cursed

Cursed by Amanda Stogsdill

I slide the manuscript from its hiding place. Staring at the title, I finger its many pages. So much has happened, it seems like a lifetime has passed, instead of months. Would anyone at the agent’s offices read it? Only one way to find out. Pulling out an already-addressed envelope, I place my precious story inside. Sealing it, I almost laugh out loud at the absurdity of the story. Who would believe a word? The truth is stranger than any fiction!

****

It's a dark, stormy afternoon. As rain hammers on my windows and thunder rumbles outside, I sit at my typewriter, very out of sorts! In my silent house, the writing should have been a breeze! I was supposed to be writing a story for this contest; so far, the creative juices weren’t flowing. The typewriter had been a gift from my brother, Shawn. Why he thought I needed an ancient machine like that, I'll never know.

The page remains noticeably blank while I eat lunch. I can't even come up with good character ideas! Except Brianna, a girl without parents. What a wasted day! On top of that, it's raining. I sigh heavily. Not the best way to start my story.

Throwing caution to the winds, I slowly type: `It's a dark and stormy night.` I smile, pleased to have typed something. Now what? Next, I type: `My neighbor Brianna knocks on my door, needing to borrow a flashlight!` Again, not sure where this is heading, but it's a start.

I was about to type the next sentence, when my doorbell rings. I blink, confused. Living out in the country, my only neighbors are the occasional deer and howling coyotes, with never-ending miles of cornfields. Ignoring it, I type: `I open the door, and peer out at the rain. Seeing no one, I step out on my porch. The summer day is warm, the rain is cool on my skin, very refreshing. As it falls on my face and hair, I gaze around for whomever knocked. "Who's there?" I call.

"Me, Brianna." A tiny voice says.`

The doorbell chimes again, longer this time. Okay! Abandoning my page in the middle of a line, I rise to answer it. A loud clap of thunder rattles the windows, making me jump. Stepping outside, I let the cool rain wash over my face, drenching my hair. "Who's there?" I call.

"Brianna!" A girl says, eyes wide. I freeze, not quite believing my ears! How is this happening?

"Can I help you?" I ask.

"I need a flashlight." Brianna answers, tears in her eyes. I can see she's soaked, hair plastered to her face.

Huh? Dashing back inside, I read what I'd already typed. What the hell!

Testing out this strangeness, I type: `I invite Brianna in, she asks for water. She seems confused about her identity.` Take that! I smirk.

Returning with the flashlight, I invite her in. "Okay!" She agrees, not at all concerned at entering a stranger's house. We sit, I notice she's shivering. "May I have some water, please?" She whispers. Nodding dumbly, I go into the kitchen, where I fill a glass, then add ice. This is the weirdest thing to ever happen to me. I've no idea what's going on, but right now, I decide to go along with what I've written.

"Here!" Handing her the drink and a towel, I sit across from her. "Where are your parents? Where do you live?" I inquire, looking at her. With her braided long hair, dimples in both cheeks, and brown eyes, she could be anyone's daughter.

She spills some water on my sofa, "I'm not sure. You know more than me. I just needed a flashlight. But, you already knew that." She makes no attempt to clear up the spill.

I gape at her, astonished. When I can speak, I stammer, "What do you mean?"

"You named me just now. I've no idea how, or why. My name's Brianna." She states matter-of-factly. Then, she adds, "I don't even know what a flashlight is! I only know I must have one."

I'm speechless, to say the least. Me, a nobody in this world. How had I been given this crazy power or curse?

Rushing back to my writing room, testing my newfound ability, I type: `The boy looks over my shoulder, attempting to read my latest draft. What there is, anyway.` I turn, hearing a noise. A silhouette of a boy is standing here, peering over my shoulder, straining to see my work. This is so weird! I'm still beyond amazed as to how this is even happening. Returning to my page of jumbled sentences, I type: `The boy vanishes, as if he's never been. I return to the living room. Brianna is sitting where I'd left her, feet up. She's fast asleep!`

Sure enough, the scene materializes, as if by magic. Wow! Somehow, I can control my world simply by typing.

For the next hour, my fingers have a will of their own. Flowers bloom outside my window, a beautiful rainbow hovers in the sky without rain, a herd of beautiful deer gallops around my house. Eventually, I grow bored of this! Nothing's happening—that is, these random acts are just that, disconnected thoughts without any meaning whatsoever. Crumpling up the test page, I discard it in my trash along with the other bits of my unwritten story.

Brianna! She's still asleep, I didn't wake her, literally! Sliding a fresh sheet of paper into the machine, I carefully type: `Stirring, Brianna blinks, unsure where she is. Remembering, she explores the house, barefoot. She soon finds me in my writing room.` Right! I smile. Let's see what happens, shall we? Right on cue, I hear someone stirring in the living room. Silent at first, then I hear the sound of feet coming nearer. Glancing up, I see Brianna standing in the doorway, staring at me. And yes, she's barefoot.

"Hi!" I smile, "Sleep well?" No response. "Are you hungry?" I ask. Again, nothing, just this long, blank stare. Of course! She isn't responding, as her creator, I haven't given her the communication to do so. Testing still further, I make her do handstands, jumping jacks, even run up and down the hall. Very crazy! I'm staring, she's expressionless. I realize her every thought, her every action is totally controlled by me. No will of her own! What a sobering thought! Wanting to change this, I type: `Brianna is free to speak at will, has emotions, has curiosity, but is afraid to disobey.` I wait, ready to type again should this prove unsuccessful for some bizarre reason.

"About time!" She sniffs angrily, "That is the worst beginning ever! Why was I doing those weird things with my feet? Who are you, anyway?" She stops for breath.

For some reason, I decide not to reveal my true identity. "Your creator." I say simply, "I guess you'll be staying here for a while." I say, expecting some retaliation from her. To my surprise, she accepts my conditions without comment.

 Once she's asleep, I frantically type: `Distracting Brianna is challenging. Curious about her surroundings, she quickly investigates everything, figuring out toilet and the bath. To stop her from totally wrecking my house, I decide to distract her with some puzzles I've kept from my childhood. It works! Beginning with the easiest ones, she quickly progresses to the more advanced ones. She's no longer obsessed with anything electrical. So far, she hasn't shown interest in the outside world She may call me Cindy.`

Sure enough, the next few days are a learning curve for us both. With an inquisitive mind, Brianna asks nonstop questions, like a four-year-old. Once she understood how my house worked, she is off. She enjoys watching television at all hours; I had to remove the remote one morning when it woke me earlier than necessary. Only puzzles calms her.

I almost forgotten my decision to have her stay in when she inquires, "What's outside?"

"My neighborhood. For now, you're staying inside." I remind her.

"Not fair." She glares, hands on hips, "You go out whenever you please." Stamping her foot, she runs from the room.

That night, I add more to my strange story: `With the weather warming up, I decide to take Brianna to our local park. See how she does! We set off, Brianna clinging tightly to my hand. I wonder at her sudden change; she's a different child, very shy. Why?

The park is packed with families; picnicking, playing on the equipment, tossing footballs and sfrisbees. Wide-eyed, Brianna gapes, unsure how to react. "Mom, Dad, watch this!" A girl calls, about to cross the monkey bars. Confused, Brianna's wondering eyes travel from one group to another!

"Come on," I coax, "Let's try this swing." Still hesitant, Brianna doesn't budge. Right then, a little girl runs over, her older sister right behind her. "Lola, slow down. You're not big enough!" The older girl scolds. The young child bumps Brianna in her rush to claim her swing.

"Ouch!" Brianna cries, coming out of her daze, "That hurt." Her lip juts out angrily.

"Sorry," The older girl apologizes, Lola's just very excited."

"My swing!" Lola grins.

"Yes," I say, thinking Brianna could observe, "This is Brianna. Could you show her how to swing?"

"Hi Brianna. I'm Tammy." She holds out her hand; realizing Brianna doesn't know what to do, I demonstrate introductions.

Lola attempts to swing, but can't quite manage the high seat. Tammy and I take turns pushing her; finally, Brianna's curiosity takes over, she sits on the swing opposite. Being older, she's able to master the back-and-forth motion, and is quickly soaring high, head thrown back, laughing to the sky.

After the park, we stop at McDonald's, a kids paradise. Again, Brianna's eyes dart to everything, the menu board, the plastic booths, the drink dispensers, and the line of people waiting to order. She and I agree on the same thing; so ordering for us both, I ask Brianna what she thinks of her day so far. "Fun." She smiles amazed, watching the people in front of us get their drinks.

Sitting, we unwrap our food. "Who's that?" She points at another family sitting nearby. The kids excitedly rip open their colorful Happy Meal toys, ignoring their food.

"I don't know. They're playing with toys." She watches for a few minutes, then carries on eating her hamburger and fries.

 That night after her bath, the questions begin. "What's a family? A mom and dad? Do I have them?"

I decide to answer honestly. "A family is a group of people who live together. A Mom and Dad are two people who take care of the kids." I don't tell her how some families can also be made of two moms or two dads, or other family members; I'll wait until she asks.

"Like you!" She exclaims, eyes brightening at this new idea, "You're my mom. You take care of me!"

"Brianna, I'm not your mother." I explain gently. Then, I mentally correct myself. I'm sort of like a mother, just not in the literal sense.

"Could you create my parents? Like you created me?" She looks me directly in the eye, very eager and hopeful.

I frown. "That would take work. You wouldn't want just any parents, right?" She shakes her head. I continue, "We'll see. Besides, I thought you liked living here with me."

Thoughtfully, she whispers, "I do, you're nice." With a small sigh, she closes her eyes, facing away from me.`

Typing up new adventures, I feel strange. I put them into action. Everything goes according to plan, as if I'd written a script or something. Wait, I did! It's like my life is now controlled by words, my words! I don't know myself how this story will end. Tammy and Lola visit, Brianna goes to the movies with them.

`How long am I going to stay with you?” Brianna asks as we eat. I shrug, not having given it much thought.

“Not sure, dear.” I reply. I can’t just delete her, right?

After more days which happen perfectly, I decide to quit writing. Perhaps that will end this craziness. For a start, Brianna's mood is listless; she wanders around, moping. No longer chatty, she speaks in an emotionless monotone.

I know what must be done. Somehow, I have to return the typewriter to the owner, and demand he lift this curse. "Can you remember where you bought that typewriter?" I call Shawn a few days after my experiment.

"Let me see. Why? What's wrong with it?"

Fighting the urge to blurt out everything, I say something about a broken key. "Here it is. Not far from you." As I write down the address, I silently breathe a sigh of relief!

Early the next morning, with an uncooperative Brianna in tow, we arrive outside the dingiest store I've ever seen! Uninhabitable is my first thought; opening the creaky wooden door, we gasp at the near darkness. "Hello!" I call.

Tentatively, we enter as the door closes with a loud thud! As our eyes adjust, Brianna gasps, squeezing my hand. "What?" I glance down at her.

"That doll. It just moved!" In the dim light, I see a doll sitting in a chair. My eyes slowly travel around; the store seems cluttered with bric-a-brac; furniture, old lamps, dolls, masks hanging on the walls. My hand hovers over a beautiful necklace studded with diamonds, when a raspy voice whispers, "Do Not Touch! You'll die. Now, how may I assist you?"

Whirling round, we come face-to face with the owner. Tall, balding, with a gray beard, dressed in black. Perfect costume for a horror film, I muse.

I explain about the cursed typewriter. By the time I'm finished, the man's face has relaxed into a smile. Not what I was expecting! "You're not surprised?"

"Certainly not. Well—that is, I wasn't aware your machine was capable of predicting the future. I only knew its previous owner warned me it had a mind of its own! Can you show me?"

I frantically type: `A rat somersaults on to the floor. Outside, there's a car crash.` Like before, everything occurs within seconds of writing. "Wow! Amazing!" The man applauds, as if he's seen a carnival act. "Since you don't favor this model, perhaps you'd like another?" Fishing an old key from somewhere, he opens another creaky door leading to the basement.

All sorts of horror movie basements flash in my head. Chainsaws, body parts, you name it. Gesturing, he switches on a single overhead light, and proceeds down the steep, wooden stairs. My calls go unanswered. Still feeling uneasy, I start down, Brianna silently following. Halfway down, the step protests with a particularly loud creak! Don't give way, almost there! I pray.

At the bottom, I gag on the musty smell that greets me, Brianna sneezes. "Over here. Come see these!" The man beckons us with a lit lamp. The light illuminates the stacks of typewriters on shelves. "Perhaps a replacement will do. How about this one?" Reaching up, he selects a machine in a battered case, brushing off the dust.

"I'm concerned about this one!" I push the cursed machine at him. Dropping his offered gift, he takes mine in his hands. Relieved, I turn to go. He begins typing; spinning around, I yank the machine. We play tug-of-war, until with a snap, the ribbon unfurls. At the same time, a cloud of dust floats out of it, hovers in midair, then vanishes. Brianna looses her deadpan expression, smiling once more. Ignoring the man’s anguished cries, we scramble up the dark stairs, and out in to the bright afternoon.

“Can I stay with you forever now?” That question comes at bedtime.

“Maybe.” I smooth her hair.

I spend a very restless night, going over possible endings in my head. What to do with Brianna? I mean, I hate to do it—she's fantastic, but she just can't hang around. How could I explain her sudden appearance?

She could live with me. I could say she was adopted. I can’t just abandon her! I’d be her mother, like she wants.

Okay, here's another idea. I smile, convinced I've found the perfect solution. `Brianna and I decide to visit Shawn, who lives in another part of town. Driving to his house, I explain again who we're seeing and how long we'll be staying. I conveniently omit that I'll quietly make my departure soon after we arrive. Accepting my explanation, Brianna excitedly asks if Shawn's anything like me, even asking about his hair! Smiling, I knock on his door. We hug tightly, then I introduce Brianna. As we go in, I'm smugly thinking, "She's your problem now.`

Scrap that idea! That's horrible! Screwing up the hastily handwritten pages, I throw them into the trash, grateful Brianna won't find them. She can't read them if she does, I remind myself. That's a small comfort.

Mission accomplished, I stare at my notebook. I slowly turn to a fresh, clean page. It's unmarked, waiting to be filled. Licking my pencil, I press it to the page and tentatively write: "The angry carnivorous animals are furiously pacing around outside. There's a stampede beginning in the woods. The unsuspecting people are asleep in their beds.` I close my notebook, placing it on my nightstand. Surely, that won't happen. Right?

The End