Free Cursed be the Wicked by J.R. Richardson Page A

recognize the place. All haunted store fronts look alike, after all.
    Finn is watching me, I notice, so I stop gawking.
    “I have to pick something up for Gran,” she tells me. “But if you’re not comfortable coming inside, then you can wait out here if you want.”
    “No, no, I’m fine, I just . . .”
    Settle down, Coop.
    “You don’t look fine,” she tells me.
    I don’t answer. I just stand there, mystified by this store like it’s a portal leading to some other world I’m afraid to visit.
    “Wait here then,” she teases, and disappears through the front door.
    I follow her in and tell myself that it’s not because I’m curious about what she needs in there, but because I want to make sure she’s safe. She’s small and it’s getting late. Who knows what kind of people frequent this place.
    Inside it’s even creepier than outside, with candle lit corners, crooked shelving and creaky floors. When I don’t see my newly self-proclaimed “tour guide” lurking around, I call out to her.
    “Finn?”
    There’s an eerie silence that surrounds me. The sound of my voice practically echoes throughout the store, but there’s no response from her or anyone else for that matter. There’s only one entrance and exit to the place, so I know she hasn’t left. It’s so cramped, honestly, that if any foul play was to take place, I’d know it.
    I keep looking for her but I’m quiet about it. My steps are soft as I turn down each aisle and I try my best not to think about stories like “The Grudge” or “Bloody Mary” as I peek through the shelving to see if I can spot her anywhere.
    I don’t see Finn but a strange crystal, sitting on one of the shelves, catches my eye. I do a visual sweep of the store before reaching out and picking it up. The second I do, I’m dizzy and my head swims as the trinket changes colors. Then I hear my mother.
    “You can’t hurt him.”
    It’s like a whisper across the air. I can’t decide if it’s a memory or a dream. But I’d have to be sleeping for it to be a dream so it must be a memory.
    “If you’re buying that, it’s a hundred fifty-seven, even.”
    My head snaps away from the item and I nearly drop the damn thing when I look over at the old, hunched-over woman suddenly standing next to me. She’s eyeing me with a crooked frown.
    “Including tax,” she mutters.
    I set it back down on its shelf, not bothering to answer her. I’m not sure it was a question anyway. That’s when I notice Finn, waiting for me by the door. I scoot past the store owner and usher Finn out the door in front of me.
    “Where did you go?”
    “I told you, I had to pick up something for Gran.”
    “From that crazy b . . .”
    “That woman happens to be the best contact around town for dried—” She stops herself. “Seasonings.”
    “Seasonings,” I say sarcastically as we weave our way back through the thinning crowd to where I parked the rental car.
    “That’s right,” she tells me as she looks up at the sky; it’s darkening even as we walk.
    How long were we in there? I wonder when I look up as well.
    I see a faded moon. It’s huge and full. I remember bedtime warnings about moons like this one. Despite the fact that I don’t buy in to those old sayings, I trick my mind into thinking about other things.
    “You went to a lady inside a store that may as well have been plopped down in the middle of a cemetery with all the dead things laying around in there for seasonings?”
    Her eyes narrow. “You’re doing it again by the way.”
    “Doing what?” I ask her, trying to keep up with the quick steps she takes. It seems like she’s walking faster and faster with every block we pass. In fact, she might as well be running.
    “Repeating everything I say when it’s obvious I just said what I said.”
    “I—” I start to argue. Even as I’m second guessing myself, someone interrupts our conversation.
    “Well, hey there, Finnley,” a pompous sounding guy heckles from the