"It'd be easier on everyone if you just fucking died Jimmy!" was the last thing I ever said to my brother as I slammed the door to his apartment behind me.
The words echoing in my head on a constant loop, drowning out our friends and family offering their condolences to my parents and I as we sit beside his open casket.
I can't stand to look at him. Half out of guilt, the remainder his appearance. Drugs took his life but it robbed him of his looks long before that. Death has not redeemed him of this quality, it's amplified it.
"Alan, please" he said with an outstretched hand beckoning me to sit beside him on his dingy couch. "Don't leave." The lump in his throat as audible as the welling of his eyes were visible.
Despite his pleading, I just left him there. I should have done something. I could have done something. Instead, I told my own brother he should die and either he, or God, or both agreed with me because later that night he did.
We didn't know exactly what substance it was that he was abusing that did it. We were still waiting on the toxicology report for that.
People will tell you that it's not my fault. People will insist that I loved my brother. People will say that I'm a good man.
People are wrong.
This is my fault. I own it. I abandoned my own flesh and blood in frustration when he needed me most. Hours passed before my conscience finally got the better of me that night and by the time I made it back to his home to make amends, it was too late.
I stood at his entrance practicing my apology. Testing the best sentences I could use to tell him how sorry I was but in the same breath, truly get through to him that his demons were tearing our parents apart.
My rehearsal was interrupted by a squishing sound from beneath my feet as I paced. The industrial carpet lining the corridors of the run down complex were wet. The dirty beige colour now a dark brown in an uneven half circle where it's been saturated most at the foot of my brothers' door.
I apprehensively used my spare key to gain entrance. Cool droplets of water fell down from the ceiling. Puddles pooled deep in sections on the uneven floors. My guilt morphed into anger instantly as I wondered how much my parents would have to pay the landlord for the damages my little brother has caused to his property.
It builds into blind rage as I jerk in surprise as one of the drops from the ceiling falls onto my face.
The emotion fades faster than it came when I turned my body towards Jimmy's living room preparing to give him hell.
My voice catches in my throat when my gaze finds its destination.
There he sat, lifeless on the sofa where I left him. His mouth agape, eyes wide and nearly completely white. His soaking wet t-shirt molded to his skinny body revealing the contour of his ribcage. His hand outstretched at his side resting on the unoccupied cushion as if even in death he requested my companionship.
"Jimmy!" I shout as I scramble towards him splashing in the puddles as I ran. I held him in my arms screaming his name and tapping his cold face with my hand. "Please, wake up!" My voice cracking in terror.
I recoil in surprise as a drop lands on my hand breaking my daydream as I sit slumped in the funeral homes' chair. I instinctively look to the ceiling as if I were still at Jimmy's apartment. Realizing too late that I was the source. I've been silently crying this whole time.
The rest of the viewing was as hard as you would expect for a family bidding a 26 year old member farewell. The burial was even worse. There's something about the finality of the closing coffin that leaves you so empty you'd swear a piece of you was in there with your loved one, never to see the light of day again. I wish I could tell you that it became easier on us in the weeks that followed but I won't lie to you. I can't find it in me to care enough for that.
It's been especially hard on my mother in the six weeks that have passed. She had spent most of it watching old home videos of my brother as a child. Birthday parties, piano recitals, graduations and the like. Her nights however are filled with quiet weeping from her upstairs bedroom, clutching a photo of him in a frame she keeps by her bedside. My father being the war veteran that he is, copes with trauma as he always has with quiet strength, a cigarette, a stiff upper lip, and if need be a stiffer drink. I've never seen so much as a tear form in my father's eye my entire life, not even as we carried my brother's casket to be buried. You could sense his sadness as it hung heavy in the air around him, its weight could be felt by every single person in attendance. But to him, crying was weakness in a man and not an option while he had a wife and surviving son depending on him.
It's the reason I was so shocked to see him sitting on the floor next to his cellphone, sobbing like a child when I let myself into their home.
"Dad?" I say as I make my way toward him, leaving the front door open behind me. I knelt as fast as I could to rest my hand on his shoulder. "What's wrong?"
He wipes his face ashamedly "Hey Alan," he says trying his best to conceal the agony in his voice and shifts his body abruptly to stand.
I keep him down, he doesn't resist.
"Dad, it's ok." I soothe, "What happened?"
Fresh tears well in his eyes as he stares into mine. It's my turn to be strong for him as I fight back tears of my own.
"The doctor called," he whispers. "All of Jimmy's results came back negative."
"What?" I blurt, failing to conceal my surprise.
"There were no drugs in his system. Hair, blood, saliva... nothing." he whimpers, "what... what killed my boy?"
I feel dizzy at this revelation and use my father's shoulder to steady myself as I sit with my back to the wall beside him.
Both of us staring off into nothing.
Both of us now weeping.
We had all been so sure that Jimmy overdosed that we had refused an autopsy. Confident that sending off Jimmy's various bodily fluids would reveal the culprit. The police found no evidence of foul play and they attributed the water and damage to the apartment as a drug fueled hallucination. "He probably thought the place was on fire!" were the exact words used by the officer. Yet here we are in a reality where Jimmy not only did not overdose, but had no trace of narcotics in his system whatsoever.
More time had passed since I found my father on the floor and its passage has done nothing to heal my wounds. I became obsessed with my brother's death, and vowed to find out what it is that killed him not only for my sake but for the sake of my parents who have deteriorated into shells of their former selves without this closure. I found my answer among his possessions which lay in storage boxes in my parents garage.
Jimmy was an avid reader, and owned more books than an underfunded public library. So it was easy for everyone involved who didn't know him to overlook the leather bound journal that was tucked away between Wilde and Poe. Even if it had garnered any amount of attention, it would be short lived. Its pages were seemingly empty.
When we were children we nicknamed my father the Colonel because he took all of his military style bootcamp training and transitioned it over to his parenting. When one of us broke something in the house, or just generally disobeyed him we would be sent to our rooms which he called "the hole" for a pre-set amount of time.
"Come here boys!" He would bellow, his deep voice reverberating throughout the house and my brother and I would drop anything we were doing and scurry to get to him as fast as our little legs could carry us. We would stand up straight before him with our hands at our sides like mini soldiers.
"Which one of you broke your mothers vase?" He'd say to us sternly, my mother cooking in the background trying hard not to smile. My father never hit us so the "little soldier routine" as she called it made her smile through her mock grimace everytime.
"I did sir!" Jimmy would shout.
"Takes a man to own up to his mistakes." my father would say, "but he's got to face the consequences too, don't you think?"
"Yes sir!" He'd say standing up straighter.
"Good. One hour in the hole!" The Colonel replied with my mother behind him smiling blatantly now hoping to at least surpress the giggles.
It wasn't uncommon for Jimmy to take the fall. It's just who he was and would always be. I had broken the vase that evening but Jimmy couldn't bare the thought of someone else being punished if he had the power to prevent it. He gave anything and everything he had to those he loved and as he aged that quality only grew stronger.
Jimmy was a better man than me.
It was during those hours in the hole that we devised a way to communicate with eachother, undetected from the Colonels' watchful eyes. We would pass notes under the door written in lemon juice or milk. Once dry the paper would be clear, the ink unseen. The only way to reveal the message was to apply heat either with a candle, or the burning hot incandescent lightbulb of our bedside lamps, turning the transparent ink brown like magic. As soon as the message was read, the paper was destroyed and if it were ever intercepted before the heating process as they sometimes were our parents would simply command us to pick up after ourselves seeing only a blank page. It was our very own invisible ink. We briefly tried with urine once but neither one of us was willing to touch the paper afterward which defeated the purpose.
Holding Jimmy's leather journal in my hand and leafing through its pages, I smiled at the memory. I took it with me to my father's workbench in the corner of the garage. Reaching to take the propane torch from the top shelf. I twist the nozzle releasing a hiss of propellant, and pull the trigger igniting a blue flame.
He couldn't have. Could he?
I travel the flame carefully over the first page as to not combust it and stare in bewilderment as words do indeed begin to surface.
LET ME GO ALAN.
BURN THE BOOK.
-Love, Jimmy.
With my heart beating out of my chest I don't know whether to laugh or cry as I read Jimmy's message from beyond the grave so I do a bit of both as a swallow hard, composing myself before turning the page.
I PRAY THAT NO ONE IS READING. I HAVE DONE MY BEST TO CONTAIN WHAT I HAVE FOUND SO WHEN I DIE, IT DIES WITH ME.
"What the hell is going on, Jimmy?" I whisper aloud. For the very first time, the thought that the toxicology report might be mistaken emerges in my mind. Who else but a man intoxicated could ever write such things?
The sense of smell is so closely linked to memory that the aroma created by the flame eminating from the paper triggers happy flashbacks of when we used to do this as children.
A stunning contrast to the morbidness of my discovery. How did we end up here?
Another page, another message.
PLEASE, IF ANYONE IS READING THIS ESPECIALLY YOU ALAN WHO IS THE ONLY ONE WHO KNOWS ABOUT THE INVISIBLE WRITING, JUST BURN THE BOOK! PLEASE DO NOT BRING THE POEM BACK INTO THE WORLD.
"Poem?" I think to myself as chills run up my spine.
I LOVE YOU ALAN, TO THE MOON AND BACK. IF YOU ARE READING THIS, HUG MOM AND THE COLONEL. THEY'LL NEED YOU. IM SORRY I COULDN'T TELL YOU. I COULDN'T RISK IT. I DISCOVERED A CURSE. A CURSE THAT ONCE READ BINDS YOU TO IT. IT WONT LET ME DIE ALAN, UNLESS I WRITE IT.
I flip the pages as fast as I can to continue my brother's message.
IT CAN'T BE STOPPED. I'VE TRIED. I'VE DESTROYED EVERYTHING RELATED TO THIS CURSE THAT I'VE FOUND SO THAT IT CAN'T BE SOUGHT OUT. THE INVISIBLE WRITING IS MY LOOPHOLE. A WAY TO END MY SUFFERING BUT PROTECT THE NEXT VICTIMS.
The next fifteen pages consisted of only three words repeated over and over.
DO NOT READ.
My heart breaks at my brother's mental state. If I had known his mind was so fragmented I could have gotten him the help he clearly needed.
The words on the sixteenth page burned darker than the rest. No longer the golden brown of its predecessors but a deep black. No longer bold capital letters but a fine script.
*Each flash of lightning will reveal its form.
*It preys on the cursed in the eye of the storm.
Every page that followed was empty.
I clutched the journal to my chest. "I'm so sorry Jimmy." I mutter "I love you too."
I couldn't bring myself to tell my parents about my discovery, it would do them no good. Upon exiting the garage, I tuck the book into my jacket sleeve and lay it on the couch where I take a seat next to my mother watching her daily dose of home videos.
"Hello sweetheart." she smiles, leaning in to kiss my cheek.
"How you doing mom?" I respond.
"I'm alright I guess I'm just trying to remember happier times." She smiled, "These videos just remind me that I did tell you boys I loved you a million times a day." and points to the screen.
I chuckle because she speaks the truth. At this moment, in the video labeled "Jimmy's 8th birthday" she can be heard from behind the camera asking her two sons her favourite question. "Boys! Boys! How much does mommy love you?"
Jimmy and I sat on the backyard picnic bench surrounded by presents and other children, red as tomatoes and rolling our eyes.
"Mom, not in front of our friends!" We hushed in embarrassment.
"How much my little monkeys?" She squealed with glee.
"To the moon and back" We muttered in defeat.
To add to our horror, the other children surrounding us were ooing and awing in unison.
"See?" my mother says drawing my attention away from the television and back to her.
Both of us share a laugh. It was so nice to see my mother smile again that it helped me to forget Jimmy's journal. So when she asked if I would like to see another video, I agreed without hesitation.
"Do you have my clown birthday party?" I inquire.
"Oh I sure do!" she says jumping up from the couch to retrieve it. "That's my favourite!"
I remember that damn party like it happened yesterday. "The party from hell" Jimmy would dub it later on. My mother thought it would be a tremendous idea to have a clown perform at my 9th birthday, completely unaware that clowns terrified both my brother and I. It was a particularly hot July day. We had already been delirious from too much sun and sugar when Twirly the clown made his entrance holding my candle topped cake. Dancing instead of walking toward us with grand exaggerated kicks of his legs. There's a particularly funny scene in this video where my mother pans the camera from Twirly's theatrics and laughing family members in the background, to where my brother and I sat holding eachother, eyes shut tightly with our faces turned towards the sky crying in fear.
But that's not what played on the tv. The setting hadn't changed. The people in attendance were the same. My younger father before his hair began to grey, stood at the barbeque flipping burgers just as I remembered only he was dripping wet in the rain.
"It wasn't raining." I think to myself confused.
"Look how handsome your father is." I hear my mother say at my side. I can't find my voice to reply so I just nod never taking my eyes off what I'm watching. "Here's the best part!" she claps with joy.
"Bring on the clown!" My father says, but it's difficult to make out over the ever increasing ferocity of the storm. The screen goes white with a flash of lightning as if it struck within meters of where we were standing.
My pulse quickens as I perceive everything in near slow motion. The camera moves from my father to Twirly the clown, his large red shoes splashing in the mud as he danced. The white make up on his face running down onto his orange coloured jumpsuit. The large red painted on smile associated with clowns, sagged into a grimace. His eyes completely blacked out as his drawn on eyebrows did the same.
The happy family members in the background clapping and cheering as the water pooled around their ankles. Heavy winds tossing the womens hair every which way as they applauded, seemingly unaware of the hurricane that raged around them.
Lightning illuminates the scene that has made my family laugh for the better part of two decades. I stare in horror, paralyzed with fear. The camera finally finds its way to young Jimmy and I as we sit holding eachother. However this time only one of us was crying with our eyes shut. Jimmy was staring directly into the camera wide eyed, head vigorously shaking from side to side.
His lips move but I can't make out what he's saying over the ripping thunder. Another flash of lightning and I gasp as a figure materializes behind us out of nothing. Its skin is stretched tight around its tall, skinny body almost translucent in appearance. Its oversized hands resting on both of our shoulders. Its long fingers traveling almost the entire length of our torsos.
I can't make out its face through no fault of my own because it doesn't have one to speak of. Only a mouth that makes up the whole bottom portion of its oval head.
Jimmy jerks his shoulder away from its clutches running up to the camera and grabbing it with both hands to bring it up close to his face.
"You let it out!" He shrieks. " Alan, you let it out! He repeats himself until his voice is hoarse. The hands of the figure coming into frame behind him where they rest on his shoulders.
I taste the salt of my tears at the corner of my mouth and recoil violently as I feel a hand on my shoulder.
"It's alright, Alan" my mother says with both her hands held out in front of her trying to be as soothing as possible.
"I'm sorry mom." I respond and start wiping my face with my sleeve until I turn back toward the video. The sun is shining and the clown is dry. His makeup impeccable as the young me reluctantly blows out the candles.
"I miss him too." she says rubbing my back.
"I gotta go." was all I could muster in my dazed condition as I kissed her cheek, picked up my jacket and headed for my car.
I sat in silence on my drive home. Silent enough that the soft swishing of my windshield wipers in the rain were infuriatingly loud. I kept going over what just happened in my head. Overwhelmed, I switched on the radio to the most mindless dance music station I can think of to drown out my thoughts. The vapid radio disk jockey addressing his audience in the typical fashion.
"Yo, yo, yo party people" he begins, "This is MC Mookie Mayes, the flyest DJ on the east coast coming at you live on this beautiful Saturday evening."
He has the desired effect of distracting me at the very least because I roll my eyes and mutter "douchebag" under my breath.
"There's not a cloud in the sky today." he continues, "so I want to see all you beautiful people dancing to my lit beats under the stars tonight!"
I laugh aloud at this. "Hey dj dimwit!" still chuckling, "it's rainin-" my voice trails off as I pull off to the side of the road. I reach to the passengers side seat to retrieve my phone. I open my weather app, warm and clear skies with a zero percent chance of precipitation.
My blood runs cold as thunder rolls in the distance. I look up from my phone to see the silhouette of a figure far in the distance and all I can do is stare as each flash of lightning transports him closer to me.
I floor the gas pedal and speed down the road my tires spinning on the slick surface. My wipers struggling to keep up with the ever falling rain making it difficult to see. "I gotta get out of here." I speak to myself to try and calm my nerves constantly checking my rearview mirror in hopes to catch a glimpse of the figure behind me. But I was mistaken when another flash of light brought the figure directly in front of my car. I swerved to avoid it losing control of my vehicle, spinning out as I try to compensate the steering. When it finally grinds to a halt, I sit gasping for air and listening to my wipers squeaking as they pass over the dry glass. I exit my vehicle and notice the stars in the sky and not a cloud in sight.
When I got to my apartment, I headed straight for my bathroom to splash some cold water on my face. What greets me in the mirror causes me to stare. I've begun to age just as Jimmy had. My cheeks are sullen and the dark rings under my eyes are the worst I'd ever seen.
At first I questioned my sanity. After all, the apparitions left no evidence of their visits. When the storm passed, I was able to carry on with my days. Even my appearance could be reasoned away with illness or the depression caused by the loss of my brother. That luxury would be short lived. As its bond with me grew stronger, its effects became more apparent. Each passing storm would leave its mark. The wet clothes on my body or the welts in the shape of handprints underneath them.
It's been weeks since my first exposure and I can't carry on like this anymore. I hope you can understand, I don't want to die. The figure comes with a higher frequency than ever before. I awaken in the middle of the night to thunder and my apartment is now rife with mold from water damage. I've lost 30 pounds and two teeth since then.
It's here with me now both hands resting on my shoulders as I write this. I tried to hold off for as long as I could, but I'm going to give in to what it wants. The largest audience it's ever had in the who knows how many centuries it's roamed the earth. I think in passing it to you I can save myself. I can't be sure but it's worth a try.
Jimmy was selfless. He wrote the curse in a way that no one could ever read it. He gave his life to protect the world.
Please forgive me, I've already told you.
Jimmy was a better man than me.
---
Credits
The words echoing in my head on a constant loop, drowning out our friends and family offering their condolences to my parents and I as we sit beside his open casket.
I can't stand to look at him. Half out of guilt, the remainder his appearance. Drugs took his life but it robbed him of his looks long before that. Death has not redeemed him of this quality, it's amplified it.
"Alan, please" he said with an outstretched hand beckoning me to sit beside him on his dingy couch. "Don't leave." The lump in his throat as audible as the welling of his eyes were visible.
Despite his pleading, I just left him there. I should have done something. I could have done something. Instead, I told my own brother he should die and either he, or God, or both agreed with me because later that night he did.
We didn't know exactly what substance it was that he was abusing that did it. We were still waiting on the toxicology report for that.
People will tell you that it's not my fault. People will insist that I loved my brother. People will say that I'm a good man.
People are wrong.
This is my fault. I own it. I abandoned my own flesh and blood in frustration when he needed me most. Hours passed before my conscience finally got the better of me that night and by the time I made it back to his home to make amends, it was too late.
I stood at his entrance practicing my apology. Testing the best sentences I could use to tell him how sorry I was but in the same breath, truly get through to him that his demons were tearing our parents apart.
My rehearsal was interrupted by a squishing sound from beneath my feet as I paced. The industrial carpet lining the corridors of the run down complex were wet. The dirty beige colour now a dark brown in an uneven half circle where it's been saturated most at the foot of my brothers' door.
I apprehensively used my spare key to gain entrance. Cool droplets of water fell down from the ceiling. Puddles pooled deep in sections on the uneven floors. My guilt morphed into anger instantly as I wondered how much my parents would have to pay the landlord for the damages my little brother has caused to his property.
It builds into blind rage as I jerk in surprise as one of the drops from the ceiling falls onto my face.
The emotion fades faster than it came when I turned my body towards Jimmy's living room preparing to give him hell.
My voice catches in my throat when my gaze finds its destination.
There he sat, lifeless on the sofa where I left him. His mouth agape, eyes wide and nearly completely white. His soaking wet t-shirt molded to his skinny body revealing the contour of his ribcage. His hand outstretched at his side resting on the unoccupied cushion as if even in death he requested my companionship.
"Jimmy!" I shout as I scramble towards him splashing in the puddles as I ran. I held him in my arms screaming his name and tapping his cold face with my hand. "Please, wake up!" My voice cracking in terror.
I recoil in surprise as a drop lands on my hand breaking my daydream as I sit slumped in the funeral homes' chair. I instinctively look to the ceiling as if I were still at Jimmy's apartment. Realizing too late that I was the source. I've been silently crying this whole time.
The rest of the viewing was as hard as you would expect for a family bidding a 26 year old member farewell. The burial was even worse. There's something about the finality of the closing coffin that leaves you so empty you'd swear a piece of you was in there with your loved one, never to see the light of day again. I wish I could tell you that it became easier on us in the weeks that followed but I won't lie to you. I can't find it in me to care enough for that.
It's been especially hard on my mother in the six weeks that have passed. She had spent most of it watching old home videos of my brother as a child. Birthday parties, piano recitals, graduations and the like. Her nights however are filled with quiet weeping from her upstairs bedroom, clutching a photo of him in a frame she keeps by her bedside. My father being the war veteran that he is, copes with trauma as he always has with quiet strength, a cigarette, a stiff upper lip, and if need be a stiffer drink. I've never seen so much as a tear form in my father's eye my entire life, not even as we carried my brother's casket to be buried. You could sense his sadness as it hung heavy in the air around him, its weight could be felt by every single person in attendance. But to him, crying was weakness in a man and not an option while he had a wife and surviving son depending on him.
It's the reason I was so shocked to see him sitting on the floor next to his cellphone, sobbing like a child when I let myself into their home.
"Dad?" I say as I make my way toward him, leaving the front door open behind me. I knelt as fast as I could to rest my hand on his shoulder. "What's wrong?"
He wipes his face ashamedly "Hey Alan," he says trying his best to conceal the agony in his voice and shifts his body abruptly to stand.
I keep him down, he doesn't resist.
"Dad, it's ok." I soothe, "What happened?"
Fresh tears well in his eyes as he stares into mine. It's my turn to be strong for him as I fight back tears of my own.
"The doctor called," he whispers. "All of Jimmy's results came back negative."
"What?" I blurt, failing to conceal my surprise.
"There were no drugs in his system. Hair, blood, saliva... nothing." he whimpers, "what... what killed my boy?"
I feel dizzy at this revelation and use my father's shoulder to steady myself as I sit with my back to the wall beside him.
Both of us staring off into nothing.
Both of us now weeping.
We had all been so sure that Jimmy overdosed that we had refused an autopsy. Confident that sending off Jimmy's various bodily fluids would reveal the culprit. The police found no evidence of foul play and they attributed the water and damage to the apartment as a drug fueled hallucination. "He probably thought the place was on fire!" were the exact words used by the officer. Yet here we are in a reality where Jimmy not only did not overdose, but had no trace of narcotics in his system whatsoever.
More time had passed since I found my father on the floor and its passage has done nothing to heal my wounds. I became obsessed with my brother's death, and vowed to find out what it is that killed him not only for my sake but for the sake of my parents who have deteriorated into shells of their former selves without this closure. I found my answer among his possessions which lay in storage boxes in my parents garage.
Jimmy was an avid reader, and owned more books than an underfunded public library. So it was easy for everyone involved who didn't know him to overlook the leather bound journal that was tucked away between Wilde and Poe. Even if it had garnered any amount of attention, it would be short lived. Its pages were seemingly empty.
When we were children we nicknamed my father the Colonel because he took all of his military style bootcamp training and transitioned it over to his parenting. When one of us broke something in the house, or just generally disobeyed him we would be sent to our rooms which he called "the hole" for a pre-set amount of time.
"Come here boys!" He would bellow, his deep voice reverberating throughout the house and my brother and I would drop anything we were doing and scurry to get to him as fast as our little legs could carry us. We would stand up straight before him with our hands at our sides like mini soldiers.
"Which one of you broke your mothers vase?" He'd say to us sternly, my mother cooking in the background trying hard not to smile. My father never hit us so the "little soldier routine" as she called it made her smile through her mock grimace everytime.
"I did sir!" Jimmy would shout.
"Takes a man to own up to his mistakes." my father would say, "but he's got to face the consequences too, don't you think?"
"Yes sir!" He'd say standing up straighter.
"Good. One hour in the hole!" The Colonel replied with my mother behind him smiling blatantly now hoping to at least surpress the giggles.
It wasn't uncommon for Jimmy to take the fall. It's just who he was and would always be. I had broken the vase that evening but Jimmy couldn't bare the thought of someone else being punished if he had the power to prevent it. He gave anything and everything he had to those he loved and as he aged that quality only grew stronger.
Jimmy was a better man than me.
It was during those hours in the hole that we devised a way to communicate with eachother, undetected from the Colonels' watchful eyes. We would pass notes under the door written in lemon juice or milk. Once dry the paper would be clear, the ink unseen. The only way to reveal the message was to apply heat either with a candle, or the burning hot incandescent lightbulb of our bedside lamps, turning the transparent ink brown like magic. As soon as the message was read, the paper was destroyed and if it were ever intercepted before the heating process as they sometimes were our parents would simply command us to pick up after ourselves seeing only a blank page. It was our very own invisible ink. We briefly tried with urine once but neither one of us was willing to touch the paper afterward which defeated the purpose.
Holding Jimmy's leather journal in my hand and leafing through its pages, I smiled at the memory. I took it with me to my father's workbench in the corner of the garage. Reaching to take the propane torch from the top shelf. I twist the nozzle releasing a hiss of propellant, and pull the trigger igniting a blue flame.
He couldn't have. Could he?
I travel the flame carefully over the first page as to not combust it and stare in bewilderment as words do indeed begin to surface.
LET ME GO ALAN.
BURN THE BOOK.
-Love, Jimmy.
With my heart beating out of my chest I don't know whether to laugh or cry as I read Jimmy's message from beyond the grave so I do a bit of both as a swallow hard, composing myself before turning the page.
I PRAY THAT NO ONE IS READING. I HAVE DONE MY BEST TO CONTAIN WHAT I HAVE FOUND SO WHEN I DIE, IT DIES WITH ME.
"What the hell is going on, Jimmy?" I whisper aloud. For the very first time, the thought that the toxicology report might be mistaken emerges in my mind. Who else but a man intoxicated could ever write such things?
The sense of smell is so closely linked to memory that the aroma created by the flame eminating from the paper triggers happy flashbacks of when we used to do this as children.
A stunning contrast to the morbidness of my discovery. How did we end up here?
Another page, another message.
PLEASE, IF ANYONE IS READING THIS ESPECIALLY YOU ALAN WHO IS THE ONLY ONE WHO KNOWS ABOUT THE INVISIBLE WRITING, JUST BURN THE BOOK! PLEASE DO NOT BRING THE POEM BACK INTO THE WORLD.
"Poem?" I think to myself as chills run up my spine.
I LOVE YOU ALAN, TO THE MOON AND BACK. IF YOU ARE READING THIS, HUG MOM AND THE COLONEL. THEY'LL NEED YOU. IM SORRY I COULDN'T TELL YOU. I COULDN'T RISK IT. I DISCOVERED A CURSE. A CURSE THAT ONCE READ BINDS YOU TO IT. IT WONT LET ME DIE ALAN, UNLESS I WRITE IT.
I flip the pages as fast as I can to continue my brother's message.
IT CAN'T BE STOPPED. I'VE TRIED. I'VE DESTROYED EVERYTHING RELATED TO THIS CURSE THAT I'VE FOUND SO THAT IT CAN'T BE SOUGHT OUT. THE INVISIBLE WRITING IS MY LOOPHOLE. A WAY TO END MY SUFFERING BUT PROTECT THE NEXT VICTIMS.
The next fifteen pages consisted of only three words repeated over and over.
DO NOT READ.
My heart breaks at my brother's mental state. If I had known his mind was so fragmented I could have gotten him the help he clearly needed.
The words on the sixteenth page burned darker than the rest. No longer the golden brown of its predecessors but a deep black. No longer bold capital letters but a fine script.
*Each flash of lightning will reveal its form.
*It preys on the cursed in the eye of the storm.
Every page that followed was empty.
I clutched the journal to my chest. "I'm so sorry Jimmy." I mutter "I love you too."
I couldn't bring myself to tell my parents about my discovery, it would do them no good. Upon exiting the garage, I tuck the book into my jacket sleeve and lay it on the couch where I take a seat next to my mother watching her daily dose of home videos.
"Hello sweetheart." she smiles, leaning in to kiss my cheek.
"How you doing mom?" I respond.
"I'm alright I guess I'm just trying to remember happier times." She smiled, "These videos just remind me that I did tell you boys I loved you a million times a day." and points to the screen.
I chuckle because she speaks the truth. At this moment, in the video labeled "Jimmy's 8th birthday" she can be heard from behind the camera asking her two sons her favourite question. "Boys! Boys! How much does mommy love you?"
Jimmy and I sat on the backyard picnic bench surrounded by presents and other children, red as tomatoes and rolling our eyes.
"Mom, not in front of our friends!" We hushed in embarrassment.
"How much my little monkeys?" She squealed with glee.
"To the moon and back" We muttered in defeat.
To add to our horror, the other children surrounding us were ooing and awing in unison.
"See?" my mother says drawing my attention away from the television and back to her.
Both of us share a laugh. It was so nice to see my mother smile again that it helped me to forget Jimmy's journal. So when she asked if I would like to see another video, I agreed without hesitation.
"Do you have my clown birthday party?" I inquire.
"Oh I sure do!" she says jumping up from the couch to retrieve it. "That's my favourite!"
I remember that damn party like it happened yesterday. "The party from hell" Jimmy would dub it later on. My mother thought it would be a tremendous idea to have a clown perform at my 9th birthday, completely unaware that clowns terrified both my brother and I. It was a particularly hot July day. We had already been delirious from too much sun and sugar when Twirly the clown made his entrance holding my candle topped cake. Dancing instead of walking toward us with grand exaggerated kicks of his legs. There's a particularly funny scene in this video where my mother pans the camera from Twirly's theatrics and laughing family members in the background, to where my brother and I sat holding eachother, eyes shut tightly with our faces turned towards the sky crying in fear.
But that's not what played on the tv. The setting hadn't changed. The people in attendance were the same. My younger father before his hair began to grey, stood at the barbeque flipping burgers just as I remembered only he was dripping wet in the rain.
"It wasn't raining." I think to myself confused.
"Look how handsome your father is." I hear my mother say at my side. I can't find my voice to reply so I just nod never taking my eyes off what I'm watching. "Here's the best part!" she claps with joy.
"Bring on the clown!" My father says, but it's difficult to make out over the ever increasing ferocity of the storm. The screen goes white with a flash of lightning as if it struck within meters of where we were standing.
My pulse quickens as I perceive everything in near slow motion. The camera moves from my father to Twirly the clown, his large red shoes splashing in the mud as he danced. The white make up on his face running down onto his orange coloured jumpsuit. The large red painted on smile associated with clowns, sagged into a grimace. His eyes completely blacked out as his drawn on eyebrows did the same.
The happy family members in the background clapping and cheering as the water pooled around their ankles. Heavy winds tossing the womens hair every which way as they applauded, seemingly unaware of the hurricane that raged around them.
Lightning illuminates the scene that has made my family laugh for the better part of two decades. I stare in horror, paralyzed with fear. The camera finally finds its way to young Jimmy and I as we sit holding eachother. However this time only one of us was crying with our eyes shut. Jimmy was staring directly into the camera wide eyed, head vigorously shaking from side to side.
His lips move but I can't make out what he's saying over the ripping thunder. Another flash of lightning and I gasp as a figure materializes behind us out of nothing. Its skin is stretched tight around its tall, skinny body almost translucent in appearance. Its oversized hands resting on both of our shoulders. Its long fingers traveling almost the entire length of our torsos.
I can't make out its face through no fault of my own because it doesn't have one to speak of. Only a mouth that makes up the whole bottom portion of its oval head.
Jimmy jerks his shoulder away from its clutches running up to the camera and grabbing it with both hands to bring it up close to his face.
"You let it out!" He shrieks. " Alan, you let it out! He repeats himself until his voice is hoarse. The hands of the figure coming into frame behind him where they rest on his shoulders.
I taste the salt of my tears at the corner of my mouth and recoil violently as I feel a hand on my shoulder.
"It's alright, Alan" my mother says with both her hands held out in front of her trying to be as soothing as possible.
"I'm sorry mom." I respond and start wiping my face with my sleeve until I turn back toward the video. The sun is shining and the clown is dry. His makeup impeccable as the young me reluctantly blows out the candles.
"I miss him too." she says rubbing my back.
"I gotta go." was all I could muster in my dazed condition as I kissed her cheek, picked up my jacket and headed for my car.
I sat in silence on my drive home. Silent enough that the soft swishing of my windshield wipers in the rain were infuriatingly loud. I kept going over what just happened in my head. Overwhelmed, I switched on the radio to the most mindless dance music station I can think of to drown out my thoughts. The vapid radio disk jockey addressing his audience in the typical fashion.
"Yo, yo, yo party people" he begins, "This is MC Mookie Mayes, the flyest DJ on the east coast coming at you live on this beautiful Saturday evening."
He has the desired effect of distracting me at the very least because I roll my eyes and mutter "douchebag" under my breath.
"There's not a cloud in the sky today." he continues, "so I want to see all you beautiful people dancing to my lit beats under the stars tonight!"
I laugh aloud at this. "Hey dj dimwit!" still chuckling, "it's rainin-" my voice trails off as I pull off to the side of the road. I reach to the passengers side seat to retrieve my phone. I open my weather app, warm and clear skies with a zero percent chance of precipitation.
My blood runs cold as thunder rolls in the distance. I look up from my phone to see the silhouette of a figure far in the distance and all I can do is stare as each flash of lightning transports him closer to me.
I floor the gas pedal and speed down the road my tires spinning on the slick surface. My wipers struggling to keep up with the ever falling rain making it difficult to see. "I gotta get out of here." I speak to myself to try and calm my nerves constantly checking my rearview mirror in hopes to catch a glimpse of the figure behind me. But I was mistaken when another flash of light brought the figure directly in front of my car. I swerved to avoid it losing control of my vehicle, spinning out as I try to compensate the steering. When it finally grinds to a halt, I sit gasping for air and listening to my wipers squeaking as they pass over the dry glass. I exit my vehicle and notice the stars in the sky and not a cloud in sight.
When I got to my apartment, I headed straight for my bathroom to splash some cold water on my face. What greets me in the mirror causes me to stare. I've begun to age just as Jimmy had. My cheeks are sullen and the dark rings under my eyes are the worst I'd ever seen.
At first I questioned my sanity. After all, the apparitions left no evidence of their visits. When the storm passed, I was able to carry on with my days. Even my appearance could be reasoned away with illness or the depression caused by the loss of my brother. That luxury would be short lived. As its bond with me grew stronger, its effects became more apparent. Each passing storm would leave its mark. The wet clothes on my body or the welts in the shape of handprints underneath them.
It's been weeks since my first exposure and I can't carry on like this anymore. I hope you can understand, I don't want to die. The figure comes with a higher frequency than ever before. I awaken in the middle of the night to thunder and my apartment is now rife with mold from water damage. I've lost 30 pounds and two teeth since then.
It's here with me now both hands resting on my shoulders as I write this. I tried to hold off for as long as I could, but I'm going to give in to what it wants. The largest audience it's ever had in the who knows how many centuries it's roamed the earth. I think in passing it to you I can save myself. I can't be sure but it's worth a try.
Jimmy was selfless. He wrote the curse in a way that no one could ever read it. He gave his life to protect the world.
Please forgive me, I've already told you.
Jimmy was a better man than me.
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Credits
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