Cursed [Book 1] ✔

Chapter 7: Old Time Methods Are Usually the Best

The reservation suprised me.

In place of shoddy housing, a clean little suburb surrounded a wide expanse of land where cattle and horses grazed. My expectations had been projected from generalizations that people pretend to ignore, but secretly believe in spite of common sense. Whatever government money the tribe received was spent well on the community, including the school and small shops.

As we drove past the unique houses, Rafe glanced over at me with a smirk. "Not a bar in sight, huh?"

I bit my cheek to stem the laughs. "It's pretty."

Rafe nodded smugly. "Despite the hype, not all of our money is invested in casinos and booze."

I grinned and lied, "I never suspected otherwise."

Finally, we parked at a wooden cottage that might have been quaint, if one could ignore the lawn cluttered with totems, shrines, and things I couldn't name. Rafe led me to the front door, where we both hesitated before I gazed at him expectantly.

"He probably already knows we're here, but you should still knock," Rafe said.

"Why me?" I liked to question for questioning's sake.

"Because that's the way it's done," is all Rafe offered.

"Okay."

I knocked lightly, or as lightly as I could on the thick surface. In answer, the door swung open with a groan, revealing a partially lit foyer. When no one greeted us, we exchanged puzzled looks and pushed the door open further. The inside of the house was clear, nothing like the front yard, similar in décor to my grandfather's house, sparse and dusty.

Light emanated from a source to the left, presumably from the living room. I poked my head into the room, noticing two empty sofa chairs, complete near a burying fireplace.

Quietly, we stepped into the living room, drawn to the fire. We kept our backs to the sofa chairs, therefore all the more startled when we heard a whisper, "Hello."

Sitting in one of the sofa chairs was an old man with hair like straw and a face wrinkled as brown paper.

"Where did you come from?" I asked.

"You came here for answers," he croaked, "but do not waste my time by asking the wrong questions."

His hands moved in his lap. For a moment, I thought he was performing an untoward act, but when I inched closer, I saw he was knitting. In the flickering firelight, I couldn't tell if it was a sweater or a blanket, but I could see that the color of the thing was pink. That put even more questions in my mind and a smile on my mouth, but I breathed deeply instead of saying whatever stupid thing I could think of. In the next breath, I asked the most important question first.

"What's inside of me?"

Rafe glanced at me sharply. "What?"

Yet, the old man wasn't surprised. He motioned for me, cautioning me against pulling a stitch on the creation in his lap.

When I was positioned nearby, the shaman discarded of his knitting into a basket next to his chair. Then he grabbed my hand.

"What have your dreams been like of late?" he rasped.

"Whoa, you get right to it."

"No jokes, girl. Answer."

I hegded, "Nothing good. Mostly."

A searing pain shot through my arm. He had slit my upturned palm with a wicked sharp knitting needle. I yelped and jumped backwards to get away from the murderous Martha Stewart.