Swapped Fate Curse

In just a few days, our family suffered the loss of three members, and the news quickly spread throughout the neighborhood. Rumors swirled among the locals; some claimed we were cursed, while others suggested a string of murders. The police returned to our house, and this time their demeanor was noticeably different.

A young officer, looking concerned, spoke seriously, "This situation is too unusual. We need to see that letter."

Esther sat on the couch, her head bowed in silence. I noticed her rubbing her little finger repeatedly—a telltale sign she wasn't being truthful.

"The letter... My husband already burned it," she murmured, her voice slightly trembling.

A shock ran through me—Esther was lying. But why? What could be so frightening in that letter that she felt the need to hide it?

The officers exchanged uneasy glances, clearly dissatisfied with her answer. They continued questioning, hoping to uncover some leads. I sat there, half-listening to their conversation, my mind elsewhere.

Suddenly, I looked up to find Esther's gaze; her eyes were a storm of emotions—sorrow, fear, and guilt. A chilling thought struck me: if the letter was truly that dreadful, did it mean something terrible for those who read it?

My heart raced, overshadowed by a sense of foreboding. Esther knew something, yet she chose to keep it secret. Why?

The police's questioning yielded no concrete evidence of foul play, and they eventually left. The young officer gave me a meaningful look on his way out, as if to say, "If you remember anything, feel free to contact us."

The room was left with just me and Esther, an oppressive silence hanging between us like an invisible barrier. I hesitated before speaking, "Mom, what did that letter really say?"

Esther's lips moved as if to speak but then fell silent. She shook her head, "I don't know."

No matter how I pressed, Esther insisted she didn't know the letter's contents. The weight of depression became unbearable, so I turned to medication and therapy for relief.

Whenever the darkness crept in, I'd find myself kneeling before Esther, begging for any hint of the letter's mysteries. But she would only shake her head in silent resignation.

"They're better off dead..." she would mutter, her eyes vacant.

In moments of clarity, guilt overwhelmed me. They were her closest family—the pain she bore was far greater than mine. What right did I have to force her to relive such horrors?