The Curse of Bones
This is a terrifying memory I'd rather never speak of again.
We were just high school students when the town accidentally unearthed a mass grave.
That night, Keegan Wilkerson, the most popular senior, showed up at a party with a trophy: a finger bone he had stolen from the site.
He passed the bone around. Everyone wanted to touch it, just to prove they had the guts.
A day later, Keegan was bedridden with a raging fever, drifting in and out of consciousness. Then he started counting with his eyes closed. "One... two... three..." He counted endlessly.
Soon, everyone who had touched that bone fell ill, in the exact same order.
The doctors called it a rare infection.
But my grandma said it was a curse, and that Wilkerson was already beyond saving.
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Chapter 2
Jenna Santos's POV:
The next day, Oakhaven High organized a mandatory community service event. They said it builds character and fosters community spirit. We had to clear the area around the construction site. It was part of a town-wide initiative.
Our tasks were directly tied to the archaeological discovery. We were to help clear rubble and assist in mapping out the boundary lines for the new excavation zones.
The school wanted us involved, which forcibly connected us to this perilous patch of dirt.
The atmosphere at the site was oppressive. The air was thick with dust, mingling with the unsettling scent of churned earth.
It was a deeply uncomfortable environment.
I was assigned to a group tasked with clearing brush near the eastern edge. I drove my shovel into the dirt. Every scoop felt like a violation.
That bizarre smell grew stronger, clinging to my clothes and seeping into my skin, turning my stomach. It was the scent of damp soil, rust, and something else—something ancient and unnatural.
Liam suddenly yelled out.
He held up a small object, a crude clay figurine that looked incredibly old. "Look what I found!" he shouted excitedly.
Liam, I remembered, had also touched the finger bone.
An archaeologist took the figurine and glanced at it. "Perhaps an ancient fertility idol? Quite common in early settlements." He seemed dismissive.
The labor dragged on for hours under the beating sun. We hauled branches and filled wheelbarrows with loose dirt. The work felt pointless. It was just a way to numb our growing anxiety over the sheer volume of remains.
We kept finding more fragments. Tiny splinters of bone, yellowed teeth, buttons, scraps of fabric—they were everywhere. Every single piece was a brutal reminder that hundreds of lives were buried here.
The sheer quantity was staggering.
During our lunch break, we huddled in the shade of a tree. The conversation turned edgy, shifting to Keegan and the party.
"Did you guys feel like something was off?" Cassandra asked, her voice loud.
Keegan chuckled. "Just a bit of fun, babe. You scared?" He was trying hard to act cool.
Cassandra frowned. "No, I'm serious. I had a really weird dream last night. It was super vivid." She shivered. "I dreamt I was in a pitch-black room, and then I heard someone counting..."
I held my breath.
My dream. Her dream. They were identical. The dark setting. The relentless tapping, the counting.
A chill rushed through my veins. The curse. It was real. And it was spreading.
An old man named Harlan Mason was sitting nearby. He was a construction foreman, grumpy and weather-beaten. He had been listening.
He cleared his throat. "You kids shouldn't go touching things you don't understand."
He started telling us stories—local legends, the kind my grandmother had warned me not to listen to.
He talked about the Oakhaven Asylum back in the 1920s and its dark history.
"Before the asylum was even built, a lot of terrible things happened on this land," Mr. Mason said. "Old wars, clashes between settlers and natives. A lot of folks died here without a proper burial."
"Then came the asylum," he continued. "They just buried the patients here, in a mass grave. Hundreds of 'em. No names, no tombstones. Just dirt over bones."
He stared mournfully at the churned-up earth. They truly were forgotten souls.
"There was one patient," Mr. Mason paused. "Everyone called him 'The Counter.' He had a strange affliction—he was always counting. Counted everything. His fingers, the cracks in the wall, the drops from a leaky faucet. Said it kept the world from falling apart."
"He died in the fire," Mr. Mason finished. "Burned to death, still counting. Still trying to get everything in order. Word is, his spirit got trapped. He's still tallying the dead. Still trying to finish his count."
I grabbed his arm. "Those tally marks on the bone. What do they mean?" My voice was barely a whisper. I had to know. The fear was suffocating me.
Mr. Mason pulled his arm back, staring at me wide-eyed.
"He left a message. A warning. He said, 'My tally isn't finished. Others will finish it for me.'" With that, Mr. Mason stood up and walked away, leaving us in stunned silence.
A gust of wind swept across the site, kicking up dust and the smell of rot.
Liam shivered. "That's just some creepy old folk tale, right? Made up to scare kids." But his voice had lost its usual bravado; it was weak and trembling.
Cassandra nodded, her face pale. "Yeah, just a story. Not real." Her eyes darted around, avoiding everyone's gaze.
My shovel struck something hard.
I knelt down. It was a small, ornate button. Made of tarnished silver, its design was intricate, almost like clockwork gears.
Mr. Mason, who had just come back to grab his thermos, saw it. "Don't touch that, little girl!" he barked, his voice sharp. I froze.
Wearing gloves, he carefully picked it up and examined it closely. "This is an orderly's button. From the asylum. The fancy kind, not meant for the regular patients." With that, he dropped the button into a plastic evidence bag held by one of the archaeologists.
"This asylum was built in 1910 and burned down in 1928," Mr. Mason said, eyeing the button. "This matches the style of that era. High quality." He confirmed its historical context.
The button. The asylum. The Counter.
A sudden icy dread washed over my entire body.
The fragments of Mr. Mason's story. They weren't just tales; they were warnings.
A crushing sense of doom settled over me.
The bone. The tally marks. The dreams. The Counter. His unfinished tally.
I had a terrible premonition.
Grandma's warnings, Mr. Mason's stories. The world was about to change. I felt it in my bones.
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7.9
On Christmas Eve, the snow fell in relentless sheets.
My grandmother and I were cast out into the snow as if we were nothing by my uncle.
My aunt cursed me as a bad luck charm, while my uncle's boot landed fiercely in my chest.
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9.8
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