“No.” I don’t hesitate. “There won’t be a later. That thing—those shadows—” I square my shoulders and take a deep breath like Aida taught me, holding it for four seconds before I exhale. I repeat the action, inhaling for four seconds, holding it, and exhaling for the same amount of time.
I look at the screen.
The images of the villa go back at least a century. In the first set, it exudes an imminence reminiscent of a historical building, something powerful and timeless. Meanwhile, the headlines below it mark year after year of local children going missing. Vanishing into thin air, as far as the understaffed police can tell.
The years turn into decades, and the house begins to decay. The photo from earlier, with the rust-coated gates and shrunken pillars, captures it best. It reminds me of a starving lion, deadly despite the bones protruding from its golden coat.
The headlines tell another story.
Ahlan Wa Sahlan:CHILDDISAPPEARANCESHITALL-TIMELOW
Nashra:FOLLOW THE TIMELINE—TRACKING THE VANISHED CHILDREN ON THE WESTERNALEXANDRIA COAST.
Awdat il Nagah:PEACE ANDPROSPERITYRETURNS TO ALONG-ISOLATEDNEIGHBORHOOD INELAGAMY,KNOWN TOALEXANDRIANS ASMAKAN ILLA‘ANA.
Jesse points at the last bit of the headline. “I couldn’t translate that anywhere. What does it mean?”
It takes a couple of attempts to unlock my jaw. “Place of the curse. Cursed place.”
I want to argue with Jesse that its normal for houses to deteriorate over time. They spring leaks that turn into mold; suffer termite infestations that force poisonous gas through every window and crevice; choke on gutters full of dead leaves and rain; wrinkle with fading paint and peeling walls.
As long as someone is there to turn the lights on, the house will survive. It may labor to breathe, rattling shutters and groaning in the night, but it will keep you safe.
That’s what a home does. It guards you. It grows with you.
What it doesn’t do is feed on you.
Disbelief builds in my lungs as I study the photo on the screen. Thesplendor it lost over the last two decades had resurfaced with a vengeance. Not a plant out of place in the trimmed garden. Freshly painted walls shine, cloaked behind fruit-laden trees and a soaring gate.
A hand grazes the side of my chin, gently turning my head to Jesse’s. “Unclench your teeth, Sour Patch. I can hear your molars grinding.”
My heart thuds, struggling to beat inside my tightening chest. “Five children go missing a year, and the house looks pristine. The disappearances stop, and the house starts to fall into ruin. I see the connection, Jesse. I understand the basic principles of a curse. What I still don’t understand is what it has to do with my mom.”
“You haven’t looked at the last row of photos. You need to look.”
“Iamlooking.”
“Then you need to see, Mina.”
My name—my first name—leaving Jesse’s lips jolts me, tear off the thin layer of protection I’d plastered between myself and the photos on the screen.
It shoves me back into my skin. Back into my senses.
And I have no choice but to see.
The gleaming house, back in perfect condition.
The announcement, celebrating the birth of Nadine Haikal.
The headline beneath them, published eleven years later, that destroys everything I believe in.
Nashra:JANNAELSHENAWAY—THIRDCHILDGOESMISSING INCOASTALCOMMUNITY.
It’s three in the morning, and the shadow under the metal door hasn’t moved.
I’ve been watching it for the last twenty minutes. Every time I think about sitting up or turning on the light, lead fills my stomach, pinning me in place.
Because I know it’s watching me, too.
