The Cursed Story
Chapter 7
Chloe Gomez's POV:
I tiptoed toward the front doors, my heart still hammering aggressively against my ribs.
I peered through the narrow crack in the heavy wood.
The dirt road outside was completely deserted, bathed in pale, freezing moonlight. Not a soul in sight.
My fingers brushed against a small alcove built into the inside of the doorframe. There was something hidden there: a handful of incense granules and a cheap lighter.
An idea—a desperate, insanely risky plan—flashed through my mind.
Burn the incense.
The Prophet couldn't stand being looked at.
If I knew exactly where it was hiding, I could use my gaze—or my mother's photograph—to scare it back. Then I could escape.
I crept carefully toward the nearby censer.
My heart was in my throat. Taking a deep breath, I lit the incense and deliberately knocked the burning embers onto the floor, letting them scatter.
The once dark and dreary stone floor was instantly dotted with tiny, glowing specks of fire. It was an eerie, terrifyingly beautiful sight.
As the embers settled, I saw them. Faint, dark patches where the incense had been violently and instantly snuffed out. They formed a jagged, fan-shaped trail of darkness radiating from behind a large bookshelf.
It was right there. Behind the shelf. I found it.
Suddenly, the bookshelf began to shake violently.
Old, moldy books and yellowed papers rained down, scattering all around me. The creature was agitated. Highly agitated.
I looked closely at the fallen papers and realized they were old photographs—some black and white, some heavily faded.
They showed scenes of normal town life, blurry faces, generations of townsfolk.
But something was horribly wrong. The eyes of some of the people in the photos had been violently scribbled out with black ink.
And then I saw it. A more recent photo.
My mother. Younger, but unmistakably her.
She was holding a baby wrapped in a blanket.
My blood ran ice cold. The baby's eyes had been crudely, viciously blacked out with ink.
It was me.
That baby was me.
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