The Saint Patrick's Curse

Chapter 1: The Invitation

The envelope showed up on a Tuesday. No stamp. No return address. Just my name in green ink that smelled like mint and old libraries.

JAMES COLE
14 Maple Drive, Boston, Massachusetts

I almost threw it out. I get scam mail every week. "YOU WON A LAPTOP!" "CONGRATS GRAND PRIZE!" But this was heavy. Like there was a coin inside.

I tore it open on my kitchen counter.

Inside was one card. Thick. The color of wet grass. In the middle was a shamrock, but not the cute kind from bar merch. This one had thorns. And wrapped around the stem was a tiny snake, carved so detailed I could see its scales.

Under it:

YOU HAVE BEEN SELECTED
THE SAINT PATRICK'S COURSE
BLACKTHORN ABBEY, SALEM COUNTY, NEW YORK
ARRIVAL: MARCH 1ST
GRADUATION: MARCH 17TH
ALL EXPENSES PAID. DISCRETION REQUIRED.

And at the bottom, in tiny letters: _Leadership is sacrifice._

I laughed. Because what else do you do?

I'm 21. Junior at Boston University. Communications major. My biggest leadership experience was running the dorm floor's St. Patrick's Day party last year and making sure nobody burned the building down.

There was a QR code in the corner. I scanned it before I could talk myself out of it.

A video loaded. No sound at first. Just drone footage of a castle in the woods. Not a fancy European one. This was American gothic. Black stone, covered in ivy, sitting on a hill like it was daring the forest to take it back. Snow was melting around it. Bare trees all around.

Then a voice. Old. Male. Irish accent, but worn soft by years in America.
"Mr. Cole. We chose you because you fix things. Because when people panic, you stay calm. The Course will test that. Seven will enter. Not all will graduate. But those who do... will never want for anything again."

The video cut to black.

My phone buzzed. Bank alert: $5,000.00 USD.
Deposit from: ST PATRICK FOUNDATION LTD

I stared at it for a long time.

That night I googled "Saint Patrick's Course". Nothing. "Blackthorn Abbey New York". One result. A 1902 newspaper scan: _"Fire at Blackthorn Estate. Seven Students Missing. Estate Sealed by County."_

By Friday, 6 more people had DM'd me on Instagram. Same card.

MAYA CHEN - Architecture student, Toronto → now in Chicago
LUCA MORETTI - Culinary student, New York City
SOFIA REYES - Pre-med, Austin, Texas
ETHAN WRIGHT - History major, Dublin, Ohio
AMINA DAVIS - Engineering, Atlanta, Georgia
BROOKLYN HART - Theater major, Los Angeles, California

We made a group chat. Nobody knew each other. But we all got $5,000. And we all had the same question:

"Is this real?"

Ethan from Ohio answered first: "Blackthorn Abbey is real. My professor mentioned it. Irish immigrants built it in 1847 during the famine. They called it a 'leadership academy'. Then something happened and the state shut it down."

Sofia: "What happened?"
Ethan: "He said 'the Course collected tuition'. Then he changed the subject."

Nobody texted after that.

On February 28th, another envelope came. Flight ticket. Boston > Albany. Car service from there. And a note on the same green paper: _Bring nothing you aren't willing to lose._

I should've burned it.

Instead I packed one duffel. Jeans, hoodies, laptop, charger. And a pocket knife my dad gave me.

The drive to Blackthorn took 2 hours from Albany. The driver didn't talk. The GPS stopped working 30 minutes in. We were on back roads now, trees so thick they blocked the sun.

And then we saw it.

Blackthorn Abbey.

It wasn't pretty. It was huge. Four stories of black stone, with one tower that went up higher than the trees. Every window was dark except one at the top. Green light.

Six other cars were parked in the circle drive.

We got out. The air was cold and smelled like wet earth and something sweet. Like flowers left too long in water.

The front doors were massive. Dark wood. Carved right in the center was that thorny shamrock. With the snake.

The doors opened before we knocked.

A man stood there. 70s. Black suit, no tie. White hair. Eyes so pale blue they looked gray. He held a cane with a silver shamrock on top.

"Welcome," he said. "To the Saint Patrick's Course. I am Headmaster Byrne."

He looked at us. One by one. Counting.

"Seven," he said. "Good. You're early. Dinner is at 8. Curfew is at 10. Rule one: Do not enter the east wing after dark. Rule two: Do not drink from the well in the courtyard. Rule three: On the night of March 17th, remain in your rooms."

He smiled. It didn't reach his eyes.

"Break any rule... and the Course will correct you."

Behind him, the hallway was lit by candles. Hundreds. And on the walls, portraits. Dozens of young people. All 18-22. All wearing green sashes. All with the same blank, empty stare.

At the end of the hall, a grandfather clock ticked.
It read: March 1st. 6:03 PM.
16 days until March 17th.

Headmaster Byrne shut the door. The sound was like a vault closing.

"Let the Course begin."

Maya grabbed my sleeve. Her hand was shaking.
"James," she whispered. "Do you hear that?"

From somewhere deep in the abbey, like from under the floor, came music. An Irish fiddle. Playing a song that sounded like a lullaby and a warning at the same time.

And then it stopped.