Gum on the Sidewalk

Chapter Seven: The Column

The next morning when I woke, I looked over to see Samantha sleeping next to me, with about a foot space between us.  I didn't want to wake her, since she had just about the most pleasant expression on her face.  I wondered what she was dreaming about.

We were curled up on the floor on a sleeping bag and a couple of old blankets I found.  They hadn't looked too shabby, so I grabbed them out of the closet.  Samantha hadn't protested, either, instead yawning quite loudly from behind her hand.

I stood as quietly as I could and stepped over her toward the door, where I saw a newspaper lying on the porch.  I understood that, it not being my house, it wasn't my paper, nor was I entitled to reading it.  But I would simply read what was in it without crinkling the pages, and put it back in its place for when the homeowners got back.  It may not have seemed like anyone lived here by the looks of the place, but someone obviously did, since the newspaper was still being delivered here.

I wasn't woried about being caught breaking and entering; I knew there schedules by heart.  On Saturday, they stayed out until 3:00 in the afternoon.  They probably went out partying on Friday night.

I drowsily picked up the newspaper and carried it inside, shutting the door quietly behind me when I passed.  I read the headline "Murder on 34th Street" and frowned.  How could they take a nice Christmas movie title and turn it into something so heinous?  Someone down at the newspaper office needed a good talking to.  By this time, Samantha had stirred awake.  She sat up in her sleeping bag and looked at me curiously.  Yawning, she asked, "What have you got there?"

"Oh, I just brought in the paper, I thought I'd read it before you woke up, but it seems that isn't in the plan," I mused.  I sat quietly down beside her and began to read aloud.

                         MURDER ON 34th STREET  By John Seamus

IT SEEMS THAT THE JOHNSON PLACE OVER ON CLINTON STREET HAS FINALLY BEEN TORN DOWN.  THE QUESTION ON ALL OF OUR MINDS, THOUGH, IS: HOW DID THEY DIE?  WELL, FOLKS, THAT QUESTION IS GOING TO BE ANSWERED RIGHT HERE.  IT SEEMS THAT THE DAUGHTER OF THE COUPLE WAS GOING TO BE A BRIDESMAID AT HER COUSIN'S WEDDING AND HER DRESS, A BRIGHT RED STRAPLESS, (WHICH CAN'T BE FOUND)- I looked over at Samantha and gulped- HAD BEEN CURSED BY THE SEAMSTRESS WHO MADE IT JUST FOR HER.   APPARENTLY, THE SEAMSTRESS WAS A POWERFUL WITCH WHO HELD A GRUDGE AGAINST THE GIRL, AND WANTED HER DEAD VERY MUCH.  WHAT THE SEAMSTRESS DIDN'T KNOW, THOUGH, IS THAT  SHE WAS BEING WATCHED BY ANOTHER CUSTOMER.  SHE IS NOW IN CUSTODY AND IS BEING HELD PUBLICLY ON TRIAL ON TUESDAY, MAY 7th.  THE JOHNSON FAMILY WAS FOUND DEAD IN THEIR HOME TWO DAYS AFTER THE WEDDING, SITTING AT THE DINNER TABLE.  WE ALL SEND OUR SYMPATHY AND PRAYERS TO THE REST OF THE JOHNSON FAMILY IN HOPES THAT THEY MAY STAY IN TYHE PERFECT HEALTH.

After I had finished reading the article, I looked up at Samantha, with fear and dread filling me.  We both glanced over at the dress, which lay innocently on the couch.  Twenty-four hours ago, I hadn't believed in magic, or voodoo, or witchcraft, or whatever.  I continued to stare at the garment, but it only filled me with anger.  I wished that I had never bought that dress.  Why couldn't the ladies just tell me not to buy the stupid thing?  Why did they have to be so evasive when I asked about it?  I thought strongly about marching into the little store and returning it.  Then I remembered that they don't give refunds.  I was stuck with that once beautiful, now hideous, dress.

"What are you going to do?" Samantha asked quietly.

"I don't know," I replied, "I just don't know."

"You don't really believe all that do you?" she laughed nervously.

"I know I shouldn't believe that nonsense, but I don't really want to take the chance.  You know?" I explained.

"Well, we could wash it and see if that helps,". she suggested.

"Haven't you been listening?  It has been cursed, all right.  The dress has been cursed by some witch doctor or something.  Washing it is not going to help.  Understand?" I breathed.

"Maybe you could take it to an exorcist or something," she snorted, obviously not liking the idea herself.

"Do you know how much those things probably cost?!" I asked loudly.

"Probably?" she asked.

"Well, yeah, probably; I've never been to one before," I explained.

"Well, we could ask, couldn't we?" she snapped.

"We can ask, but we have got to do it quick: the dance is tomorrow," I conceded.