The Cursed ONes

Chapter 1:

Belzaar

Wind. Grey wind against my face with wisps of cool air tickling my nose. I breathe in salt, moisture, ocean spree—I’m where I want to be, rocking through rough seas. Finally a destination I’ve never been to. Two plane rides, one commercial, then one that only fit four of us.

I thought the small aircraft would for sure fall apart midair, what a thrill that would be, falling, falling, nothing but air and the space between land—Now I’m on a ferry, the last checkpoint until I set foot on Belzaar.

We left sight of the coastal city Winslett, an old part of Tellium, a small European country that most haven’t heard of, but I have—That was many miles ago, away from sunshine and any sense of belonging. We are truly nowhere—And I’ve seen everywhere. I know what nowhere looks like, and this is nowhere.

An overcast has been following us, unrelenting since we left Winslett. Shivers come from more than pricks of coldness on my cheeks. Chills stab and slice up my spine—I’m excited. It’s been years since I’ve had chills. Since I’ve been uncertain of what waits on the other side of a long journey.

The envelope was black, immediately I was interested. But the invitation itself, thin, white, almost silky.

‘Dear Mary-Allison Flagstone,

You are cordially invited to the Curse Festival held on Sunday, March 14th. This is especially exciting since few are chosen to attend. You may bring as many guests as you’d like, as long as they have given blood in the past three months and are registered at a hospital. This year we have the pleasure of being sponsored by Blood x Life. A charity that doesn’t just let any blood be taken. Upscale your blood drive experience, know your blood will save extraordinary lives.

The theme this year is, Witches and Vampires.

Someone will be in touch with a location and time.

Hope to see you here.

TF’

TF? Are they initials? Usually, friendships are impossible for me to keep, so I know not who this person is, or what they really want. Or if it’s a person at all…It was a weird invitation to receive, and it was even odder how they contacted me further. Another letter, then a phone number to call, but I had to buy and use a burner phone to call the number and, well, it was annoying, to say the least, but I had the time.

And it made the appeal of where I would be heading that more mysterious. So far the experience has been, cliche. But the closer we approach, Belzaar, the more my eyes water. They water with hope and a sprinkle of rain. Hope, I never thought I would feel that again. Emotions are difficult for me to conjure.

“We go five at a time. You lot over there start lining up. Jean, go tell the ones below. This is as far as we take you all. From here, you’ll board five at a time on a raft. That’ll get you the rest of the way.”

This just gets better and better. The captain is all scruff, a pale blue dead eye in his left socket. He walks with a cane. I’m pretty sure he carved it himself and he hides white strands of hair underneath a dull blue captain’s hat.

“Hurry up now, we leave in thirty minutes, whether you’re off the boat or not.”

A woman in less clothing than I’m sure she thought she would need, turns to me in line,

“Belzaar, isn’t it all so spooky? I mean who owns this place? What type of people live there? From here the island looks dead.”

A young man behind me speaks up,

“Maybe it is dead…You’ve heard the legends, right?”

The boy wiggles his fingers up to his face like he’s a confused ghost.

Belzaar. The small island isn’t on any maps, none that I checked, and I’m pretty thorough when researching, and Belzaar appears nowhere. Which is where we are now, nowhere. So we must be here. Two rafts carrying five people each slowly jet away. Even from here, sharp rocks poke up like shark fins in blackened waters ahead. Every now and then a curl of a whitecap breaks the monotones in front of us.

“Okay, you over there, let’s get a move on…ain’t got all day.”

“Is it day?”

I ask in earnest. With a heavy overcast, it’s impossible to tell if it’s sunlight or moonlight highlighting the silver underneath the thick clouds.

“Where you’re going, there is no light. Trust me when I say that.”

The captain’s one good eye glistens. His hands tremble, he tries hiding them, but I see all. Captain Marques is old, and might have tremors—There’s fear in him, fear I’m more than happy to soak in. Happy, there I go again. It’s almost like I’m turning into a real person.

The raft takes time to drop in. Waves become punches to the raft and ferry. Lines of rain fall from the sky in unison, not many, just enough to pop on my face, sending streaks down, passing underneath my eyes.

“Just jump, it’s not going to get any better. It’s either now or never.”

The skipper reaches a hand. I was waiting for the last moment—the thrill of increasing danger, the gamble of not making it to the island, I can breathe. Gripping the cable, I slide and release, landing in the center of the raft. Only one empty seat left. Up and down we go, I stumble—-And the face that meets mine when he catches me, I… I have no words. Only one thing comes out,

“What a buck.”

His hands, rough like sandpaper. He could caress my soft skin, it’d be worth the pain of sanding my face off—There’s always another one underneath.

“You okay?”

An accent I can’t place, though, mine has evolved over time. But to hear words with so many inflictions, tones, so many countries wrapped in one tongue—I’d like to meet all those countries with my cultured tongue.

“Uh, ma'am, you okay?”

He must be around the same age as me, slightly older maybe. It’s difficult for me to tell ages anymore, but he doesn’t look much older than me and I’m perpetually twenty-eight. But now everybody stares at me. I’m still in this man’s arms, how does he steady himself? His strength, coordination… he’s had to practice in situations like these.

“Yeah, sorry…clumsy me.”

“To be fair, we are being bombarded by waves.”

He leads me to the only seat left, four spots away from him.

“Yeah, that’s true—Um, thank you…”

I wait for a name…

“No need.”

Keeping his name a secret, interesting, and a turn-on. His strong arms around my back unravel like a boa constrictor releasing their prey—No Need could devour me whole if he wanted. Only one thing, why is he on this raft? I’m a thrill seeker who loves old sh*t. He’s probably here for the festival. The mystery man’s thick hair flows back in the abrasive wind. My curls do nothing but increase in density. Will I see him on the island? Should I ask for his number? He did save my life, I have an ice breaker.

“Everybody off, now!”

The skipper wastes no time kicking us out. We barely fit onto a square slab of cement serving as the dock. Rusty railings hold broken stone steps, but not well. My hero is first up the steps. I try following, but bigger people push me back. This is no way to treat a lady who had a crush for twenty-four minutes!

Up the stones that barely constitute steps, I almost trip on a few halfway, but there’s no one to catch me this time. The mystery man has already reached the top—Then, he’s gone. When I reach ground level, most of the group has dispersed. An old wooden dock, barely holding together, catches my attention first. An evil smell wafting under my nose makes me walk away from the local fish market.

Cobblestone roads and sidewalks clack with each step I take—’Just how old is this place?’ The few stores standing look straight out of the 15th century, bricked together with actual vines growing through and over them to hold the structures in place. It’s cute. I love this place already. However, the few townsfolk I run into, are not the friendliest.

My hotel is supposed to be in the center of town, but I’m having a difficult time finding a center in this stuck place frozen in time. Posters and ads for the Cursed Festival are plastered everywhere. Apparently, it’s held at the hotel I’m staying at, but no directions to it. Entering one alleyway, the most helpful man eating out of a trashcan points me in the right direction. He’s been more helpful than anyone I’ve met so far.

Money is pretty much meaningless to me, and I don’t know the exchange rate of USD to fairytale, but I hand him a few hundreds either way. He looks as unsure as I do when he starts laughing, slow at first, a chuckle, then he’s tossing the bills into the air, eating some of the bills, ripping up others. His chuckles turn into madness, and when I back away, he curls inside himself on the ground, short bursts of laughter and cries escape. I’m not frightened, what harm could he do to me? So, I skip away. A song stuck in my head, a hum in my heart. This place is great.

***

“Mary-Allison Flagstone?”

“That’s me.”

The hotel manager who looks like he hung himself years ago, hands me a key. Not a key card, not even the type I use to get into my apartment, but a large medieval rusty thing dangling from a metal circle.

“Is this a joke?”

“No ma’am, this is your key. Henry will guide you to your room. The castle can be difficult to navigate at first.”

‘I’ve been inside a castle before.’

Henry holds an honest-to-god lamp with a flame inside to light our way. To be fair, the turns in staircases, tight passageways, and general atmosphere of the castle is dark. Shadows scatter across stone blocks with the swinging of Henry’s old lantern.

We pass carved-out, arched windows, stained glass filling them in. Sunlight doesn’t reach the castle, just gray, giving off little reflection to the dull colors of the glass. We don’t pass many tourists, just the odd one or two walking down a long hallway, a red runner with black trim leads the way.

“Your room, Ms. Flagstone.”

“Thank you… Henry.”

I place a hundred-dollar bill in his open hand. Henry sighs, slumping over, and makes his way down the hallway. ‘Should I have tipped more?’ I thought a hundred was decent for just being a tour guide. He didn’t even carry my luggage.

The jangling of the ring against the doorknob and key isn’t exactly welcoming, but entering the room—I immediately feel like a princess. Stones open up to a spread-out space, filled with a mix of antique furniture and modern appliances. In front of me, rows of long rectangle windows with purple curtains tied off by gold rope.

One of the largest beds I’ve ever seen, and I’ve slept in a lot of beds, takes up a fair amount to my left. On my right, a wooden table, past that a kitchen with fruits hanging from baskets, a fully stocked wine rack, and ivy growing with other leafy plants, stretching out to the larger living area. A circular rug holds couches and chairs, which lead to a fireplace inside a wall, blocking off the bedroom from the living area.

‘Where am I?’ There aren’t many places on this planet that I haven’t explored, so I’ve stayed in nice places before, but nothing with this much of a gothic aesthetic. If their plan is to romanticize this experience, then mission achieved.

The windows are stained-glass like the ones I passed in the stairwell, not quite as dull as the sun faces my room, except the star still hides amongst the dense clouds. On the living room table, a bunch of brochures scatter about. A specific one catches my attention, people in upscale costumes dance in front of the castle I’m staying at. The Cursed Festival—’Cursed Festival? Why is it called that?’ It’s almost like they’re holding a party just for me, to mock me, to remind me of my own curse.