Page 3 of Cursed
I nod, half-listening as she details her objections to mandatory fun. My eyes drift to the glass wall separating us from the hallway, scanning for... what? Someone lurking? Watching?
“Earth to Sadie. You in there?” Jolene waves her hand in front of my face.
“Sorry, just thinking about that patch I’m working on.” I redirect my attention to her, pushing away the unease. “The retreat sounds terrible. Maybe we can volunteer to stay behind foressential system maintenance.
Jolene launches into a conspiracy theory about HR’s true motivations for the retreat, and I laugh at all the right moments. I don’t mention the prickling sensation on the back of my neck, the sensation of being surveilled like a bug under glass. There’s no logical reason to voice these concerns—not without evidence.
This is ridiculous—I’m letting my imagination run wild for no reason.
“So, besides planning our escape from team-building hell, what else is new?” I ask, spearing a piece of chicken with my fork.
“Oh! I finally tried that new ramen place over on 4th Street. Life-changing broth, Sadie. Seriously.” Jolene’s eyes light upas she describes the restaurant in detail—the atmosphere, the perfect egg consistency, the handmade noodles.
“I’ll have to check it out. Been living on meal prep and takeout from the same three places for months.”
“We should go together this weekend. Friday night? Unless you’ve got some exciting plans I don’t know about.” She raises an eyebrow expectantly.
“Just the usual—debugging other people’s messes and binge-watching that new cybercrime documentary series.” I smile. “Friday sounds perfect, actually.”
We chat about the documentary I’ve been watching, with Jolene interjecting theories about which famous hacks might be featured. The conversation shifts to a new encryption protocol we’ve both been reading about, and I find myself genuinely engaged; relegating the prickling sensation to the back of my mind.
By the time we finish our lunches, we’ve mapped out dinner plans for Friday and debated the merits of various programming languages with the comfortable back-and-forth of best friends who respect each other’s expertise.
“Back to the salt mines,” Jo mutters, gathering her trash. “That Wellington firewall isn’t going to update itself.”
“Good luck with the dinosaur code.” I stand, packing up my container. “Let me know if you need another set of eyes on it later.”
We walk back to our workstations, and I settle into my chair, pulling up my project files with renewed focus. Whatever strange feeling I had earlier, I’ve successfully pushed it away. Time to get back to work.
As I turn my attention from my desk phone showing no missed calls, I notice a black envelope sitting squarely in the center of my keyboard—sleek, elegant, with a striking red trimalong the edges. My name is written across the front in an elegant crimson script: “Sadie Reynolds.”
I freeze, staring at it. My workspace is organized—everything has its place, and this definitely doesn’t belong.
Everyone seems absorbed in their work, nothing unusual. I pick up the envelope cautiously, turning it over in my hands. It’s heavy, made of expensive paper, sealed with what appears to be wax—who even uses wax seals anymore?
“Hey, Marcus,” I call to the developer at the workstation beside mine. “Did you see anyone at my desk while I was at lunch?”
He swivels in his chair, headphones pushed down around his neck. “Nope, sorry. Been coding with noise-canceling headphones for the last hour.”
I turn to Amira across the aisle. “Did you notice anyone drop this off?”
She shakes her head, curiosity evident in her expression. “What is it?”
“I don’t know.” I hold up the envelope. “It was just sitting on my keyboard when I got back from lunch.”
Amira shrugs. “Maybe it was delivered with the internal mail?”
“Internal mail comes in those beige envelopes with the routing slips,” I reply, examining the black envelope more closely. No postmark, no mail room stamp.
I check with two more colleagues, but no one saw anything. No one knows where it came from or who left it. The envelope sits in my hands, unexplained and somehow ominous despite its elegant appearance.
I stare at the envelope for a full minute before my curiosity wins out and I break the wax seal and slide out several folded pages. The first is a letter on heavy cream stationery with an embossed header: “The Hollow’s Hunt.”
My heart rate accelerates as I read:
“Ms. Reynolds, your unique combination of intelligence, resourcefulness, and beauty has captured our attention. You’re hereby invited to participate in this year’s Hollow’s Hunt...”
The letter describes an exclusive event held at the club Purgatory. What follows makes my breath hitch—participants are “prey” in an elaborate hunt where fifteen masked men will pursue five selected women through a labyrinth over seventy-two hours.
