Mothman's Curse (20 page)

His forehead scrunched in confusion. “But … Goodrich said…”

“The truth is, we don't know what will happen.”

He shook his head. “And you think that's going to change before tomorrow?”

“I'm saying we still have time to figure this out.”

“And if I disagree, then you're gonna stop me? What are you gonna do, tell on me?”

“Oh, I'll stop you,” I said, balling up my fists “Mason, you'd better move, honey.”

Mason backed away.

“This ought to be good,” Fox said. “She'll stop me, she says. Like she has any chance of—
ack!
”

I ducked my head, led with one shoulder, and charged. My tackle hit him center mass, right in the chest. He took me down with him, along with a couple of kitchen chairs, as he was knocked off his feet. He landed on his butt with a satisfying “
Oof!
”

I pinned him in a wrestling hold I'd seen him use on Mason multiple times. “Give up?”

He bucked, quicker than I'd thought possible, tossing me to the side and rolling to his feet in one skillful move.

I grabbed the closest thing at hand—the broom—and leveled it at him. “You're not going anywhere, Fox.”

He backed up toward the sink, grabbed the spray nozzle, and yanked the hose out as far as it would go.

“Don't you dare!” I shouted.

“Drop the broom,” he said.

“No.”

“What are you gonna do with a broom, anyway? Sweep me to death?” He squeezed the trigger, just for a second, but it was enough to drench me in cold water.

I shrieked and dropped the broom.

“Had enough?”

Hardly.
I spotted a black Sharpie on the counter and went for that instead. I ripped the cap off and held the pen like a dagger, jabbing it in Fox's direction.

He flinched, just long enough for me to move in for a second strike and draw a long swipe of black across his forearm and onto his favorite shirt. He stared at the mark in horror, then lifted his eyes to mine, expression flashing from offended disbelief to steely anger. “Oh, it is
on
.”

He squeezed the nozzle trigger and held it down. I shrieked again and tried to dance out of the stream of water, managing to put two black lines across the back of his hand. “You're not the only one who can fix this!” I shouted. “Good old Fox. He'll make it right, because he's so
perfect
!”

Fox reached out and slapped the pen from my grip. I seized the hose snaking out from the sink and bent it in half, cutting off his precious water supply.

“What is going on here?”

Aunt Barb stood in the doorway, hands on hips.

I let go of the hose, realizing too late Fox was pointing it right at Barb. She shouted as water drenched her. I reached over and turned off the faucet, but the damage was done.

Then Fox did something that I never thought I'd see: he ran. Didn't make up some outrageous story on the spot, didn't try to charm his way out of trouble. He just dropped the sprayer, ran upstairs to his room, and slammed the door.

The house felt like a kettle about to wail.

Mason huddled in the corner, crying.

Aunt Barb stood, sopping wet, breathing heavily, staring around the kitchen at the mess we'd made—chairs knocked over, boxes of cereal spilled across the floor in colorful constellations.

Someone pounded on the front door.

Aunt Barb leaned against a chair and heaved a mighty sigh. “What now?”

I grabbed a towel and handed it to her, then grabbed another for myself. “I'll get it. Mason?” I said on my way out of the kitchen. “I'm sorry we were fighting. Give me just a minute, okay?” I swung the door open to find two police officers on the porch. And Mitch, of all people, stood behind them, fidgeting.

“Um, Aunt Barb? The police are here.”

She bustled into the living room, fussing with her wet hair. “Why, hello, officers,” she said, voice dripping with honey. “How are you on this fine day? Would you care for some blueberry muffins?”

“We need to speak with your husband, Mrs. Reevey.”

“Why, is that you, Jake? I haven't seen you since that summer you were mowing lawns to save for college.”

Jake, the younger of the two cops, cleared his throat. “Yes, ma'am. Is Bill here?”

“He's out in the auction house, I'm sure. Mason, honey, run and fetch him, would you?”

Mason stared at the group on the porch for a good minute before edging past them and running across the yard.

“Well, come in, come in, have a seat.” Aunt Barb bustled about in her housedress, looking like a big, wet poodle, still trying to make everyone feel at home. “Can I get you some coffee?”

Mitch and the policemen stepped inside but did not sit. “No, thank you, ma'am.”

“Mitch,” she said, “are you still enjoying your work here at Fletcher Auctions?”

He shuffled his feet, cleared his throat. “Uh, yes, ma'am.”

“Is that so? Would you like to continue making chitchat, then, or would you like to tell me the real reason you all are here?”

I heard Fox's bedroom door open upstairs, followed by careful footsteps in the hall.

Mitch kept his gaze on the ground. “I'm sorry, Mrs. Reevey. You've all been so good to me. But what your husband is doing is wrong. Making your niece and nephew play along is even worse. Trying to fool people like that…”

“Fool people—officers, what is this all about?”

Uncle Bill and Mason walked in.

Officer Jake stepped forward, one of our auction flyers clutched in his hand. “Bill Reevey, I'm afraid you're under arrest for destruction of public property, fraud, and child endangerment.”

I sucked in a startled breath.

“No!” Fox shouted, pounding down the stairs. “He didn't do anything wrong.”

“Hush up now,” Uncle Bill said. “Can you at least tell me when and where I did all these things?”

“Sir, it would be better if we take you to the station to discuss things there. You have the right to remain silent…”

“No, you can't take him. It was me, all right?” Fox shouted. “Whatever you're accusing him of, it was all me, my idea, trying to drum up some business around here.”

“And me,” I jumped in. “Mitch will tell you. He drove us to the campus the other night. Please.”

“These kids did nothing wrong, officers,” Uncle Bill said. “I'm happy to go down to the station to straighten all this out.”

Aunt Barb fanned her face with one hand. “I sincerely hope you are not accusing us of dreaming up this Mothman spectacle. Anyone with two eyes could see that creature was real.”

Everyone started talking and shouting at once. Uncle Bill gave a piercing whistle that shut us all up quick. He motioned for Jake to join him on the porch. “May I speak to you outside, please?” he asked with his typical calm.

Fox turned to Mitch. “Mothman is real,” he said. “And everyone who was at the auction knows it. Hundreds of people saw him!”

Mitch paled but shook his head in denial. “It was a trick, simple as that.”

Mason hurried over to tug on my sleeve. “Josie, are they taking Uncle Bill to jail?”

I slipped an arm around him. “Yes.” I didn't have the energy to dance around the truth anymore.

“I need to change into some dry clothes. Don't let them leave without me,” Aunt Barb said, hurrying upstairs.

After a few minutes, Uncle Bill and Jake came back into the house. The older cop pulled out his handcuffs, but Uncle Bill said, “You don't need those.” Jake shook his head and his partner put the cuffs away. Together they ushered Uncle Bill outside to the police cruiser.

Mitch followed them out and stood awkwardly on the porch, like he wanted to say something to us. I glared at him. “You don't know what you've done,” I told him. “I don't care if you meant well or not. You may have just doomed hundreds of people to die.”

“I just hope you and your family get the help you need, Josie,” Mitch said, not meeting my gaze.

Fox stormed toward us, no doubt some silver-tongued insult on his lips, but I stepped in front of him just in time. “Goodbye, Mitch,” I said, and softly closed the door.

“Why'd you do that? I still had plenty to say to him.”

“He thinks he's helping,” I said with a sigh.

Aunt Barb returned, dressed and mostly dry, her wild hair tamed into submission and pinned on top of her head. “What a mess,” she said, shaking her head. “I have to go with them to straighten all this out. You three will be okay on your own, won't you? I could call someone…”

“We'll be fine,” I said quickly. “You just have to convince them that Uncle Bill didn't do anything wrong. Please.”

“I've already called our lawyer. Don't worry.” She folded each of us into a hug before lining us up shoulder-to-shoulder across the living room, her face stern. “You will mop up all this water while I'm gone, and clean up this mess.” We nodded. “Whatever all this fighting is about, it stops now, understood?” We nodded again. “Warm up some leftovers for lunch. Keep the doors locked. Keep your cell phones charged. And try not to worry. In a few days, this will all seem like a bad dream.”

We watched her go in silence. None of us could think of anything to say.

Mason switched on the TV and curled up on the couch with a blanket while Fox and I cleaned up the kitchen. I could hear a reporter talking about the annual Mothman Festival, a two-day party in Point Pleasant with vendors, music, and guest speakers.

His segment was interrupted by a sudden burst of “breaking news” theme music. Fox and I dropped our mops and ran for the living room.

A local reporter, his face solemn, appeared on-screen. “There has been a fresh wave of Mothman sightings this morning. Reports are coming in from all over Athens, along with dozens of amateur videos.”

“Could it be a hoax?” Fox wondered, but then we saw the first video.

“This recording, submitted by Brad Sutter, was taken outside the Walmart on State Street. As you can see, several dozen eyewitnesses were on the scene.”

Fox grabbed up the remote and stabbed the volume button with his thumb.

“That's really him,” I said.

We watched Mothman hover over the parking lot, swooping, diving, sending people running for cover. The next video was shot in a neighborhood full of fancy brick houses, the next on a wooded road. They all showed pretty much the same thing.

“What is he up to?” Fox said.

“Why is he so mad, Josie?” Mason wondered.

“John said that, too.”

“Said what?” Fox said.

“He said Edgar … Mothman … was angry.”

Fox snorted. “Has he ever been anything else?”

We stared at the TV as the videos replayed again and again.

“Watch him,” I said. “Do you notice anything weird?”

Fox shrugged. “I don't know. He's just flying around like he did at the auction. Why?”

“Exactly. It's the same in every single video. He doesn't hurt anyone. He doesn't break anything. He just … watches. It has to mean something.”

“I'm listening,” Fox said.

“It's like, everybody has a weakness, right? As Mothman, he has certain powers, but maybe there are rules he has to follow, too. Or … or maybe there was something he had to give up.”

“Like my comic books,” Mason said. “There's always a way to beat the bad guy, even when he has superstrength or he's really smart.”

I felt a tiny flicker of hope. “Exactly. Good thinking, Mason.” I took off the pin and rubbed my thumb across the glass. “But if we're going to take Mothman down, we need to know more about that curse.”

 

16

We gathered up every last item we'd taken from the storeroom—books, journals, scrapbooks, photo albums, and papers—and huddled around the coffee table with the radio from Dad's office.

But I realized something was missing. Goodrich's moth shadow box had been on my mind, and I decided it might be time for another look. “Be right back,” I said before running upstairs and pulling the shadow box from beneath a pile of too-small sweaters in the back of my closet.

When I returned to the living room, Mason was fiddling with the radio while Fox paged through the
Lingering Spirit
book.

“Did you know that animals can come back as spirits, too?” Fox said.

“Cool,” Mason said.

“Is that helpful in some way?” I said.

“Nah. Just interesting.”

I put on the pin, right up near the pulse point in my neck. “John?” I called. “Are you here?”

“Yes.”

He stood near the kitchen, image flickering.

“Did this shadow box belong to Edgar?” I asked.

“Yes.”

“How did you know, Josie?” Fox said. “And how did Goodrich get his hands on it?”