The Written Curse

“Don’t close me.” The words appeared on the page like ghosts. “Please,” came into view just beneath. “What is your name?”

Edward stared into the pages, the slow roll of the waves shifting the boat slightly. It was some sort of trick, surely. It wasn’t even his. The strange black book had been the only thing left on the yacht from the previous owner, and had somehow escaped inspection before he bought it.

“It’s just a trick,” he mouthed to himself. Still, he spoke it. “My name is Edward.” When after a pause nothing further happened, he let out a laugh and went to close the book.

“Edward, you’re in danger,” caught his eye just before it shut, and he stopped it with his thumb, opening it back up.

“What…how, no…” Edward stammered, confused. Had he lost his mind? “What…,” he almost interrupted himself with a laugh, the lunacy of it. “What danger, book?”

For a moment there was a twisting of darkness on the page. Words would start to appear, then dissolve before they were legible. “Who did you buy this boat from, Edward?” The words finally swirled into form, as though from some hidden inkwell.

Fear rolled through Edward’s body like an icy gale, and he dropped the book, staring at its black cover in disbelief. How could a book record his name? How could a book know it was on a boat? No one could make something like this, not even the world’s most gifted stage magicians or film crews, with all their props and resources.

Still, he couldn’t take his eyes off it, and felt an overwhelming urge to pick it back up and reopen it. An urge he followed. He only opened it to the first page this time, and it was blank, waiting.

“An auction.” He admitted. “It was found floating and abandoned, registered to some sap named Foley who disappeared a few years ago and is presumed dead. They think cartels grabbed him and then used this boat as a runner.”

“No,” the word blotted dark, almost like the letters dripped. “Danger. It won’t let me,” the words seemed to shake, like the page was trying to hide them, and then it was blank again. “Danger” reappeared, by itself.

A cold sweat broke on Edward’s forehead. What danger? The only man associated with it had disappeared far away from here, and he hardly expected that the cartel would recognize one of their many vessels. Not to mention he wasn’t exactly the only young white guy in Miami with a yacht. At least one of this exact make and model was harbored in South Pointe, he knew for a fact. There were plenty of rich families with big boats there, just like his.

“What danger?” Edward ventured, nervously.

Clouds darkened into letters. “Disappear. Like Foley.” The lines were more broken now, like the writer had weakened.

His guts writhed. His fingers trembled as he held the book. No one had ever found Foley. He looked nervously out the window and felt comforted, if only slightly, by the marina, and by the dock that led to his harbored boat. He could just walk off, leave this book here, and go about his life. The yacht could just be sold to someone else. He could just walk away.

“No,” the two letters looked like blackened blood on the page. Could it read his mind?

“Too late,” formed below the first word. “The book is opened. The book is e,” the last letter flittered and fought, like it was struggling. Then all the letters bled into disappearance and the page was again blank. “Vol,” appeared by itself, then disappeared.

E. Vol. Something was trying to tell him. Someone, somehow. The book was evil. By opening it his life was already in danger. He wasn’t certain how he knew, but in his own way, he knew as soon as he first picked it up.

“Cursed,” swirled into shape on the page, again as though it knew what he was thinking, and offering agreement. “I will help. Save Edward.”

Edward stared down at the page as the words disappeared. It felt like the book was glued into his hands, or bound there by invisible chains. The thought of dropping it seemed impossible. Whatever strange intelligence was trapped inside this book had offered to help him. Did it offer to help the yacht’s previous owner as well? If so, its help did not seem so great.

“Did you help Foley?” He dared to ask.

A pause. “Would not listen,” came. Then, “Took too long.” Those words all blended together, and newly painted, “Ritual must be finished quick.”

“What happened before he could finish it?” Edward asked, breathing hard, his heart pounding.

“Men. Guns,” spilled out on the page.

The cartels, Edward realized. The cartels had found him before he finished completing whatever task the mind in the book tried to save him with. He steadied his breath and asked the logical question. “Was it the book? Did it kill him, somehow? Some kind of bad luck?”

“Yes,” the word appeared immediately. “Quick,” it transformed into. “Must be quick.” The bottoms of the ‘W’ and ‘k’ that marked the sentence started dripping, and looked like tears on the page as they ran. As though the writer were crying.

“What should I do?” Edward asked resolutely.

“Five violets,” appeared quickly.

Five violets. The market was a short, brisk walk from the marina. Without so much as another breath’s wait, he closed the book and burst from the yacht, powering as quickly as he could down the pier without looking like he was running for his life. In truth, though, he was. Running towards it, and away from death.

In short order he was at the entry to the open-air market, people bustling everywhere, voices shouting deals, some in Spanish and others in English. He paced, his eyes darting left and right with every step, searching for the colors that would betray a flower stand. At length he found one and sighed with relief.

“Five violets please,” he said, nodding towards the flowers to his left.

“Five violets,” the young lady repeated, and quickly grabbed them up for him, putting them in a plastic bag. “Thirty dollars.”

Edward lifted his card from his wallet, and saw the girl shake her head. “Cash only.”

He could not afford setbacks, he knew. There was no telling how quickly the book might deploy its strange curse and get rid of him like it had Foley before him.

She read his face. “ATM,” she pointed, gesturing, and he followed her finger to an ATM located only a little way down.

He broke into a full run this time, bouncing off strangers’ shoulders, until the machine was in front of him. Then the urge to consult the book overcame him, and with trembling fingers, he opened it, wondering what might come next.

“It begins” were already written on the page.

“What begins?” He asked, swallowing fear. How could the book be so unreasonable? If there was a way to break this curse, surely he needed more than a few minutes?

“Man. Green hood. Black pants. Bench. Quickly, the flowers.” It was the longest statement yet.

He wanted to scream, but instead he calmed himself and looked around. Not far from him and facing his direction was a man in a green hoodie, with black cargo pants, arms folded into his hoodie’s pockets. His knees almost lost their strength when he saw him. He was going to die, he realized.

Then he pushed the thought down, took out sixty dollars, and ran back to the flower vendor. No sooner were the flowers in his hands than he opened the book again to see what might come next.

“Five different fruits. Any.” A simple instruction.

He bounded back towards the entry of the market. The fruit vendors were always there. In a moment one came into view, and he steadied himself on the vendor’s table, catching his breath.

“Everything alright?” The old man asked, looking back the direction Edward had come from, searching perhaps for a pursuer.

“Fine, I’m fine,” Edward breathed heavily. “An orange. An apple. A lemon. A lime. A peach.” He pushed each word out like it might be his last.

“Sure thing, sure thing,” the old man said warily, packing up the named fruits but never taking an eye off Edward. “Here you are. Five dollars will do it.”

Quickly, Edward fumbled a ten-dollar bill from his pocket and handed it over, snatching up the bag, and not even waiting for change before turning and striding from the marketplace. As soon as he was sure the hooded man couldn’t see him, he opened the book again.

“Run. The boat.” The words came in a panicked flash.

“What…” He looked up and saw the reason. The man in the green hoodie was coming towards him quickly. Without thinking he grabbed a chair from the outdoor café he was in front of, then threw at the man.

Edward took off in a sprint, not bothering to look back, forgetting all appearances, until he ran the length of the pier and exploded in through the door of his yacht. He turned quickly and locked it, looking out the window. The hooded man was sitting there, on the far end of the pier, and on that very chair. Fear boiled in his bones. Was this how Foley died? Desperately trying to break the curse in what few minutes he had left?

The words were already written when he opened the black book. “Bowl. Squeeze fruits, flowers.”

He searched for the knife set he had put into the kitchen, and leaping to it, he pulled a cutting knife. The fruits he cut in half, then quickly diced the flowers like spring onions. Finished, glancing out the window, he squeezed them all between his hands and fingers and let the juice gather in a small bowl. The violet petals he pinched to get more color from them.

When he opened the book, it said “Mirror,” and so he ran to the master bathroom, the bowl in his other hand. He thought he might vomit, thought of the hooded man who must be right outside by now, and wondered how Foley might have died.

He held the book towards the mirror. The black ink swirled again. “Your name.” Beneath the words, a black line darted across the page.

He hesitated. Then he thought he heard a footstep, and in an instant he dipped a finger into the juice and traced his name on the page, using the reflection to do so. Edward Mallory.

The book fell to the floor, and everything was quiet a moment.

“No.” The word appeared on its opened pages. “No no no no. Where am I? Help!”

Foley smiled, and with his foot, nudged the book closed. He looked in the mirror. “I’m out,” he said with relief. It wasn’t his body anymore, but at least he had one, and it was young and tan and wealthy. He even got his yacht back. He wasn’t sure how long it had been since whoever was in the book had tricked him into it and stolen his own body, but he was grateful he remembered the simple rite.

He left the book and walked in the daylight again for the first time in years. As he made his way out from the Marina, he saw the hooded man, who stirred, ducked, and made like he was trying to get away.

“I’m sorry,” Foley offered in Edward’s voice. “You startled me earlier. Here.” He pulled the remaining twenty dollars out of his pocket, and offered it to the clearly homeless man, who no doubt had only intended to ask Edward for some change.

He pulled back his hood and stared up at Foley, wide-eyed. “Twenty? Are you sure?”

Foley grinned. “Oh yes. I’m rich now.”