say? That the ghost of John Goodrich told us there would be some kind of a disaster on Monday? It sounds crazy. People barely believe that we didn't fake this whole thing. I don't think we should give them any more reasons to call us liars.”

“But we'll never get a better chance—”

A smiling woman wearing too much makeup interrupted, stepping between us and pushing a microphone in my face.

“Hi there, young lady. Molly Madigan with Channel Three News. I was told you're one of the Fletchers, that your family owns the auction house.”

“Uh, yes. Yes, I am. We do. Hi.”

Another reporter with her own microphone and cameraman glommed onto Fox and hustled him off to one side. I saw him trying to fix his hair with his fingers.

“And can you tell us your name?”

“Huh?” My attention returned to the reporter beside me. The camera was right there, staring at me like a big black eye. “Uh … Josie.”

“Okay, Josie. Can you tell me how you felt when you first saw the moth creature? Were you scared?”

I thought about the first time I'd actually seen those red eyes and could truthfully answer: “Y-yes.”

“Why do you think he's here now? Do you think he's trying to tell us something?”

“I—uh.” I stumbled over what to say, realizing Fox was right about us sounding crazy. “He, uh, he was at Point Pleasant, right? He, like, warns people about disasters, doesn't he?”

“That's what the stories say. Now, I understand you lost your mother a few years back. Are you worried the rest of your family might be next? What do you think your mother would say if she knew you had all been marked for death?”

I glanced around, trying to find anyone wearing an expression like the sucker-punch surprise and fury I felt at her horrible question. But everyone listening in just nodded, waiting for an answer.