Page 31 of A Cursed Noel
“I’m not judgingthem,” I say, meaning it. “I’m trying to get a fix on whatmight be invading your home.” It’s true. But like I said, I don’twant her life to be as hard.
I start to explain whenshe starts fading away again. I squeeze her hand, giving her enoughof me to lure her back.
She shakes out of thespell she appears to be under. I’m hoping she’s starting torecognize it so she may push it away before it overwhelms her.“Please explain what you mean,” she tells me. “I’m tryinghard to understand but the supernatural remains a mystery I can’tquite solve.”
She’s right, and itworries me.
“Humans can besensitive to dark power,” I explain. “Some are more attuned toit. They’re the ones you refer to as psychics. There are also thosewho aren’t as aware of it, but still react to the negative energy.”I watch her closely, making sure all of her remains with me. “Thosewho are ill become sicker. If they’re depressed or anxious, itworsens. If they’re especially vulnerable to it, it canincapacitate them.”
“Enough so they can’twork or study?” Celia asks.
“Yes,” I reply.
“It explains a lot.”She motions back to the tarped-roof house. “That family has beenout of work for months and as I mentioned, my sisters are strugglingin school. They’re stressed all the time and can’t focus onanything.”
“Let’s see what wecan do to change that,” I reply, suppressing my growls.
We pass another homewhere empty water bottles and rusty cans poke through the ice-covereddriveway.
Celia eyes the house aswe push past it, her nose wrinkling when the stench of rot mixes withthe aroma of dung. “Aric, everyone appears to be struggling aroundhere. Is it because of us? Is all of this a result of something we’vedone?”
“No,” I say firmly.“This is something beyond you and your abilities. I’m not surewhy you’re being targeted, but this ends tonight. I won’t allowyou or anyone else to suffer any further.”
The look she pegs mewith is one I remember well. It speaks of her fervent determination,the one that squashes all fear until only courage remains.
“Ready?” I ask.
Her smile is small butall the affirmation I need. “I am now,” she replies.
She jogs to the end ofthe street, sticking to the shadows. The field is wide, offeringenough coverage against prying human eyes. We keep low, our stepssilent over the fresh layer of powder that forms.
This field hasweathered through storms and all the neighborhoods erected around it.It’s lifted a middle-finger at the changes and the hustle andbustle of children barreling through it. Like the small sections offlora we encountered, it’s managed to survive.
I don’t know muchabout the area, just what I’ve seen. But this old field willovercome, even if the surroundings fall to rubble. Of this, I’mabsolutely sure.
I scan the area closeras we near Celia’s neighborhood. I had an entire mountain to playon as a child. The children in the surrounding developments have thisfield. This is a space where several rounds of hide and seek wereplayed, as well as few impromptu kickball sessions. Teens come topark here. This is where they’ll take their first drag or sip ofalcohol, and maybe share a first kiss.
As much as my wolffeels disdain towards the lack of space to roam, I think he wouldn’tmind it as much if we shared it with Celia.
We reach the edge ofthe clearing where a smaller and older neighborhood spreads outbefore us. Instead of brick, aluminum siding covers these homes.Small cement stoops make up the front porch, and curved dirt pathsreplaces concrete driveways.
This street wasconstructed for small families with just enough income to pay thebills and keep food on the table. All it needs is the right themesong to define the era it was created for.
The biggest indicationthat things are not quite how they should be is the lack of Christmasspirit. Unlike the downtown, mere miles from here, there’s nothingto indicate that the holidays are well underway. There’s only thequiet and dimness that comes when things have taken a turn toward thevery wrong.
Celia crouches down.Like me, she’s likely starved and in need of a warm bath. I’llsee she gets what she needs. I’ll always see to what she needs.Except it may not be tonight.
The wind shifts,pelting us with another layer of snow as her neighborhood darkens farbeyond the normal veil of the night.
“Which is yourhouse?” I ask.
“The green one, threehouses down on the left.”
I nod. “Okay.”
We take off, cuttingthrough the closest backyard. An old set of patio furniture sitsbeneath a giant oak, another layer of rust likely forming beneath theinches of new snow. Plastic pots, some empty, some housing long deadplants, trail along the rear patio. Like the plants, this yard islong forgotten.
I shadow Celia, hidingbehind the trees that border the next yard.