Issue 9: Cursed
Curses, bad luck, and unfortunate circumstances abound!
Dear Reader,
Have you ever felt like you’re cursed? I hope that’s not your life all of the time—but have you had those weeks where everything just goes wrong? You’re clumsy, your dog gets sick, people at work act snotty for no reason, and to top it all off you have a sinking existential suspicion that your life is moving in a direction you didn’t expect nor want?
I’ve had those moments in my life—I think most of us have. With this in mind, it’s easy to understand why the concept of curses has existed for just about all of human history.
This month, we’re offering a collection of stories and poems that explore the concepts of curses, bad luck, and unfortunate circumstances.
We hope you enjoy!
Lo Corliss
Pilgrimage of Cursed Objects
By Jason Marc Harris
All That Remains
By Mark Hendrickson
I Write a Rite of Pyrite
By Katherine Quevedo
Baby Steps
By HJ Dutton
Pilgrimage of Cursed Objects
By Jason Marc Harris
Abominable Tablets: written on papyri in the fever dreams of cholera by an unknown Coptic scribe dying on the banks of the Nile, these spells allegedly pierced the veil between the material world and the secret ones veiled in darkness. I got these scratched-up delights from the basement of an Egyptologist in Washington D.C. in exchange for babysitting his seven-year-old daughter who was subject to visions where she’d be tempted to walk into traffic with her hands full of kitchen knives. When I saved her for the thirteenth time from an encounter with automobile chrome and culinary metal, her father even translated the tablets for me. He warned me that reading the last paragraph aloud would doom me to eternal awareness of the hidden entities of the other worlds. I of course read the final paragraph that night—along with the rest—and was told by the eight-headed-spider thing of shadows about the Forsaken Visor of Tyranicles.
Forsaken Visor of Tyranicles: forged in a buried smithy in Rome, this visor granted the user the ability to focus one’s stare into the quintessential evil eye. From the top of St. Mark’s Clock Tower in Venice, I stared with baleful intensity at the Archmagus Colin Merglo in the Piazza San Marco, but he did not stumble forward, clasp at his closing throat, and die until he’d promised his soul—and mine— to the Demon Lord Grikkul.
Cursed Waters of Grikkul: in a hidden spring near the Voronin Grotto of the Urals I came to bathe my trembling limbs within the icy and acidic embrace, and so I began the purgation through suffering to haggle for my soul back from Grikkul. I stayed up shivering at midnight as my skin kept peeling and my chattering teeth clicking like some maddened night beetle chittering at the full moon.
Baleful Bonedust of the Baobhan Sith: to help leverage the bargain with Grikkul, I traveled to Ireland, though pestered in my hike across the valleys and mountains by news of an alleged expiring car warranty on my Subaru Forester. In the mines of the MacGillycuddy Reeks, I consulted with the Baobhan Sith as they guzzled the blood of a salesman—Charlie Charitan, the one who had earlier urged me to renew my car warranty at the behest of St. Brigit. As the beautiful fairy women cackled, and the lapping of their long tongues diminished, they smiled at my story of trouble with Grikkul. Their pale skin flushed with renewal from the suffusion of blood invigorating their ethereal limbs, and the tallest of their group spoke, “Make powder of this dead man’s bones, and we will sanction it mightily for your purposes.”
Incense Burner of Doomed Souls: fashioned by Calvinus Perfidius, secret Renegade Pope of the Seventh Order of Apostates in Malta and retrieved by scuba divers from the Crystal Lagoon, you can readily imagine that I’d have to get hold of this device from Malta after having ground up the bones of Charlie Charitan. The advantage of the legendary incense burner was its interdimensional diffusive properties. I also bought from an Arms and Armor collectibles shop a perfect replica of a bec de corbin while on my way to pick up the incense burner since those weapons are fucking cool. I figured in my line of business, you’ve going to need a close-range tool of defense and bloody painful murder. Once I had paid 10, 000 Euros to the curator at the Malta Maritime Museum for the incense burner, I also paid for an apartment in Zabbar with an outdoor deck next to the convent of the Dominican Sisters: the St. Joseph’s Home that hosts orphans. More than one passerby on Hompesch Arch Street below exclaimed with hearty enthusiasm for the savory scent of my baby-back ribs cooking on the grill. I laughed and shouted back, “it’s got a secret rub!” And, sure enough, I had sprinkled that bone powder all over the meat. The children within the orphanage also scented the meat-falling-off-the-bone ready ribs. I donated everything to the nuns, and the cheers of the children enjoying their afternoon repast were likely grieved over by only a plaintive orchestra of vegetarian angels plucking their strings at the six-score of orphans whose souls would never drift amid the silver clouds of heaven but would sink into the murk of Lord Grikkul’s Cauldron of Miserable Souls. No, I did not go and collect that cauldron myself. Lord Grikkul keeps it in his netherworld, but while the kiddos gobbled up that delectable BBQ, Lord Grikkul snuffled those puerile souls through the permeable membranes of the interdimensional honeycomb we live in, all thanks to the culinary benefits of the Baleful Bonedust of the Baobhan Sith when diffused via the Incense Burner of Doomed Souls—see how a plan goes into action?
Amulet of Infernal Acquisition: at first glance at this shiny object, you might not think this is a cursed item, and it all depends on who is doing the acquiring. Thankfully, it’s me. Lord Grikkul agreed that the 101 souls I’d given him more than requited him for my own doomed soul, and I further pledged to get another 101 souls and corpses to further strengthen the relationship with my new patron. I got on board with this feudalism because frankly it’s pretty damn fun to be one of the bad minions when you have a badass boss like Grikkul. He even told me that I could go ahead and take The Amulet of Acquisition without much trouble as long as I of course first killed the current owner, a reclusive alchemist who called himself “IvantheTerrible666*” and spent long hours on Reddit followed by days of stalking to prepare the necessary rituals for killing and acquiring the souls of those who dared to insult the indomitable Ivan the Terrible Alchemist. I tried to spot Ivan using the Forsaken Visor of Tyranicles, but he typically went out in disguise—wearing a variety of hats and even facial masks that disguised him. At last, waiting in the bushes outside his house, I saw a tall figure in a long trench coat and a thick wool scarf climb the steps to the front door. Because of my jitters and the length of the bec de corbin I was hiding in the bushes, I guess I must have rustled the bushes slightly because she—yes Ivana not Ivan (who would have guessed that Ivan was just an online pseudonym)—spun around and shot at the bushes with a very ordinary Glock. The pain in my leg was awful as I lunged forward, knee crumbling as I stabbed with all my might at the torso of Ivana and failed to connect. By then she had pulled out the Infernal Amulet of Acquisition and stood over my bleeding leg and began to mutter the words of life and soul snatching. I begged Lord Grikkul to aid me in my hour of need, but in my mind’s spiritual-receptor-lobe I heard him mock me with some words like “Ivana Has Already Acquired for Me More Than 1000 souls!” So, I gave up on that and realized I’d have to go old school and flick some of my blood at Ivana before she shot me again, and I lost my life and soul. I said words I’ve kept secret since Mom ate my caul. I won’t say them here, but when I said those words, Ivana’s skin just peeled away, and my raw wound absorbed her unfolding tissue, and for a moment all was right with the world, though I knew the Chair of Unwilling Penitence was the price, like Mom had said.
The Chair of Unwilling Penitence: can you guess what this does? Anyhow, limping away—using the bec de corbin for balance—and the Infernal Amulet of Acquisition swinging from my neck, I saw the rusty door appear at the edge of Ivana’s apartment complex. Sure enough, I went right in. There was the chair with its rat-eaten plaid arm-rests, and striped cushioned bottom seat waiting along with the pentagram-dotted dunce cap. I put on the cap and sat on the chair. I immediately had to think on all my terrible sins, including that peeling curse—Mom called it “The Flayer’s Imprecation,” just for the record. And I don’t know exactly how long I’ve stayed in here, but I do know that if write down some other words, and the familiar spirit in the form of the crow drops this off to your mailbox in time, and it gets published, there will be time for the delightful curse to be passed on. Yes, to you. Aren’t we all unwilling penitents? So, we have to take turns. Tomorrow night a tad after whatever is your midnight, read my note, and you’ll wake up in here on the chair, and me? I’ll be on my way to number eight!
The Invidious Pouch of Discarded Syringes:
An Interview with Jason
Why did you write this piece? The prompt actually came from a contest that Crystal Lake Publishing does each month via their Patreon. I knew about that because I get email reminders on their activities because I signed up for reminders after they published my novella Master of Rods and Strings. You don't have to be a member of their Patreon to participate. The word limit is 1500, and although I didn't win the contest, the prompt provided this fun little story, and it's a topic I was interested in anyway. I've read a number of stories dealing with cursed items and forbidden books and so forth, so I just had fun rifting on that idea. And I improved the story since that earlier draft too, so the pilgrimage is now complete with Emerald City Ghosts!
Have you ever experienced anything paranormal? Nothing so striking as seeing a visible ghost, but I once had a well-timed precognitive dream. It was well-timed because I was taking a Freud as Literature class in college, and I remember being irritated by Freud's assumption that people's belief in psychic dreams were false memories of dreams. I had a friend in that class, and I dreampt she changed her place of work from one store to another right next door. A week later I am talking to her on the phone, and she mentions she changed her place of work: exactly from that one store to the other. I tell her how I dreamt of that last week, and she explained, "Last week is when I switched!"
What do you like about the horror/paranormal/folklore genre? The world of literary horror and folklore have always been intriguing to me. They're areas of powerful imaginative engagement. I grew up with fairy tales and ghost stories and parents who both had an extensive collection of horror books in addition to having wide-ranging other literary interests.
I actually teach world folklore as well as how to write weird, dreadful, uncanny stories, and I've done fieldwork and published some articles and coauthored with a couple books on folklore with Birke Duncan: The Troll Tale & Other Scary Stories and also Laugh Without Guilt: A Clean Joke Book. There's a lot of material in folklore for horror stories since many folk legends explore unusual experiences and beliefs about perilous entities that haunt the margins of civilization. And there's plenty of magical methods of both attack and defense in folklore, but there's often that uncertainty about the outcome, which works well for the suspenseful, mysterious quality of some horror.
Jason’s Links
All That Remains
By Mark Hendrickson
She would visit me here in my childhood home, well off the road, on the farthest edge of town. She used to tell me she liked it here, in this house with me. She told me she wished she could stay here forever. Now all that remains in this breathless place is a long box of secrets and sealed regrets, buried in the dark soil in the cellar. All that remains are her remains. And the broken mirror in the hall, impure and tarnished, reflecting sin — the eyes in that mirror are haunted. There, just behind me, you can see her in the reflection. The sight of her, like the shadow of a moonbeam — silver and grey, wavy, faded, intangible — yet painfully clear to me. She does not speak. With all the bruising around her throat. How she glowers at me. Her arms are at her sides, tense with rage; her hands, balled into fists, insubstantial yet fearsome. She is not satisfied that I ended my life after ending hers, nor satisfied with her curse binding my spirit to this house, infusing it into every decaying timber and rotting floorboard. She rages, waiting for her body to be found, the crime uncovered. But that will never happen now. For we are both long forgotten. My house is long abandoned. Worms and insects consume it, consume us. How I long to touch her once more, and still her silent screaming. Then I come to her, the house of her body: she will open her door, and let me in — and I will smother her with love and desire — I will stay in that house, and we will never leave again.
An Interview with Mark
Why did you write this piece? Every year I try to write a new ghost story or poem for Halloween. That is how this piece started.
Have you ever experienced anything paranormal? No, but my husband swears that my father is following us around and disapproving from the grave.
Why do you write? What do you like about the horror and folklore genres? Writing is often a wound that needs expressed. Sometimes it is a puzzle that wants to get solved. And sometimes it is the earth itself wanting to shake. The desire to create is the need to live. As for folklore, I love how it can make us shiver down to our ancestral bones. And as for horror, I think it was Vincent Price who said, sometimes it can be great fun to be scared out of your wits!
What are your favorite and least favorite parts of writing? I love trying to find exactly the perfect word or metaphor to describe what I see in my head. I hate it when I can't find it, and stay up late trying to figure it out.
Tell us a few facts about yourself! I live with my husband and our very spoiled cat in the Des Moines area. I drink enough caffeine a day to power a rocket to Mars. I like science fiction. I keep my circle of friends small and tight.
Mark’s Links
I Write a Rite of Pyrite
By Katherine Quevedo
He insults me, so I perform the rite I’d sworn never, never to commit to the page, ever, and all his digits limn the mineral he becomes, and his shape morphs to cuboid-crystal, mental into metal head, right angles and splicing ache with flatness and firmness all over, scared of all this becoming, of all this new self and loss of old, of the layers spreading from his outside in, and his voice freezes halfway through a shriek, and my screams endure, because I have witnessed an inelegant end and wish I could undo it but can’t.
“I Write a Rite of Pyrite” first appeared in HWA Poetry Showcase Vol. XII.
An Interview with Katherine
Why did you write this piece? “I Write a Rite of Pyrite” was the result of four things on my mind. First, I had been researching the idea of anti-closure in poetry, and it seemed a fitting tool for a horror poem in particular, perhaps leaving the reader with an unsettled, off-balance feeling rather than giving a sense of conclusion and catharsis. Second, I love writing about transformations that strip away a character’s humanity. What a terrifying concept, and so symbolic as well. Third, I wanted to challenge myself to write a poem whose structure was based on shape rather than on rhythm or rhyme, but not quite to the extent of being a concrete or visual poem. The topic of pyrite lent itself to squarish stanzas, and the constraint enabled me to get creative without feeling overwhelmed, as can sometimes happen when I attempt free verse poetry. Fourth, in a world in which we might look askance at the idea of shame, a world filled with rage-bait, a world that seems to encourage knee-jerk reactions and non-private communication, I wanted to examine long-term consequences and regret.
Why do you write? The simplest (and rather ungrammatical) answer is that I write because I can’t not write. I’ve had the compulsion to put together little stories and poems since early childhood. It’s a feverish drive to connect with others across space and time, deeply and intimately, mind to mind, heart to heart. I imagine things but have no skills whatsoever as a visual artist to express them, so I rely purely on words. It’s fun and it’s maddening!
Specifically for the horror genre, I stand by what I wrote for a piece in The Horror Tree when I said, “an unflinching gaze into the truth of the world must encompass the dark, the fearful, the inconvenient and grotesque, as surely as it also captures the balancing qualities we find worthy of love and hope. The horror genre allows us to take those difficult emotions, the ones we may wish to discard if we could so choose, and instead upcycle them into art.”
What are your favorite and least favorite parts of writing? There really is nothing like entering the flow state of writing, when the scenes and images are vivid and the words feel electric and wholly my own. I also love the elation of completing a draft of a new story or poem, because it means I can finally start sharing it with people I trust and getting it more ready for, hopefully, a wider readership. I don’t show anyone my incomplete drafts, which is great incentive for me to stick with them so I can finally share them.
As for my least favorite part of writing…this might sound strange after saying I look forward to sharing my drafts, but I’m also very, very sensitive when it comes to getting those drafts critiqued. I know it’s a helpful step, and it’s a large part of how I’ve grown as a writer over the years, learning from that type of feedback, but a part of me always feels like I’ve let that person down somehow. Like, I should’ve been able to anticipate their every desire and source of confusion as a reader. Luckily, I have very kind critique partners. I also struggle with the marketing side of having a writing career in this day and age. I have a business background, including an MBA, so I’ve studied marketing best practices at a high level. But I just can’t bring myself to use some of them. I refuse, for example, to do social media. If others decide to use their platforms to give my writing a shoutout, I’m especially appreciative.
What other writing projects are you working on? I always have lots of drafts in varying stages of completion. Right now I’m focusing on a fantasy story that’s growing into possibly my second novella. That’s really long for me. My fiction usually ends up in the short story or flash range, with a few novelettes here and there. But I’m finding that, every once in a while, my novelette characters decide there’s more to their story, and that’s how I veer into novella territory. I’m also chipping away at what I hope will be my second themed poetry chapbook. My dream is to have short story and poetry collections out in the world.
Is writing your full time job? If not, what do you do, and does your day job influence your writing? I work as a full-time analyst, meaning I’m dealing with spreadsheets and data reports for much of the day. It gives my brain a chance to use the more numbers-driven side and protects the more creative, imaginative side from burnout for when I’m able to fit writing into my schedule (in addition to family commitments, as my husband and I have two school-age children). I really like being in touch with both my analytical and creative sides. In college, I couldn’t choose, so I double majored in Economics and English.
I think my role as an analyst helps me with my writing because I’m used to looking for patterns, connections, and causality, all of which can really inform stories and poems. It’s part of why I love crafting poems with specific structures, and why I write stories out of order, so my mind can fill in the blanks. This analytical approach builds structure and logic behind the words, which I hope in turn gives the reader a deeper sense of meaning and satisfaction by the time they reach the end. The emotions and heart behind the writing rule all, though. Let me be clear about that.
Katherine’s Links
Baby Steps
By HJ Dutton
Past the porch lights, the world was a black smear: his own little purgatory. At night, he always kept them on, just to remind his neighbors he was still alive. Not that any of them would check. At the edge of the lawn’s frozen grass, the mailbox stood at an angle, fit to burst with weeks of letters. Probably all payment agreements. Beyond the mailbox, the pines, a mass of black giants, haunted the roadside, stirring, whispering. He peered at them for the hundredth time today. Nothing there – yet.
He dropped the window blinds, and searched for his coat. As he rummaged through the house, he weaved around trash bags, stepped over plates crusted with food, and scrunched his nose at the smell wafting from the sink. He didn’t find the coat. In the hall he lingered, taking a second to stretch, and stall. After a minute of this he forced himself toward the front door. Baby steps: that was the term his therapist used, back when he could still afford the appointments. A few minutes, that’s all. There and back in just a few minutes. He snorted. Thirty-two, and he had to hype himself up to fetch the mail. He dug through the basket for the mailbox key, fighting back a yawn. Always tired. Always.
Stepping outside, he gasped, and wrapped his arms around himself. The wind, changing course, tugged at the pines, and at the roots of his greasy hair. Through him flickered the ever-present urge to retreat back inside, collapse on the couch, and doomscroll the night away, as usual. I’ll do it tomorrow. I’ll do it tomorrow. His legacy. He rubbed his face, fingers raking through his unwashed beard. Before he set off down the porch and across the lawn, he inspected the woods one last time. No matter how many times he tried to tell Cassie about it, or tried to warn her, she never believed him. There was nothing out there, she’d snapped. Nothing. He was just doing this for attention. And maybe she was right. One thing was for sure: she never would have let him turn himself into…this. If she had to, she would’ve dragged his sad ass outside, the way she did in the days before she wised up and jumped ship.
Down the steps he shuffled, hands out for balance. The lawn’s ice crust crunched underfoot. He trudged over the lawn, shivering all the way. Just last night, the woods had thrummed with crickets and nightjars. But tonight, no animals. No animals at all. The whole way up, he kept one eye trained on the pines. He reached the mailbox. Letters, jutting from its mouth, twitched in the breeze. Those ones he plucked out and wedged under his arms. Key in hand, he tried the mailbox’s door. Locked. Somehow, he’d remembered to do at least that. His short laugh came out as more of a scoff. Progress, he supposed.
As he fit the key into the door, he glanced back at the pines, and the black space between them. Still alone. For a little while he waited, in case that changed. When it didn’t, he released the breath he’d been holding, and rested a hand on the mailbox. “Baby steps,” he whispered. Smiling, he unlocked the tiny door beneath the mailbox’s mouth. Letters flooded out, and the wind dragged them toward the woods. He shivered and grumbled as chased after them. The pines writhed.
The figure among them did not move. It didn’t move at all.
The air, bitter and sharp, tore down his throat. He stopped, frozen in place, mind reeling. Every hair on his body stood on end. Had it been there the whole time? How had he ever mistaken it for a tree? Tall as them, yes, but not a tree. He squeezed his eyes shut, and looked again. No, it was real. Still there, still blocking his way forward.
Shoulders hunched, he inched backwards down the lawn. He eased his weight onto the grass, wincing whenever it crunched. Despite the howl of the wind, the crunching echoed. He moved even slower, trying not to look at the thing among the trees. Had it heard him? And if it had, why was it just standing there? Once at the walkway, he glanced at it, breath held. It hadn’t moved an inch. Jesus Christ, the size of it. Its head was almost level with the roof of his house. His heart beat faster.
The first porch step creaked as he probed at it with his foot. With both hands, he stretched to grip the stairs’ railings, in case he slipped. He did so on the second step. Splinters dug into his palms as he fought to stay upright. By the third step, his blood was throbbing through his neck. By the fifth, it was pounding at his temples.
Even then, he didn’t make a run for the door. His body wouldn’t let him. In the distance echoed the croaking of wood, the hiss of pine needles. Once he reached the door, he glanced back. The figure still hadn’t moved. Though he couldn’t make out its features, he got the impression it was staring at him. The night air groaned. Once at the door, he eased it open, rushed in, and kicked it shut. Then he turned the porch lights off.
The world outside the windows fell away. Maybe the lights had attracted it. Maybe now it would leave. He waited by the light switch, his chest pounding. His fingers hovered over it. Before he could turn them back on, he hesitated. What if it had come closer? Did he really want to see that? Swallowing, he backed away from the switch.
All night he stared outside, waiting for his eyes to adjust. They never quite did. Still he could just barely make out the figure’s shape, a silent warden standing guard at the edge of his property. He kept the blinds down. Every hour or so he peeked between them, just to make sure it hadn’t come closer. If it had, he couldn’t tell. That was the worst part. That and the sounds. Everyday sounds, sounds he’d heard all his life, but that didn’t matter anymore. Sounds meant movement. Every growl of wind, every crackle of grass, every clang of windchimes made him brace.
Later, weeks after the incident, he wouldn’t sleep. Not ever. Nor did he ever step outside at night again. Even in the morning, he gave himself any excuse not to. The lights remained off, always. Sometimes he was tempted to turn them back on, to see if it had left. He never did though, in case it had come closer to the house. He didn’t want to see that. He didn’t want to see how much further it might have hemmed him in, how much his world might have shrunk. As far as he was concerned, it was still there. And as the days turned to weeks, and weeks to months, and months to empty years, and as he rotted inside his house, he suspected it would be there for the rest of his tired life.
An Interview with HJ
Why did you write this piece? This was originally part of my postgraduate dissertation. The original draft, despite sharing the same general plot progression, was a much different story, not as rich in character or emotion. It was more of an excuse to explore a spooky scenario. After some major edits, most notably changing the setting and context, the story transformed from a simple vignette to an exploration of how debilitating depression can be.
Tell us a few facts about yourself! I have lived in Pennsylvania all my life. The more horror fiction I write, the more I notice how my environment has influenced core elements of my style. The state's eerie suburbs, dead malls, desolate farmland, ancient backroads, swathes of forest, and dozens of ghost towns have become an integral part of my fiction's identity.
HJ’s Links
News
Latest Call For Submissions: The Haunted House
The Haunted House (Open April 1-20): Emerald City Ghosts was founded on haunted house vibes, and this May, we want to explore that concept in depth! While your ghost doesn’t have to be a literal spirit of the dead (you could go with demons, forces of nature, or something left unexplained), your piece should evoke they idea of a haunting, and it should explore a specific place in a deep way. We want to feel like the place is a character as much as the protagonist!
One more note: your location does not have to be a house. Give us a haunted ferryboat (for the love of everything, someone give us a ferryboat story!), haunted ice cream shop, or haunted tech startup.
The Haunting of Swinomish Channel is Almost Complete
Ever since we started the magazine, we’ve been running regular installments of our serialized novel The Haunting of Swinomish Channel. We are both excited and sad to share the end of the story with you this Spring!
Don’t worry, though—once the novel is complete, we’ll still be sharing fiction! We can’t wait to publish some stand-alone stories over the Spring and Summer months!
I really enjoyed reading theses. Pilgrimage of Cursed Objects made me laugh!
Intriguing!