Page 3 of Curse

At my last gas stop, I tried to program the GPS to take me to Lake Moultrie in Georgia, but apparently there is no such place. Unfamiliar with anything outside of New York, I don’t know if I have the wrong lake or the wrong state or justmisheard the whole thing.

“Mother FUCKER.”

Occasionally screaming out profanities is the only thing keeping me sane.

Voluntarily adding an extra five hours to my trip by taking the back roads was not smart, especially since I’m not a big fan of driving ordinarily. It’s why I commute from my little house in New Jersey over to Manhattan every morning for work.

But this is not an ordinary situation. My terror that Emily is lying hurt somewhere propels me forward, even though I have no idea where to go, and I’m terrified my little Impreza won’t survive the trip down much less back.

The GPS screen changes routes on me yet again, and I squeeze the wheel until my knuckles are white. I reach for the radio dial, about to change the station, when a news reporter’s voice crackles through the speakers.

“In a tragic turn of events, a small private plane has crashed into the southwestern part of Lake Marion just outside of Eaton Creek, South Carolina,” the anchor reports. The words hang heavily in the air. “There is no information about what caused the crash, but authorities confirm there are no survivors on site, and as of now, no bodies have been recovered.”

I feel like I’m choking and suddenly can’t see the road. With a sharp tug of the wheel, I pull the car over onto the dirt shoulder and slam my hands on the steering wheel, yelling. “She was flying over South Carolina! Not Georgia. Shit. Leave it to Emily to not even know what state she’s in!”

I choke out a dry laugh, missing Emily, and snatch the phone out of the dashboard holder so hard that the suction cuppops off and the whole thing comes down in my lap. The town name is helpful too, a lot easier to navigate to than just some random lake.

I think about calling her to tell her the funny story of how I almost couldn’t find her because she sucks at geography, and with what feels like a gut punch, I realize that I can’t. The words ‘no survivors’ from the newscast play at the edges of my brain, but I refuse to acknowledge them.

My whole body shakes as I frantically type Eaton Creek in the map search bar. It’s barely a dot in a sea of green and blue shapes, and there is absolutely nothing around it. Georgia may have been wrong, but “bumfuck” was definitely right.

The news report continues on the radio as I pull back onto the road.

“The police are on the scene, and efforts are underway to recover any possible wreckage,” the reporter continues. “A South Carolina State Emergency Management team has been called in to assist with the search for survivors.”

A profound sense of dread settles over me as I press the gas pedal to the floor. The absence of bodies—maybe that means Emily is okay. I keep trying to imagine the scene, the plane, the water, but I can’t see anything but Emily’s face.

The signs begin to change, directing me deeper into South Carolina, the road becoming narrower with fewer cars passing me.

Following the directions of the GPS, I turn off the highway onto an unpaved path. It winds through a forest of skinny pine trees and bushy cypress trees, some with moss dripping off the branches, and ultimately dead ends in a large, worn clearing paved with tiny rocks next to a lake.

The lot provides parking for a half dozen cars and trucks,including official looking vehicles, some with Eaton Creek Police Department logos, one from the South Carolina Emergency Management Division, a couple unmarked sedans.

I have to flatten waist-high grass in order to squeeze my car in without blocking the road. I pray the ground isn’t too muddy or wet; the last thing I need is to get stuck in this godforsaken place. I don’t want to be here a moment longer than necessary. I just want to find Emily and go home.

Shoving my feet back into my red high heels, I climb out of the car. I don’t see anyone at first, nothing much at all but a worn path down to a rocky shoreline and a long pier stretching out into the water. Trees grow almost all the way up to the water’s edge, with bushy leaves and thick exposed roots that block my view of the lake.

A motor comes to life off in the distance, drowning out the voices of the few people at the end of the dock. One is wearing a wet suit, the others have on clear parkas. A bunch of things I can’t identify litter the wooden platform.

My spiky heels sink into the dirt and gravel, and dust is already coating the cuff of my jeans. I’m sweating in my sweater, despite the fact that it’s short sleeved. It was perfect for the weather up in New York, but far too much for early morning southern heat.

Now that I am here, I don’t know what to say, who to talk to, or what to do. Dread washes over me. I am petrified, scared to death to find out nothing, even more terrified to find out that she’s —

“Who are you? What are you doing here?”

The voice is deep, coming from behind me. I turn quickly, my hand flying up to my chest as if to still the spike in my heart rate. Squinting, I cover my nervousness by moving myhand to shield my eyes in the bright sunlight.

A man is standing in front of me, dark sunglasses, hard jawline with short wavy light brown hair. He’s wearing a suit, an impeccable suit, with black tattoos peaking out above the collar and at the wrists. He is big, much taller than I am, and muscular, almost blocking out the sun. Gorgeous and commanding, he looks as out of place here as I feel.

For a split second, I forget where I am and why.

3

Matti

When she pulls up in that shitty hatchback but climbs out looking like a crime scene waiting to happen, I know right away I’m in trouble.

It’s clear that she doesn’t belong here. She’s in tight jeans, looks put together with her shiny long dark hair and cherry red top that accentuates her big round tits. A little tired maybe, but obviously not from this backwater in the South.

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