Cursed be the Wicked

CURSED BE THE WICKED

J.R. RICHARDSON

SOUL MATE PUBLISHING

New York

CURSED BE THE WICKED

Copyright©2014

J.R. RICHARDSON

Cover Design by Ramona Lockwood.

This book is a work of fiction.  The names, characters, places, and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.  Any resemblance to actual events, business establishments, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

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Published in the United States of America by

Soul Mate Publishing

P.O. Box 24

Macedon, New York, 14502

ISBN-13: 978-1-61935-
393-0

www.SoulMatePublishing.com

The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.

For my husband

and the two fantastic girls

we brought into this world.

Thanks for making me rich with love.

Acknowledgements

My deepest thanks go out to Debby Gilbert at Soul Mate Publishing for taking a chance on this story. I’m also forever grateful to Holly Greenfield and Dorothy Wiley for their talented and patient editing skills with a newbie author.

To Amy Vastine, Andrea Hessinger, and Jaime Arkin, thank you ladies so much for your time along with sincere, honest, and thoughtful feedback on Coop & Finn before it even went out for query.

To “SueBee” Bartelt and Corie O’Brien, I will never be able to repay you for the time you took to give me a second and third set of eyes every time this manuscript came through for edits.

Corie, for every picture, song, idea, Skype session, and smile you’ve sent my way over the course of this journey, and so much more that I cannot list here without writing another book, I love you.

To my Beach Girls and all the SSFC’ers . . . thank you for those little breaks in life that are so desperately needed and for simply being in mine.

And to every one of my readers in a fandom that got me started on this path again, thank you to the ends of the world for your encouraging words over the past four years.

You all add positivity to my life.

Prologue

Before and After Salem

When I was younger, just like most everyone my age, I believed in Santa Claus. Absolutely nothing compared to the way I felt on Christmas Eve when I knew he was on his way. Everything negative in my life melted away to make room for the excitement I had—my mother’s temper, my father’s drinking habits because of my mother’s temper, their fights because of all of the above. None of it mattered. The Big Guy was bringing me presents and that was all I could focus on. I couldn’t think, eat or sleep. Everyone in the house seemed happier. Life was good, even if it was only temporary.

Then I found out he wasn’t real. The heavy sadness that weighed on me, the sinking in my stomach that followed, it was like the end of the World back then. There was a moment though, in between knowing and not knowing. Where personalities could go one way or another. Where life lessons begin forming. That’s where a piece of serenity lies.

I call it,
the moment before and after disappointment.

Of course as I grew up, Santa Claus seemed trivial when I compared it to the feeling of having a crush for the first time, in fifth-grade. That lightheaded feeling I got whenever I was around her. Wanting to laugh just because she was laughing. The butterflies that swarmed in my stomach when I finally decided to ask her if she liked me too. Then finding out through the exhausting process of passing notes amongst the students in music class that she thought I was a freak.

I wanted to die that day. And then die again for good measure.

The moment before and after heartbreak.

Even that sting faded, though, the first time I made real friends in sixth-grade. They included me at their lunch table, hung out at recess, they would even specifically ask if they could come to my place after school. It was like I was part of something. Like I knew they had my back. Which is why I let them convince me it was a good idea to cut school a few times. I felt empowered by leaving. Independent. Alive. I was in charge of a part of my life, finally.

Until I showed up two hours late for dinner one night. My parents grounded me for a month and my chore list grew exponentially.

I could have lived with that had it been the only outcome of the situation. But that was also when I found out for the first time, why people called my mother “Crazy Maggie Shaw”. It seemed the only reason those kids wanted to hang out with me and cut school was to see if she would put some sort of curse on me when she found out.

See, my mom, she had this reputation. People thought she was a witch. Well,
some
people thought she was a witch, most just thought she was a little crazy for thinking she was a witch, her
self
.

The moment before and after humiliation.

All those moments, I realized later on, were like flow chart decisions, leading me down a certain road. Some were out of my control, yes. But some I decided on myself, and others still, I
let
people make the decisions for me. They all had that same moment of pause in them, though, asking; where will you go now? Will you repeat your mistakes or learn from them? Will someone else make the decision for you, or will you forge your own path?

It became easy for me at that point, once I realized I alone had the power to control what affected me going forward.

For example, I don’t believe in much these days, so I can’t be let down. I don’t let people in, so I can’t get hurt. I’ve even created a new name for myself, so no one knows who I am or where I’m from and can’t judge me based on that information. I live a simple, ordinary, anonymous life, and I like it that way. In fact, I rarely even think about my childhood anymore.

Or at least I didn’t, until I received a certain letter, from a certain office housed in a certain city, named Salem, Massachusetts.

My old hometown.

It taunts me, this letter. And forces me to reflect on a moment that defined me throughout the remainder of my life in Salem. An experience I thought I’d put behind me.

The moment before and after I was accused of murdering my father.

Chapter 1

Planets Aligning

The day I left Salem, as a kid, I allowed myself to live a simpler life. Not that I turned into a vagabond or anything. I mean I’ve done my fair share of drifting but I landed on my feet, eventually.

Currently, I write for a travel magazine that I stumbled upon when I was trying San Francisco out as home base for a while. It’s called
The Monthly Traveler.

Unique, right?

I can’t complain. Much. I get a decent salary, I travel, I meet people who don’t have to become permanent fixtures in my life. I’m not the front man, by any means, but I don’t have to be, either. Too much exposure leads to high profile gigs. High profile gigs lead to recognition. Recognition leads to people digging into my past.

I don’t need people digging into my past, so I constantly walk a fine line of turning in my best work while pissing off my superiors. This keeps offers of moving up in the company at bay while still managing to let me keep my job.

I’m pretty sure they would have fired me by now, based on the complete lack of ass kissing on my part except for the fact that I have a very loyal following. I’m one of the most read travel destination columnists at the
Monthly Traveler
. Which is not to say I’m the most popular, I’m just the most honest. People trust my reviews. They don’t have to like me to trust me.

Sometimes it pays off in the form of a bonus hitting my bank account. Most of the time, not so much.

I’m content with things the way they are though. Or, I was content. Until I received that letter. The one that opened the book on things I thought I’d shut down a long time ago.

Regardless, I remind myself this is still
my
choice;
my
decision to make, whether I want to revisit old ghosts. And I don’t. So I’m not going. That’s that.

Done and done.

At least I think I’m done. Up to and including the moment just prior to receiving an unexpected Skype call from my boss.

“Hey, Bill.” I force a grin. I ready myself for the shit-storm of hell, fire, and brimstone he’s about to unleash upon me for not having the final draft of my article completed yet. It was due yesterday.

In my defense, I’ve been a little distracted.

He’s apparently not calling for that purpose, though.

In fact, he seems excited. A little too excited, if you ask me. And that is
never
good.

“Guess where you’re going, Coop?” he starts, excited to play a game. I play along because, honestly, his giddiness is infectious. Plus, I’m slightly giddy myself, since he isn’t screaming.

“Um, Tokyo?” I grin mischievously and bounce my eyebrows for him. I’ve been trying to get a gig to Tokyo for over two years now.

He laughs before dropping his voice a tad lower, going for some of the dramatic flair he’s famous for.

I let out a chuckle as I await my next assignment.

“
Salem
,
Massachusetts,
” he tells me, and just like that, it’s like he’s speaking in slow motion. My smile disintegrates and my shoulders tense as the words leave his mouth.

Panic strikes. I wonder if the magazine has finally figured out who I am because why in the hell would Bill want me to go to Salem?

I’m not sure how anyone could have pieced that together though. Sure, Bill’s always called me by the nickname I was born with, but he’s never even given a second thought to asking if my last name is real or not.

I’ve never really been a big believer in fate but this, this is too much of a coincidence, even for me.

My reaction is instinctive.

“I can’t,” I tell him, flat out, then begin rattling off incredibly lame reasons why I can’t make the trip.

“I just got back two seconds ago and—”

“You are
going
to Salem, Coop. I just got off of an hour long conference-call with our New York office about this,” he says. “Lots of hoopla going on about some famous chick they swear was the last actual witch in Salem.
She keeled
over dead this week. Was in the loony bin for over . . .”

“Fifteen years,” we say together.

“What’s that?” he asks as I lower my eyes but I force them back up again and shake my head.

“Nothing,” I mumble.

I contemplate telling him my situation. About how
The Last Actual Witch in Salem
had once upon a time been willing to let her own son go to jail for a crime
she’d
committed. That there’s no way they want me of all people to make this trip because I was that son and I won’t be able to tell an unbiased story in a million years. But I can’t tell the magazine who I am. If certain V.P.s who aren’t exactly fond of me were to find out, this would most definitely turn into one serious sideshow of a job for them.

I’ve worked too long and too hard for the halfway decent rep I have at this company to let anyone poke fun at me for what I consider an unfortunate situation.

Luckily, Bill is oblivious to the change in my demeanor as he continues.

“Anyway, the big dogs love the idea of putting something together on the town, especially this time of year. Plus, we’ve never done a piece on Salem before. They told me to put my best man on it. Guess who that is?”

He’s lying. I’m not his best guy and he knows it. The best guy probably didn’t want the job and since I’m the closest columnist to where the story is, I’ll save them some money on airfare. There’s also the possibility that someone, somewhere is probably also still holding a grudge against me for ticking off the owner of this rickety old winery I did a piece on out in Sonoma over the summer. Not that they’d ever admit to it. Fair play and all.

On the upside to all of this, it doesn’t seem like Bill is privy to anything I wouldn’t want him to know. This gives me little solace, but at least I won’t have to go into great detail about why I’m the wrong candidate for this trip or have to try to explain my past.

I press on in my attempt to convince him while trying to play it cool.

“Ya know,” I begin with only a hint of sarcasm, “there’s a reason we haven’t done a piece on Salem, Bill.”

It’s the truth. In all honesty, most people don’t take romantic getaways to Salem, Massachusetts. Hell, most people don’t take family vacations to Salem, Massachusetts.

I can’t do this.

“And isn’t it a little late to be doing it? I mean, by the time I get the article done—”

He waves a hand. “Not a problem. That’s the best part. You’ve got no rush on this one. See, we have to send you during October because it’s their big Festival of the Dead season up there, but the piece won’t even run ‘til June. It’s the best situation you could ask for, Coop. This lady’s death is perfect timing.”

I take a shaky breath. There’s nothing perfect about the woman he’s referring to.

“What about Theresa? She digs this kinda stuff,” I tell him.

“Coop.”

“Or that new guy.”
What’s his name?
“Dean, something.”

“Cooooooop,” he sings.

“Bill,” I reply seriously.

I’m playing dumb. I know it, he’s knows it. Hell, the sand cranes behind the apartment complex I live in probably know it.

“You’re going. You leave tomorrow.”

I let a rogue hand flail at this information. “Bill, I’m not even done with—”

He leans in toward the camera on his end.

“You’re going.”

There’s a more serious tone to his voice now and I know, that’s it. I’m done. There’s no sense in arguing any more with the man.

I lose eye contact with him for a couple of seconds to look down at the letter that still sits, opened and crumpled beneath the monitor. Then I let out a frustrated sigh laced with just a tad bit of resentment.

There’s this weird pang building inside my chest when one specific word jumps out at me.

Mother.

She was anything but, in my opinion.

I’m lost inside that letter for a minute before Bill’s voice pulls me back.

“Coop?”

I look up at him.

“Did I lose ya?” he teases, as I put great effort into grinning for him.

I take a pencil out from behind my ear and toss it onto the desk to try to buy myself some time. What for, I have no idea. I know I’m going at this point, it’s beyond discussion.

My only other option is quitting, and last time I checked, I still need this job.

“Okay, Bill,” I say finally. My hand slides blindly to the letter as though I’m keeping him from seeing it, protecting it and myself, maybe, from prying eyes.

“That’s my boy!” He booms with laughter.

I’m about to scroll the mouse forward to close our Skype session so I can have my panic attack in private when he calls out to me again.

“Oh, and Coop?”

I raise my brow, wondering what else he could possibly throw at me right now. “Yeah?”

He winks. “Still waiting on this month’s draft, buddy.”

I flip him the bird after I sign off then swing my chair back over to the laptop. Before I start typing again, my fingers hesitate as they hover above the keyboard.

I eye the letter that’s been haunting me all day. I avoid its snare for the moment and push away from the desk, then I take a walk over to the sliding glass doors in the living room.

It’s barely October in Florida—still not quite nice enough out to allow for open windows at night, most of the time. Tonight is the exception. It’s much cooler out than what was forecasted and I let the brisk air fill my lungs.

I let it out slowly.

The moon peeks out over some of the Magnolia trees that line Lake Eola and I peer down to see its reflection, like glass, against the dark waters. The tops of the Palm trees that hug the side of my building just reach to my fourth-story window. As their leaves flap against the wind that’s picking up, I can’t hear them.

I’m busy contemplating what’s about to happen.

Where I’m going.

And how, once again, I’ve found myself in a situation where my choices are not my own.

I should be grateful. It’s a job. Hell, to any other person at
The Monthly Traveler
this wouldn’t be a big deal. It might even be exciting. It’s not to me.

A gust of cold wind blows into the apartment and I recall that it’s getting pretty chilly in Salem, this time of year.

I close the slider and walk back to my desk, silently ticking off winter clothes I need to pack in order to busy my mind. Then I spot the letter again. I pick it up for the umpteenth time today and smooth its edges. As I read it, I skip over the details and concentrate on the words that are most likely part of some form letter on some computer somewhere.

Mr. Shaw
. . .
have tried to contact you several times by phone
. . .
a very unfortunate circumstance
. . .
mother
. . .
unexpectedly passed
. . .

And last, but not least . . .
we’re so sorry for your loss
.

There’s some contact information for an aunt I haven’t spoken to in over a decade included. She’s the woman who took me in at the ripe age of eleven, after the authorities took my mother away.

I never said goodbye to my aunt, when I left. I wonder if she even knows I’m still alive.

The letter mentions a date for the funeral and the phone number along with an address of the funeral home in case I have any questions.

“Won’t be needing
that
information,” I say to the piece of paper, then I fold it up and slip it into one of the pockets of my laptop bag.

I try to remain nonchalant about everything that’s going on here. I mean, I knew she’d die someday. Everyone dies. I just never imagined being anywhere even close to Salem, Massachusetts, when her postmortem processional came about. My plan was always to be in some other continent when that happened. But here I am, despite all my attempts to avoid it, on my way home.

And I’m anything but nonchalant.