The Curse Collectors

Chapter 1: Welcome to Mistwood

Life has a way of shaking you up once you get too comfortable, that's about the only certain thing about being alive. Apparently, I'd been extra comfortable lately, because life decided the only way to balance the scales was to burn down the house I'd lived in for all fourteen years of my life. 

The only things I had left were my mom, my cat, my phone, and the clothes I'd been wearing when we'd escaped the blaze. Oh, and the old '97 Honda Accord that was currently carrying us down the country road of upstate South Carolina toward our temporary refuge.

The drive from Greenville had been under an hour, but the yawning chasm of uncertainty that had become my life since the fire made it seem a lot longer. I'd stopped trying to press Mom for information after the sixth or seventh "I don't know" had been accompanied by the glisten of tears at the edges of her eyes. 

I'd spent most of the drive with my forehead against the window, earbuds dampening the road noise with melodic comfort of retrowave filling me with nostalgia for a time I hadn't even been alive for. Weird taste, I know. Sue me.

Knowing we were getting close, I reached for my phone, turned off the music, and plucked out my earbuds, sighing heavily as I stuffed them in my pocket.

"We're almost there, baby," said Mom.

"I know," I replied. There was more of an edge to my voice than I'd intended. Mom looked at me briefly. I didn't look back.

"You're still mad at me," she said flatly.

I hesitated. I was, but part of me didn't want to bring it up again. Mom had a lot on her plate already. I heaved another sigh.

"Well, yeah. You don't believe me," I said.

It was Mom's turn to hesitate. She was choosing her words carefully.

"Annie..."

"Ann," I corrected.

Mom's nickname for me had set me up for orphan jokes my whole life. I'd been trying to do some damage control since it got especially bad in middle school.

"Ann," she began again, sounding exasperated. "There's just... no way someone was in the house. There would have been some kind of evidence."

"You mean a body? I know. But he was there, Mom. I saw him in my window. You should have told the cops. He was probably the one that did it."

"Alright, Ann," Mom sighed. That meant the conversation was done.

I sucked my teeth and leaned my head against the headrest. See, on the night of the fire, as we were watching our house burn down amidst a horde of nosy neighbors, I'd seen something that had been fresh in my mind ever since. There had been a tall man standing in my window, framed by the devastating flames. He stood out for how sickly white his skin was while everything else around him was alive with shades of yellow and orange. The light didn't play across his features as it should have. It was like he was immune to the environment.

If that wasn't freaky enough, I could tell he was looking right at me. He was too far away for me to make out the details, but I could feel the malice rolling toward me in thick, depthless waves. I'd tried to get my mom's attention to point out the creep, but as soon as I'd shaken her out of the horrified stupor caused by the state of the house, he was gone. And of course, no one believed the kid. Just like a horror movie. I just hoped that was where the similarities ended.

I watched as the buildings and houses became more sparse the farther down the highway we went until the road was lined with trees innumerable and not much else. My cat lay sprawled across my lap, her black fur soaking up the October sun through the windshield. If it wasn't for the occasional rise and fall of her chest, you'd think she was dead.