MARVIN'S CURSE

Chapter One 

The Move

The cold October wind blew harshly at Marvin's back as he grabbed the box from the back of the lorry. 'I'll take my own stuff,' he said, pushing the removal man aside. 

He looked down at his skinny arms as he staggered up the gravel path. A few sessions at a gym wouldn't go amiss! 

'Hey, let me help you with that,' shouted Dan, his ample portions blocking Marvin's way. He slipped his hand under the base of the box, but Marvin pulled back. 

'I said I'll take my own stuff, thank you!' The last thing he wanted was any kind of help from his stepdad. It was down to him that Mum had decided to move. 

He struggled to the front door, kicking it open with such force that it bounced back in his face.  

'Oh, god!' he said, holding it open with his foot. 'It smells of old people. Smells of dead people,' he added. A familiar feeling of dread washed over him. 

He put the box down in the hall hoping to catch his breath, but his mum appeared from the kitchen. 

'Oh, for crying out loud, Marvin. Don't leave it there!' she cried, pushing her blond wiry hair back over her head. 'Take it straight up to your room.' She paused then added, 'And keep that front door closed. It's freezing in here!' 

He scowled as she rushed outside to supervise the rest of the unloading. 

Marvin heaved the box into his arms again, pulled it close to his chest then began the long haul up to the next floor. 

He gazed around. There were three bedrooms and a bathroom on this level. It was all a ghastly, blue-flowered area where taste had clearly taken a long holiday. He moved along the hideous green carpet, the clash of patterns and colour almost bringing his face into a smile, and stood face-to-face with a yellow post-it marked 'Marvin' on a bedroom door.  

Pushing the door open with his knee, Marvin laid his box on the bed, the only piece of furniture in there.  

Twisting and jerking his arms around, he attempted to encourage the blood flow back through his veins. He looked at the temporary scarring on his skin from the heavy box.  

Marvin dislodged his black T-shirt from inside the belt around his jeans and stooped to re-tie the laces on his trainers.  

He glanced around. It was so much smaller than his mum had described it. Room for a bed, wardrobe or chest of drawers, she'd said. What she should have said was room for a bed or wardrobe or chest of drawers. It was considerably smaller than his old room. Pushing his thick brown hair back over his head, he walked the few steps to the window. 

Marvin threw back the curtains and looked outside. 'I don't believe it! Great! Of all the places to move to,' he said. The old neglected graveyard glared back at him. 'As always, no one listens to me.' 

A shuffling in the room made him turn sharply. The curtains fell back into place silently. 

'Dad!' 

'I listen. I always listen.' 

'You don't count,' said Marvin, looking at his father, who was wearing in an ill-fitting dark grey suit. 'You're dead! You might have had more say if you weren't.' 

'I don't know why she married that insensitive idiot,' said his dad, trying to pull the jacket sleeve down over the white shirt cuff. 

'Perhaps... because you're dead?' 

'But she could have done so much better. After all, she's still got her looks...' 

'Oh, please,' said Marvin, perching on the bed. He looked his dead father in the eye. 'That's just too weird.'