The Curse

"By the time I was six, I had already buried three people I loved." The first was my mother — she died the night she kissed me goodnight for the last time. No sickness, no accident, just… gone. The next was my father, two months later, his heart stopping mid-sentence as he read me a bedtime story. My grandmother lasted longer, though she was careful, always keeping a polite distance. She made it until my sixth birthday before she dropped dead in the middle of lighting the candles. The curse was never something I chose to believe in — I was forced to survive. It wasn’t just family. A classmate who once held my hand during a fire drill was hit by a car two days later. The neighbour’s dog that followed me home died that same evening. Eventually, people noticed. The whispers followed me in every school, every neighbourhood: "Don’t touch her." "She’s bad luck." "The girl's death follows." I learned to stop caring. Caring meant losing. Losing meant breaking… and I had no pieces left to break. --- By twenty-one, I had mastered the art of being untouchable. No friends. No lovers. No eye contact unless absolutely necessary. My world was quiet, lonely… and safe for everyone else. It was raining that night. Hard. The city streets bled reflections of neon lights, twisting and warping them like oil on water. I liked the rain — people avoided each other in it. No small talk, no lingering touches. I was halfway down Birch Alley when I felt it — that prickling at the back of my neck that always meant something was watching me. I stopped, scanning the dark. Nothing. Just the sound of rain hitting the cracked pavement. Then… a voice. Low, almost intimate. "Selene Veyra." I froze. My name. Nobody said it anymore, not unless they had to. Slowly, I turned. A man stood beneath the flickering alley lamp. Tall. Motionless. His coat was dark, and his face… shadowed. The only thing I could see clearly was his eyes — black, so dark they seemed to pull the light from around them. “How do you know my name?” My voice was flat, cold. He smiled faintly. “I’ve known it for a long time.” Something in his tone scraped against my bones. “If you’re here to sell me something—” “I’m here to tell you the truth.” I almost laughed. “About what?” “About your curse.” The word hit me like a blow. My hands curled into fists inside my pockets. “You don’t know anything about it.” He stepped closer, slow enough not to startle me, but deliberate enough that I noticed his confidence. “I know you weren’t born cursed, Selene. Someone did this to you.” For the first time in years, my pulse stumbled. --- I should have walked away. I should have pretended I hadn’t heard him. But something in me — the part that still wondered why — kept my feet rooted. “Who?” I demanded. “That’s… complicated.” “Try me.” He tilted his head, studying me like I was a puzzle he’d been trying to solve for centuries. “If I tell you, they’ll know I spoke to you. And then…” His eyes flicked briefly to my chest, as though measuring the beat of my heart. “…you’ll have less time than you already do.” I hated the way my skin prickled at his words. “You think threatening me will make me trust you?” “I’m not threatening you. I’m warning you.” A car roared past at the alley’s mouth, its headlights momentarily cutting between us. For a split second, I swore his shadow stretched too long — inhumanly long — across the wet concrete. When I looked back, he was gone. --- That night, I dreamed of black feathers falling into blood-red water. I woke at 3:14 a.m., heart hammering, the image still sharp behind my eyes. I tried to shake it off. Dreams meant nothing. But the way my skin felt — cold, like someone had touched me — made it harder to believe. The next day, the man was still in my head. His words replayed in a loop: Someone did this to you. I hated how much I wanted him to be right. I went about my day — grocery store, laundry, the mindless errands that made up my life. But at every corner, every crowd, I caught myself scanning for black eyes in the sea of strangers. I didn’t see him again… until the third night. --- It was late. Too late for anyone to be wandering Birch Alley except people who didn’t mind getting stabbed. I’d taken the long way home to avoid a bus full of drunk college kids. My boots splashed in shallow puddles, my breath fogging in the cold. Halfway through the alley, I saw him again. He wasn’t leaning against the wall this time. He was standing in the middle of the path, as though he’d been waiting for me. “Selene,” he said softly. “You need to listen to me.” I stopped several feet away. “Why?” “Because the thing that cursed you… It’s still watching. And it’s getting impatient.” A chill ran down my spine, but I kept my voice sharp. “You’re insane.” “Maybe,” he said, almost amused. “But I’m the only insane person who can help you.” Rain started to fall again, misting between us. I could see him more clearly this time. He was handsome in a way that felt dangerous — angular jaw, sharp cheekbones, lips that didn’t seem made for smiling. His hair was black as midnight, wet strands plastered against his forehead. But it was his eyes… those endless, impossible black eyes… that made my stomach tighten. “I don’t want your help,” I lied. He took a step forward. “You will. Sooner than you think.” --- Something crashed behind me — a loud metallic clang. I whipped around, every nerve on edge. A trash can lay on its side, rolling slightly. The street was empty. When I turned back, the man was gone again. But this time… he’d left something. A single black feather lay on the wet ground where he had been standing. It wasn’t the glossy sheen of a crow’s feather. This was matte black, almost velvet, with edges that shimmered faintly, like smoke curling in candlelight. I crouched, hesitating. My fingers hovered an inch above it before I pulled them back. Whatever it was, it wasn’t normal. And it definitely wasn’t from this world. The rain intensified, plastering my hair to my face. I forced myself to walk away, telling myself not to look back. --- By the time I reached my apartment, the feather was in my pocket. I told myself it was only to prove to myself in the morning that I hadn’t imagined it. But as I shut the door and leaned against it, breathing hard, I couldn’t escape the feeling that I had just accepted something I couldn’t take back. At 2:37 a.m., I woke to the sound of whispering. Not from the street. From inside my apartment. And when I opened my hand, the black feather was gone.