Free Cursed be the Wicked by J.R. Richardson

around.”
    I get why she would think that but the truth is, I don’t need someone to show me around. I know this city better than I care to. However, I want to see what she’s thinking, so I leave the door open and start following her trail of breadcrumbs.
    “Yeah?”
    “Yeah, you know, like a tour guide.”
    I have a smile on my face now. I know what’s coming.
    “I suppose you’re offering.”
    She continues to walk ahead of me, admiring the knick knacks at a psychic’s table.
    “I think you need me.”
    “Really?”
    She hums in response. “Haven’t really felt needed in a while,” she says.
    I wonder, curious as to why she’d feel that way. “You have a job, right? At the B&B?”
    Finn snorts. “That’s Gran’s Bed and Breakfast you’re staying at, by the way, Mr. Stone. I’m obligated to work there. And anyway, that’s not what I meant.”
    “Well then—”
    “You just seem lost. Like you could use my services. That’s all.”
    Lost? Me? In Salem?
    As satisfying as it might be to tell her I know this city ten times better than she ever will, I don’t. It’ll be more satisfying listening to Finn’s take on Salem.
    With every turn of her head, flip of her hair, every odd, cryptic thing she says I find her more and more intriguing. I want to put all the puzzle pieces together and see the whole picture.
    I watch her as she walks ahead of me. I appreciate the way her skirt sways from side to side in rhythm with her hips. My eyes travel to the backs of her knees. I want to reach out and feel her smooth skin when her calf muscles flex as she walks.
    I smile and nod when she points things out to me as we walk, giving me what she considers tidbits about the area, people, places. Some things I already know. Some, admitted, are new to me, but regardless, I find it all fascinating when described through her eyes. There’s a moment where Finn stretches her arms out, revealing the ink on her wrist.
    “So, what’s with your tat?” I ask her, trying to sound nonchalant about it but unable to ignore the ink any longer.
    Her head turns my way but her eyes are on something off in the distance that holds her attention. “Hmm?”
    I point, even though she won’t see me doing it.
    “Your tattoo,” I try again. “The one on your wrist, I was just wondering what it is.”
    She hears me this time and her eyes move to the ink, then she pulls her jacket down over top of it so I can’t see it anymore.
    “No offense, Mr. Stone, but I don’t generally share personal information with people I don’t really know .”
    “None taken,” I tell her, knowing, from the confident sound of her voice, that even if I try to push her, she’s not giving me anything more than what she already has.
    The conversation moves on to other things pretty quickly. I ask questions regarding events I already know about, like the Dumb Supper and Ghost tours, and Finn gives me all the information that’s easily found in brochures, and then some.
    For a while I’m not even paying attention to where we are or what she’s showing me, I’m too enthralled with the way she tells her stories and the excitement in her eyes when she’s discussing something she’s passionate about, like the history behind Tarot and the differences between voodoo and hoodoo.
    It’s not until we come upon a small, hole-in-the-wall establishment that I realize we’ve wandered away from the main strip.
    It feels darker out, here, despite the fact that it is still only mid to late afternoon and I can’t stop the shiver that runs directly up my spine.
    “What is this?” I ask, having a strange feeling of déjà vu as we approach the shop. I’m struggling with why it feels so familiar.
    I notice the paint is chipping away from some of its siding and the windows have cobwebs in the corners, as if the place has been there for centuries. I make an educated guess that maybe the owner makes it look like this for the month of October. Which is probably why I