Cursed

1. Belle and Books

“I cannot believe you just said that,” I said, trying to play it cool. He shrugged.

“Too cheesy?” he raised a cocky brow.

“Understatement,” I laughed. We chatted for awhile until we arrived at the Green Park Station and went our separate ways.

I climbed the steps out of the Underground and made my way to the only thing I could possibly ever dream about missing when I leave London. The London Library.

The most magnificent, majestic, marvelous, amazing place in the whole world. As if being a library wasn't good enough, it had to be the biggest, best collection of books ever. Well actually, I don't know if that's true but you should see the size of this thing. More books than anyone could ever dream of reading in a lifetime. In three lifetimes.

It's like scholars' heaven. I'm no scholar, but I love reading. Like, I could read for days. And that is precisely what I do, since I no longer have a social life. I've been coming here since the day we arrived, doing all my homework here, spending all my spare time here, away from the dreadful noise of the streets of London. And away from the cold. And away from people my age. Normal teenagers don't generally use the library as their frequent hangout spot.

I went inside and headed to the front desk. A small, white haired, balding old man smiled widely at me as I approached the desk.

“And how may I help you today, Miss Belle,” he beamed.

“I feel like a good murder mystery today, Mr. Hughes,” I returned his smile. He stepped out from behind the desk and walked me through the rows and rows of shelves. He had insisted on walking me personally to the section of my choice since the fourth day I had showed up.

He had noticed that I had came alone and gloomy-looking everyday and pointed it out. I told him my story and then he told me how he had come to London, too. Anyhow, he was not a London kinda guy either so he knew how I felt. He had come only out of his devotion to books, something I had in common with him and the only thing keeping me sane. So I had a friend in this awful place, as old as he may be.

Suddenly my attention was drawn to a folklore section on the way. All the books looked so old and antique, I couldn't help but stop Mr. Hughes to look. I ran my fingertips across the worn spines, loving the feel of old and familiar. I paused at a title that caught my eye.

Places Seldom Seen. It was written in fancy twirly gold lettering and looked even more worn than the rest.

“What's this?” I asked Mr. Hughes, pointing to the book.

“That, my dear, is a book about the myths of Great Britain. In fact,” he said pulling it off the shelf and flipping through it, “If I remember correctly, I do believe there is a myth about a forest near my hometown.” I leaned in to look while he paged through it.

“Ah, here it is!” he exclaimed, probably a little too excitedly, but I admired his enthusiasm. He handed me the open book and left me to curl up with it in a worn plushy chair.

It read:

The Disappearing Manor

There have been accounts of an enormous non-existent

manor dating back to 1300s in what is known today as

Evernight Forest. To find the hidden manor, supposedly, one

must simply lose one's way. Those who claim to have

found this manor, tell of a magnificent structure

surrounded by rows upon rows of rose bushes of every

color and fragrance. Those who happened upon it in the