BLOOD CURSE (sample chapters)

Chapter Three

December 13th—Friday the 13th—two days after the Ophelia disappointment in Montague, finishing up edits on the Voodoo witch website copy, Mac realized glumly that no, he didn't have any plans for Christmas.

He looked out into the blackness of the night. No invites. No place to go.

The blizzard had passed with only minor damage. Two plastic chairs and a table had been swooped into the trees by the wind and demolished. The storm had dumped twenty centimeters of snow, ripped down a few power poles and exploded a few electrical transformers on the Island. The result had been five hours without power, which meant no light, no internet, no water or heat. His only source of heat was an oil furnace, which required electricity to run. So he had gutted it out in bed in the wee hours of the morning, wrapped in thick blankets, until the power had been restored. A flickering candle had been his only source of heat, light and company.

By Thursday afternoon, crews had done an admirable job clearing roads. So, to try and stave off cabin fever and the dreaded D-word, Mac had ventured into Montague after sealing off some cracks in the basement sandstone foundation with some expanding spray foam insulation. He had driven by Petro Canada but, no, Ophelia's yellow Neon wasn't there. Whatever Ophelia's shifts were, Mac had yet to nail them down. So he had stopped off at the local Tim Horton's-slash-Wendy's, bought a large coffee, and sat by himself for an hour while locals came and went, some staring for a little longer than politeness allowed at the new kid on the block.

That made him feel more alone than ever, so he left, drove home, climbed into bed, and at 6:46 pm, fell into a deep sleep (one thing he did like about the country, most times he slept like a rock), waking at 6:30 this morning with the best intentions to stay happy today. He had cleaned the house, cooked a meal, read some excerpts from Edgar Allan Poe's Complete Poetical Works, shoveled a path to an outbuilding, affectionately named the man cave, and another to the barn where he parked the Dodge. Then, he had gotten to work on the edits for Maggie. But two hours later and making rather unsatisfactory progress, his mind drifted back to the dreaded Christmas. At one time in his life, it had been a joyous holiday, one that he looked forward to spending with his parents, Thomas and Margaret, who had lived in Calgary, Alberta.

That was before they died, December 13th, two years to the day. Mac glanced at the calendar and noticed the date for the first time. He frowned. No wonder the feeling of despair that had begun to envelop his mind, upon waking, was now descending like a black cloud. No wonder he hated Christmas. His parents, whom he had been very close to, had died in a car accident while driving to Vancouver to spend Christmas with him. A snowstorm had wreaked a path of devastation through Roger's Pass, while en route, and their mini-van careened off the road, flipped into the ditch, totaled the vehicle, and killed both of them on impact.

Mac still remembered the call from Constable Rod Billings like it was yesterday.

"Are you Mackenzie Adamson?"

He felt a rush of anxiety. "Yes."

"I'm sorry Mr. Adamson, I don't know any other way to tell you this. Your parents were killed in a single-vehicle accident at Roger's Pass early this morning."

"What? No, it can't be, no—"

"I'm very sorry. Do you have any other brothers or sisters?"

Fighting back tears, "Ah... no... no. I'm an only child."

"You might want to come and identify the bodies."

The rest of the conversation was vague. Between sobs, Mac told Constable Billings he would call him back later for the details.

He closed the Voodoo witch Word document and rubbed his temples, as if that might take away some of the pain. He didn't want to think about it right now, didn't want to relive all the grieving, for fear it would send him deeper into that helpless abyss of black depression. But the memory did answer some questions. Since his parents' death, every year in December he would feel their presence, grieve their loss, and wonder why he had changed his mind. Changed his mind about flying to Calgary for Christmas after Thomas had said it might be fun to escape the frigid cold and visit a more temperate climate like Vancouver over the holidays. Something sounded terribly wrong then, some sixth sense that Mac knew now he should have acted on. He should have just said no to his father's idea and booked a flight to Calgary. But his father, a retired oilfield mechanical engineer, had been rather insistent, telling Mac, "Your mother just loves the west coast, and she's getting awfully tired of minus forty. It would do her a world of good."