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“They're all true!"

Smitty stared at the haggard-looking teen, frowning. A quiet moment passed between them, punctuated only by Michael's breathing.

A hacking, sputtering cough preceded a volley of laughter from the old man.

“Hah-ha! Ahhh..."

“What the hell?" Michael leaned in angrily. “They are! I've seen it!"

“Son, I don't buy that for minute. You got a hankering for attention, that's what." He continued to laugh, dotting his speech with sporadic chuckling. Michael implored him to listen, but he just brushed him off: “let me get this straight...you want me to believe that your family's been afflicted with a curse, a curse that grew out of the sordid history of this town...and it's all 'cause of that house your cousin owns?"

“Yes! You have to believe me. I've seen some shit!"

“Keep your swearing to yourself," he grumbled, “let's say I believe you, that there's something strange going on — Lord knows I can tell a tale or two — then walk me through it."

“Walk you...?"

He gestured to Michael. “Explain what you think you saw. An' make it good. Otherwise you'll be wasting my time, and I'd much rather do my job than listen to a kid's tall tale! No offence intended son."

Michael rolled his eyes. He inhaled, and calmed his nerves. The pull of his family was strong, very strong, and conspired to draw him back home. He started to explain, but caught himself short on much of the details. It seemed his subconscious didn't want him telling.

“Are you gonna say something?"

“Yes, just gimme a sec, okay?" Michael paced in front of Smitty's desk, thinking. “Since we moved in, my dad's cousin has been paying us visits. I though she was just plain odd at first, but my mom didn't have the best reaction to her coming over. She got angry. Like, really angry. Kianna (the cousin) didn't do herself any favours, strutting into our home and acting like everyone's friend, that annoyed mom, and I thought they had a history, and that was the reason she was pissed. But ever since then, I found out more and more of what's really been happening. It's more than a fight between family."

“Do tell."

“My little brother was hospitalised several months ago. Before we moved here. He was mugged and beat pretty bad. He was in a coma in hospital when I got to see him. Everyone was worried. You can imagine how it felt to my mom."

“I can," he said, “keep going."

“Well...Kianna, our cousin-in-law, went to see her. She gave her a necklace, saying it would help. I guess mom thought it had spiritual meaning — and if you met Kianna you'd assume that too. She took it home with her, and whatever she was told to do with it worked...because my little brother recovered."

“That's a nice story, but I reckon you're makin' connections where there are none—"

“Completely."

Smitty stopped. “Say that again?"

“He recovered. Completely. There's no sign of any lasting damage. Think about that, yeah? His bruises healed; the doctors found not a single sign of long-term damage. Body or mind!"

The librarian looked aside. “Sure is surprising," he murmured.

“It's that thing she gave mom, I know it was cursed!" Michael spoke further, slowly painting a picture for him. “And it came at a cost. They've changed. My family's changed. They got obsessive, and callous, and self-absorbed. Mom was the first to turn, then my older brother. I'm worried they'll get worse. It's slowly infecting everyone!"

He left out the full truth. The real truth. The demon inside them all. Inside him. He couldn't be sure the old man would believe any more than a snippet of the story. Part of him was ashamed at his cowardice. But he kept going, detailing what he could. Smitty listened. It was all he did. Michael could not tell what he was thinking.

No word of sin, or the visions he'd been privy to, but Michael poured his heart where necessary.

He finished his hushed rant. The only thing left was to wait.

Another bout of laughter ruined his mood. This time it was slow, dismissive, like an adult patronising a child. He had to grin and bear it.

“You, my boy, are seeing things where there aren't none. Oh, it's likely there's a lotta stress in your household, an' that's eating away at you. Big change of scenery, brother hurt and recovering better than anticipated...sounds like you're trying to find a reason for some bad feelings, and you latched onto something that helped you deal with those feelings."

Michael persisted: “yeah? What about the Delmondes?"

“I told you that story 'cause I thought you were interested in a good tale, not 'cause I think it's real. Not 'cause you or I have any business letting our imaginations get the better of us."

“I thought...you were..."

He sighed. “Look, I've got a library full of stories of dead men, stories that swear — on their tiniest pinkie — that what they record is gospel truth. I ain't one to sort out what's real or not!"

Michael narrowed his gaze. Smitty...was he hiding something? Why be so accommodating only to brush him off the moment he tells of darkness in their midst?

Defeatist thoughts kept at him, however. His reluctance to share more left him stuck. Trapped. But how could he tell a stranger he'd transgressed?

A minute passed. Then two.

“Listen..." Smitty rubbed his brow, seemingly apologetic. “I don't wanna sound like an ass...if I give you some information — say, the name of a guy who does think there's a shred of truth to the matter — would you keep your hasslin' to a minimum and leave me be?"

“Yes".

He cleared his throat. “You may not like him. Preachy fellah. Neither me, nor you I suppose, are of a religious persuasion; might be an issue."

Michael paused. “I want to tell you more, I really do! But I just can't. Not now, not yet..."

“Look," he said sternly, “don't start making excuses for why I don't believe you. To me, Delmonde House is a piece of local history. Nothing more, nothing less. You want those better in tune with God if anyone's to believe you."

“So is he going to recommend an exorcism, or what?"

“Maybe," he snorted, “how the hell should I know!? I'm not friends with the guy. His son borrows books from the library, and uses the free Wi-Fi — that's about all the contact I have with him or his family. But, if I give you his details, will you take your tale to him?"

Michael (begrudgingly) agreed. After some scribbling on note paper, Smitty handed him a name and number, beckoning him to leave and let him get on with his work. Michael did what he was told, leaving him in peace.

Behind his back, though, the old man's expression changed...into a look of dread.

* * *

Donnie and Zach's fast flourishing friendship developed even as the truth of his family's curse became known to the youngest Eriksson. Contact with the outside world was welcome, a reprieve from the sinister plans of his mother, brother, and sister. His friend was none the wiser.

“Donnie...Donnie..."

He felt his time was drawing near. Time when his old life would end. Gnawing. Seething. An end in flames. Would he miss it? Friends and extended family? Would he ever see his dad again, after his mother's efforts were complete?

Hope gave way to doubt.

No-one escaped the stain.

“Donnie!"

“Huh?"

He looked over at his friend, who waved a hand in front of his face. “Are you feeling okay?"

He shrugged and apologised for his mood. The light in Zach's room dimmed, taking on a soft orange glow. Donnie directed the conversation toward his friend, asking him about his parents.

“What do you want to know?"

“I wanna hear about them," he sighed, “I've been going through something at home, and I'd like hear from someone who isn't."

“And how do you know that? I could be troubled too." Zach gave him an earnest look, accompanied by a weak smile.

“Are you?"

Donnie's question made him laugh. “No...I'm good," he said, fidgeting. “I probably shouldn't poke fun when you're in need..."

“Please don't act like I'm dying Zach." I don't need to be reminded of the past.

“I'm not. I won't. So what's up?"

He paused, thinking of what to say. When he found his voice, it was quiet: “I miss my dad."

“Oh." Zach looked away. “Does...does he have to work far from town?"

“I guess. He has to stay close to the job." Least that's what mom says.

“Dad acted weird," he continued, “he took off without giving so much as a goodbye. Mom was there. She saw him off. Just mom."

“You don't think—?"

“They fell out? Yeah, I was kinda dumb to not notice it but now I'm certain something happened between them."

Now it was Zach's turn to awkwardly pause. “Do—do you want to talk more about it?"

“No. No...I don't know the whole picture. Could be me overreacting; God know's I'm not the most confident person. I could be reading something that isn't there."

But it was there. An it not of his parents. It was a wholly uncomfortable sensation of physical need. Donnie yearned for Cynthia's company. His sister walked beside his mother, aping her, and that worried him, but he felt at home in her arms. The secret love they'd shared...

“Can I just stop now?" he asked Zach. “I'm running my mouth."

“Sure. You have some stuff to work out, I get it." Zach studied his friend's mixed expressions. “Would prayer help?"

“Prayer?"

Zach chuckled. “It's something my dad would say. I'm sure there are ways to alleviate your stress without resorting to the big guy upstairs."

Donnie shared in his mirth. “You're nice, Zach. You're not weird about it...being religious I mean..."

“Oh, yeah...well my dad is more on the weird side, but he doesn't try to boss me around. I just learned from him — the saner parts of faith."

“Is he, uh, zealous? Didn't notice much church imagery in Carlyle — you'd think smaller towns would be like that. I did before coming here. I can't imagine preaching to crowds in a place so sleepy. Does your dad—"

“You don't really know him. S'not my place to talk about it, but his church isn't very widely known."

“Well, that's not that weird. There are hundreds of different kinds."

“Denominations," he corrected Donnie, “and yes...it's only one of many small groups." He sat up. “I get to choose my own path, though. So that's neat."

“Agreed." Donnie rose beside his friend. Time had passed and their bellies ached. It was almost dinnertime, and Zach's father often left his son in charge of the house. Today was no exception. And there was no way in hell Zach was cooking anything. Not when he had a pocketful of cash, and permission to take his dad's car on trips downtown.

They shared a few more words. Small talk, nothing of note. Donnie became disinterested, focusing on his hunger instead. A manifold hunger, tugging at his flesh. And his spirit.

Just like his brother, he hid the majority of his concern.

“Donnie!"

“Hmmyeah?"

“You're doing it again. Zoning out. Are you sure your okay?"

“I don't wanna talk about it!" he snapped.

Zach withdrew, inching back after the verbal jab. “Sorry...I didn't mean..."

“You didn't," he hissed, before losing his anger. “It's not a problem...just...can we go for food now?"