Cursed Read online

  Cursed

  Jeremy C. Shipp

  Advance Praise for CURSED

  “…full of wonderful surprises and weirdness. I loved it, and I’ll be going hunting for Jeremy C. Shipp’s earlier works now. I recommend Cursed very highly.”—John R. Little, Bram Stoker winning author of Miranda and The Gray Zone

  “One of the most original and entertaining books I’ve read in a long time…The writing is crisp and fast-paced.”—Daniel G. Keohane, author of Solomon’s Grave

  “…Shipp’s one of a kind voice leads us through an ever-twisting ride inside the netherverse of the mind.”—John Palisano

  “…delivers a fun ride of mystery and fear mixed in with lashings of dark humor and weird scenes featuring some strange people.”—MPN SIMS, co-author of Department 18

  “Cursed is beyond any other bizarre, twisted story I’ve ever read. I’ve never enjoyed being slapped so much before.”—Jodi Lee, The New Bedlam Project

  “Cursed is: A punch to the back of the head by a six-foot pink bunny. It hurts at first, but then the Vicodin and Jim Beam kick in.”—L.L. Soares, author of In Sickness

  “…a provocative, intense story that distorts the very fabric of fiction.”—Amy Grech, author of Apple of My Eye and Blanket of White

  “…a delightful, quirky read. Shipp keeps you guessing and turning pages.”—Louise Bohmer, author of The Black Act

  “…alarmingly bizarre, full of odd angles and satirical wit…[Shipp] writes like an outlaw, with an utterly unique voice hellbent on cutting his own path.”—Joe McKinney, author of Dead City, Quarantined, and Resistance

  “By turns, this witty, horrific and poignant book dazzles and astounds the reader. This is an unforgettable work—a must read you’ll savor long after the final page.”—Lisa Mannetti, Bram Stoker Award winning author of The Gentling Box

  “Fun, weird stuff with writing so sharp and wry, it’ll make you want to slap your mama!”— Michael Louis Calvillo, Bram Stoker Nominated author of I Will Rise and As Fate Would Have It

  Cursed © 2009 by Jeremy C. Shipp

  All rights reserved

  Published by Raw Dog Screaming Press

  Hyattsville, MD

  First Edition

  Cover and Book Design: John Lawson

  Cover Images © 2009 Jupiterimages Corporation

  Printed in the United States of America

  ISBN (hc) 978-1-933293-86-8 (pbk) 978-1-933293-88-5

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2009930320

  www.RawDogScreaming.com

  #12

  There are 3 ways I can see this night ending:

  1. A burglar breaks in and swipes whatever valuables he can find. Basically, that means the Playstation and the pyramid of HBO box sets in the corner. He ends up assaulting me for wasting his time.

  2. I get attacked by the ghost of Mario Martinez, the man who was murdered here 30 years ago. The murderer shot him for less than a mound of DVDs. Just one paycheck. And the killer was never caught. The only reason I know all this is because my roommate’s aunt is a policewoman and she looked into the homicide for him. Because he begged. Gordon’s morbid that way.

  3. Someone rings the doorbell and wants to talk.

  I think I’d prefer 2, but 3 it is.

  Tonight it’s Nadia.

  I’m not surprised. I’m also not looking forward to this one.

  “Can we talk?” she says, and steps through the threshold, arms crossed.

  “I actually have a date,” I say. “If I don’t leave now, I’m gonna be late.” I didn’t mean for that to rhyme. I feel stupid already.

  “This is important,” she says, on my couch. She’s talking to the spot where she wants me to sit. Like I’m already there.

  “Couldn’t we do this on the phone? Tomorrow?”

  “This is too important for the phone.”

  I sigh. “I see.”

  “I drove all the way out here to talk to you. Thirty minutes. The least you can do is give me a minute of your time.”

  The least I can do is scramble out the door, the building, and hide behind a garbage bin until she goes away. But that hasn’t worked for me yet.

  “Fine,” I say.

  Since I don’t join her on the couch where I obviously belong, she approaches me. She’s more than my sister right now, even if she doesn’t know it. She’s my past catching up to me.

  She’s #12.

  “Look,” she says, and when Nadia says, “Look,” what she means is, “I know how to fix all your problems if you just shut up and listen to me for once.”

  “This morning, Greg and I were sitting on the couch,” she says. “We were watching Svetlana play with a little toy xylophone. Me and Greg, you know we’ve been married for seven years. Out of the blue, on that couch, he held my hand. That little thing, combined with every other wonderful little thing in my life, flooded into me like…well, I don’t know what it was like. It was like nothing else. I was this close to pure joy.” And she holds her index fingers side by side, in front of her nose.

  “Congratulations,” I say. She probably thinks I’m being sarcastic. Maybe I even sound sarcastic. But I’m happy for her.

  “The point is,” she says. “I couldn’t reach that pure joy, because of you.”

  And that little thing, combined with every other little thing she’s ever said to me, almost floods out of me in tears. Instead, I say, I crackle, “Thanks.”

  “I didn’t mean it that way.” She puts a hand on my shoulder. A move I’m sure she learned from Full House or some other TV show back in the 80s. “I just…I mean, I think you should go to church.”

  “I thought we save this conversation for Christmas. It’s only June.”

  “This is different.” She crosses her arms again, blocking her heart. “I realized, during that moment on the couch with Greg, that I’ll never be able to feel completely happy. Not now. Not ever. Not even in heaven.”

  I take this moment to glance at the mole on my left wrist. Sure enough, it’s still there.

  “How are we supposed to enjoy ourselves up there?” she says. “Knowing that you’re below us, trapped for eternity, going through god-knows-what?”

  “I’m sure you’ll manage somehow.”

  “I’m serious, Nicholas. This isn’t only your life that you’re messing with. We’re connected. We’re all connected.” She interlaces her fingers, in front of my nose.

  I can’t think of anything else to say but, “I’ll be fine.”

  At that, her fingers disconnect in an instant, and she slaps me. She slaps me hard. But it’s not really me she’s attacking. She’s fighting her own fears and doubts, and that’s what I tell myself when I touch my throbbing cheek.

  “Oh,” she says. She looks at me with those I-don’t-know-what-got-into-me eyes. And I want to tell her exactly what it is.

  Instead, I put a hand on her shoulder, and say, crackle, “I’m fine.”

  #13

  Cicely’s back.

  My face burns a little, but she’s not my girlfriend. She’s not even a friend, really. I know her favorite kind of apple and peach. I don’t know her last name

  During a turn, her cart swerves too far and smacks a ledge of bread.

  “God!” Cicely says. There’s panic in her voice that I’m sure has nothing to do with bread.

  “Damn defective carts,” I say, closing in. “I could go find you a new one.”

  “Nicholas,” she says, not smiling for once. “The cart’s fine, hon. I’m the defective one.”

  I laugh, because I always feel like laughing when I’m around Cicely. If she told me her cat died, I might laugh on accident. Then I notice the tennis ball in her right hand. I force myself to look away.

  “I missed you last week,” I say. I didn’t mean
to sound so sincere. So small.

  Now she smiles. And with a smile like that, she can’t be #13.

  “I’m sorry I missed it,” she says. “I was busy being kidnapped by little green men.”

  “I should’ve known.”

  “Luckily, I annoyed their scientists so much they let me go. It turns out aliens despise show tunes. “Brigadoon” especially.”

  I laugh. The world is right in the supermarket again.

  “Shall we shop?” she says.

  We shop.

  Cicely grips the cart with her left hand, and presses the tennis ball in her right hand against the handle. She can hardly control the cart. She’s sweating. Yet she doesn’t put the ball away in her pastel rainbow of a purse.

  Maybe she really likes tennis. Maybe this is a sort of physical therapy. I don’t know.

  What I do know is her List.

  I know:

  1. 4 organic Granny Smith apples. And she’ll say something like, “A little known fact. Apples not only keep away doctors, but flesh-eating zombies. McIntosh don’t work though. Don’t ask me why.”

  2. 3 organic yellow peaches. And she’ll say, “When I was a girl, I was hated by peaches. We managed to work things out when I was 15. I’m glad we did.”

  I know the rest.

  Or I thought I did.

  Cicely’s List is different today, completely different, and I feel disoriented.

  1. 6 organic Golden Delicious.

  2. 1 scoop of walnuts.

  3. Some leafy green vegetable. I feel too dizzy to notice what kind.

  “You OK?” she says, still sweating like crazy.

  “I’m fine,” I say, small.

  She sets down the cantaloupe, one-handed. “I wasn’t really kidnapped by aliens.”

  “A more cynical person probably would have doubted you,” I say. “As it is, I feel betrayed.” I try to smile.

  “My husband left me.”

  I’m careful not to laugh. “I’m sorry, Cicely.”

  I didn’t know she was married.

  “John wasn’t right for me,” she says. “I’m an African goddess. He didn’t treat me like an African goddess. You can see how that could be a problem.”

  “Yeah,” I say, not laughing.

  “Now that he’s gone, I feel stupid I stayed with him for so long. I’m 46 years old, for god’s sake.”

  “You’re not stupid. You’re really…good.” I want to bury myself in potatoes.

  “Thanks, hon. Oh! Mangos. I’ll be right back.” She speeds away.

  And I look back after her.

  What I thought was Cicely’s List all this time, wasn’t. It was John’s.

  I watch her hair and only notice that I’m pushing my cart when I hit something.

  “Shit!” I say. The panic in my voice has almost everything to do with the little girl I knocked over.

  Time for #13.

  #14

  My present to-make list:

  1. Winged hippo.

  2. Dental drill.

  3. Another Elvis.

  Right now, I’m using a chopstick to turn the little hippo legs inside out. I count every leg.

  By the time I reach 4, Gordon’s inside and undoing Meta’s harness. Meta, his Labradoodle.

  “Where are you?” Gordon says.

  “Here,” I say.

  Gordon walks over with the harness. “The sign on here, it says something to the effect of ‘Do not pet my fucking guide dog,’ right?”

  “Right,” I say.

  “It’s every fucking day.” He hangs the harness on the wall. “People are either inconsiderate or just plain stupid.”

  “Yeah.”

  He sits on the couch. “This old lady started petting her today, and I was Mr. Polite. ‘Please stop, ma’am. I’d appreciate it if you asked me first before doing that.’ But she kept on petting her and I had to walk away before she’d stop. Then there was this guy who barked at her when we were crossing the street. And you know Meta. She’s got major ADD. I don’t know what people are thinking.”

  “Sorry,” I say. On behalf of all the sighted people in the world, maybe.

  He sighs. “No, I’m sorry, Nick. You were here, being all zen and artistic. Then I come in and fuck everything up like the thoughtless assholes I was talking about.”

  “There’s no zen and there’s no art. I make stuffed animals.”

  “Customized plush art. Don’t sell yourself short.”

  “Shut up.” I’m ready to load up the hippo, but realize I’m out of polyfil. I’m usually more organized than this. I stretch and join Gordon on the couch. “You’ll like this. A woman placed an order today. She wants a bride holding the groom’s head. His severed head. She’s gonna mail me a photo of the couple to use as a model.” I forgot to add this one to my to-make list.

  “Some people are weird.”

  “Coming from a guy obsessed with murderers.”

  “I’m intrigued by the psychology of violence. Now you’re selling me short.”

  “Sorry.”

  “My favorite still has to be the head with the open skull. All the penises sticking out of his brain like flowers in a flowerpot. Now that was art.”

  “You need help.”

  “I need food.” He walks away.

  I glance around the living room for a while, for no reason at all. Then I search my pocket for this week’s to-do list. I can’t find it.

  I can’t think.

  I can, but all I can think about is #14, and I need to do something about it.

  I find Gordon in the kitchen, eating leftovers.

  “Aren’t those mine?” I say.

  “You ate yours already. Remember?”

  He’s right. “Shit. I’m losing it.” I didn’t mean to sound so alarmed. So loud.

  “It’s just leftovers, Nick.”

  “I need you to help me with an experiment.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Stay with me in my room tonight. No one in or out. We’ll have to secure the door. It’ll only be until midnight.”

  Gordon exhales hard out his nose. A laugh. “Don’t get me wrong. I’m interested, very interested, in what the hell’s going on with you, but I have plans tonight. You know, the good kind.”

  “I’ll pay you. I have $114 in my wallet right now.”

  “I don’t know. You make strange whimpering sounds in your sleep. It freaks me out.”

  “I won’t sleep then.”

  Another hard puff out the nose.

  Sure, I’m asleep by 10 every night, but not tonight. If my routine’s going to fall apart, at least I can make it crumble on my own terms.

  “Alright,” Gordon says. And he’s more than my roommate right now, even if he doesn’t know it. He’s my future.

  So, to secure the perimeter:

  1. Barricade the door with my dresser.

  2. Test the bars on the window. Make sure nothing’s loose.

  3. Check the closet for monsters or otherwise.

  4. Check under the bed.

  “So…what exactly’s supposed to happen here?” Gordon says.

  My face burns.

  “Well?” he says.

  He’s part of this now. I might as well tell him.

  “You’re gonna slap me,” I say. “Unless someone breaks through the door and slaps me. Or the window. Or Meta slaps me. But I’m not sure if dogs count.”

  “Jesus fuck,” Gordon says. “Why would I slap you?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Why would anyone slap you? You’re the nicest guy I know.”

  “I’m not nice.”

  “Yeah, you are.”

  I sigh.

  And Gordon drops the subject. A move I’m sure he didn’t learn from an 80s TV show.

  Before long, Gordon’s asleep on my bed, snug in his sleeping bag, with Meta curled up beside him. They’re both snoring. If I weren’t frowning so hard, I might smile.

  Instead, I’m sitting at my desk, watching the clock.
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  The time’s 11:35.

  25 more minutes, and I can breathe again.

  I hear something scratching at the door. I shiver. I think:

  1. Mario Martinez

  2. The man who killed Mario Martinez.

  But I stand, and it’s Meta clawing at the dresser.

  Gordon walks into my nightstand. “Fuck,” he says. “Forgot what room I’m in.”

  “Sorry,” I say.

  “Help me move the dresser.”

  “There’s still time left. 24 minutes.”

  “Meta needs to pee.”

  “Let her pee on the floor.”

  “She doesn’t want to pee on the floor, Nick.”

  “I don’t care.”

  “This is fucking crazy.” He pushes on the dresser.

  And Gordon’s one of the last people in the world I’d imagine slapping me. The last people:

  1. Gordon.

  2. Cicely.

  3. Sol, my step-father.

  I need to know what’s happening to me. I need to know if one of these people would cross the line if my destiny demanded it.

  So I pull Gordon away from the dresser.

  “Let me go!” he says.

  I don’t.

  And he slaps me.

  #14. And that little number, combined with every other little number that led up to it, makes me sick to my stomach.

  Gordon touches his hand to his cheek, like he feels my pain. Maybe he does. “I’m sorry,” he says. “I can’t believe I just did that.”

  “I’m sorry I grabbed you,” I say.

  “I shouldn’t’ve reacted that way.”

  “It’s not your fault.”

  “Yes, it is.”

  “Let’s move the dresser.”

  We do.

  “Don’t sleep yet,” he says. “I want to talk to you when we get back.”

  He gets to work putting on Meta’s harness, and she already peed on the floor. I don’t tell him. I sit on the couch in the living room, waiting, staring at Gordon’s spot next to me. Like he’s already there.

  When he is, I say, “It really wasn’t your fault.”

  “It really was,” he says. “I have this thing about being touched. I freaked out. I shouldn’t’ve punched you.”