Cursed [Book 1] ✔

Chapter 8.2: Not Driving Stick Anymore

All I heard was my own breathing. After a few seconds, I realized I was holding my breath, and the damned breathing noises belonged to someone else. Or something else, breathing from the white lacquered crib in the center of the room. Even in the shadows, the blanket rustled from between the bars of the crib. It should have been flat, not bulbous. The blanket wriggled, accompanied by mewling.

I wanted to leave the room. On the other hand, my curiosity forced me to march to the crib. I would do it fast, like a band aid.

I ripped the blanket away to find...nothing. Minghan's pink blanket in hand, I stood staring down at an empty crib.

* * * * 

Most people would have written off what had happened as a nightmare or an overactive imagination. I was not most people. I was also a fool to believe my troubles had ceased. The danger was obvious, and this thing wasn't going to stop until I was dead. I needed to know more.

To deter Rafe from my obsession, I investigated after work, asking him to drop me at my mother's house. He assumed we were planning out the delivery, but really, her house sat a few blocks away from the library. Once his car turned the corner out her neighborhood, I walked there.

I researched all I could think of having to do with the occult, demons, and tribal sacrifices. Most of what I learned was useless, and it was all disturbing. Days passed without me discovering anything essential. After two more days of tiresome reading and busty engravings of demonesses, I decided the answer was too large for the local library.

I shuffled back to my mother's house, knowing nothing could save me. Husband and child would go on without me, eventually filling the void with time, and even another woman. Sure, I wanted them to be happy, but the thought of a replacement hurt.

At home, I found my mother waiting at the dining room table.

Without preamble, she asked, "How did it go?"

I struggled out of my pea coat. "It was...boring."

"You found out what you needed?" Her interest in my research was disquieting. She had the mom look, the one that says, I already know, but I want you to say it aloud.

"...Yes."

She sighed. "You know, I'm not stupid, Imogen. I know why you're digging into history books, and why you can't sleep at night."

"What? How do you—"

"When you said you didn't have a vision, I knew you were lying. Just like I knew you had a vision about Rosalind, and didn't warn her." Estelle permitted the information to stew before going on. "But, we don't ever need to go into that. I know the limits of your power and how conflicted you must have been about withholding that knowledge. I still love you and want to help you." She drummed her fingers on the table, and I took stock of the worn leather book by her hand.

"What's that?"

"A diary."

I smirked.

I couldn't understand how a diary could help me, but I'd follow along with my mother's coy spin on the conversation. Anything was certainly better than hearing her hold me somewhat responsible for my sister's death.

"Whose diary?" I stretched out the words to a ridiculous degree.

"It's not your father's." She picked up on my silent question and expanded upon it, "That man can barely read."

"That's an exaggeration."

"Is it? I ought to know, having been married to him!"

By accident, our discussion had turned into an argument.

"Look, Mom, let's not, okay? I'm tired, cranky, and pregnant. Whose diary is it?"

She managed to look abashed. "I'm sorry. Since you brought him up, I have had to re-live a lot of painful memories."

"What?" She acted as though we'd been re-hashing her marriage for hours instead of minutes. "You brought up Dad!"

"Not that idiot." One flick of her wrist slid the thin volume across the table. "Juan Ortiz."

Even as the book's authenticity was apparent from a quick thumb through the vellum pages, I asked, "Are you sure?"

"Fairly. I found it in the attic among your father's things." I barely heard her as I scanned through the book.

"It's been translated?" I murmured, amazed.

"It was like that when I found it. Lucky since none of us is literate in Spanish."

"Yes, lucky." She held off commenting on my parroted answer. My attentions were obviously elsewhere.

Nose in book, I plodded my way to my room.

"You never told me what you found out!" she called.

"Stuff about Indians," was all I could manage.

Before I closed the bedroom door, she loudly informed me, "I don't think Rafe would appreciate that word usage, dear!"

From between the pages of the diary, I smiled.

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