THE BOY WHO CURSED

CH-1 THE CURSED BOY

On a cold Saturday night, whispers circulated about 1970 being dubbed the coldest year ever, a claim not officially recognized by the United Nations but widely accepted by the public. In a peculiar corner of frosty United Kingdom, there lay a district named Eldermere, infamous for its missing residents since 1840. Rumors swirled, blaming the disappearances on ineffective UN efforts and predicting an impending third world war.

However, amidst these chilling tales, one village in this cold district stood out—Shadowvale. Stories intertwined with the supernatural suggested that since 1840, only one person had survived, afflicted and pale, ultimately vanishing around 1960. Eldermere and Shadowvale appeared worlds apart. "This land and my village feel distinct; my father left in search of work when my grandfather believed there could be opportunities here. But before his demise, he returned, gravely ill, longing for his final moments in his birthplace," uttered an elderly man, heavily wrapped in a thick blanket, seated across from another aged figure by the fire.

The conversation revealed a deep connection to the past, with laughter mingling as memories unfurled. The setting was modest, their home constructed from wood along a narrow road. "Haha, I knew it; I was here at that time too, right in this very place," chuckled another elderly man cautiously, as if afraid his dentures might tumble out.

The mundane conversation was interrupted when the door of the house, made from wooden planks, swung open. An enigmatic woman entered, piquing curiosity about the story behind the intricately crafted door.

The two old men turned their faces, and in the glow of the fire, they were clearly visible. One was quite elderly, his wrinkles evident, wearing a pink cap pulled down to his ears, and a large green pajama under a heavy sweater. The other, an odd sight, sported the same attire but with more pronounced wrinkles on his face.

"Where are you off to, dear? It's not safe to be out past midnight these days," the elderly man, engrossed in recounting his father's tale, said.

"I know, grandpa, don't worry. I'm heading to a friend's house nearby; I'll be back soon," the woman replied, seemingly trying to reassure her grandfather.

"Didn't you hear about that girl's story? I mean, her tale," the other old man interjected.

"Oh my god, not again! I'm well aware of it. So many boys and girls have vanished here. But we can't live in fear because of that. The police are useless now; they are no help at all. You two, don't worry, I'll be fine," she spoke with determination.

"I'll come with you," the girl's grandfather offered.

"No-" her sentence was cut short as the other old man began to speak, "Michael Rane, count me in too. I'll go with you."

"No, Jackson, I'm going," the first old man insisted.

"You don't have to come; you're both old," the girl looked at their weary faces and then added, "And the situation isn't great either. You stay, I'm going." With that, she bid goodbye and walked away. From behind, her grandfather's disapproving words faded away.

She stepped onto the road, where the snow had begun to accumulate. There were some people around, some children, some adults, but they all bizarrely stared at her and then headed towards their homes. She overheard snippets of their conversations, "Yes, she's crazy, truly crazy. Going out alone at night, tomorrow it'll be in the news."

Such remarks didn't bother her. Her friend's house was just two streets away, and as she walked, she felt an unsettling sensation that someone was following her. She looked around, but there was no one behind her.

Fighting the fear in her heart, she continued walking, and as her steps quickened, the footsteps behind her grew faster too. Yet, each time she turned, there was no one in sight.