The Cursed Father
Once upon a time, there was a little boy with a very handsome father. The boy’s name was Deckland, and the father’s name doesn’t really have any bearing on this story — all you need to know is that he was exceptionally handsome.
Every Friday night, Deckland would watch his father put on a tie and his best smile to go on a blind date someone from work had set him up on, and a few hours later, he would watch his dad slump through the door with saggy shoulders. In spite of his truly notable handsomeness, nobody ever showed the slightest interest in him or sent him a text the next day.
It was a real puzzle to Deckland, who observed daily that the world was generally shallow.
“Dad,” he said one Saturday morning following another of his father’s tragic failures, “I think you need to talk to someone about this.”
“Deckland, you’re too young to be telling me to go to therapy.”
“No, I mean, like, a love expert.”
Like a -” and the father made a gesture.
“No, gross, dad — like some sort of fortune teller or psychic or something. People go to them when they have big romantic problems like this in movies all the time. Usually it doesn’t go as expected but it turns out well.”
The father heaved a big sigh. His exhaustion was quite handsome.
“Okay, son. You win, but she better not send me to the Alamo.”
Deckland didn’t get the reference.
Deckland and his dad pulled up outside the bright neon window of Madame Cynthia.
“How’d you find us a gypsy psychic in Vermont?” the father asked.
“Teacher says ‘Gypsy’ is a slur.”
“Right, right.”
“Romani,” Deckland said after a long pause.
“I knew that. Look, it’s an emotional time for me, okay? I’m basically admitting failure as a man to the point where I’m asking the forces of magic pretty please for a second date.”
He was so handsome at the end of his rope.
“Relax, dad. I’m sure she can help.”
Madame Cynthia wouldn’t sit until there were two crisp twenty dollar bills on the table. Once she did, she looked hard into the eyes of both Deckland and his father.
“Tell me everything,” she said.
So they filled her in.
“Well, I think the spirits could be motivated to undam your romantic river,” she said, tapping the two twenties until there were four.
She dimmed the lights in the room and began waving her hands around her crystal ball, speaking in a language Deckland and his dad couldn’t understand. After a few minutes, she backed away from the table and sat with a perplexed look on her face.
“What is it?” Deckland finally asked.
“Well, forgive me — this is going to be a little touchy — but the spirits inform me they cannot intercede.”
“Why?” they asked at once.
“You are cursed!”
“I knew it,” the father said. “You never lose it that bad.”
Deckland thought that answer was a little strange and (although he didn’t know the word) immodest.
“By who?” he asked.
“I — uh — I don’t want to say.”
“Oh, come on,” the father said, laying 60 more bucks on the table with excited fingers. “I need your help.”
“I don’t really think I’d be — ”
“Please, Madame Cynthia,” Deckland said.
She pinched and her nose and tilted her head back and forth in anguish. The father put four more twenties on the table.
“Sorry, kid,” Madame Cynthia said, looking toward Deckland and completely ignoring the tragically handsome father. “It was your mother. Deathbed curse. Irreversible.”
“Are you sure?” the father asked.
“Yes, it was her.”
“No, I mean, that it’s irreversible.”
Deckland felt like his father was focused on the wrong side of the equation.
“Quite,” Madame Cynthia said.
“Well, then, what’s the point?” Deckland’s father asked, getting emotional. “What was all this for?”
He slapped at the stack of cash, sending bills flying around the room.
Madame Cynthia pointed toward a small plaque, barely visible in the dim room that said, “Absolutely no refunds,” and began collecting the scattered money.
“I think we’re done here,” she said like she didn’t care how handsome anybody was.
The father stormed out, forlorn.
“Please, isn’t there anything you can do for him?” Deckland asked Madame Cynthia.
“Find another passion project, kid. He isn’t worth your time.” She smoothed the bills as she spoke.
“It just isn’t fair! He’s so handsome, and my mom is gone — how could she have done this to him?”
Madame Cynthia peeled back $100 and pushed it up the sleeve of Deckland’s sweatshirt.
“She would want you to have this,” she said, patting him on the head. “And she’d probably want you to know your dad slept with her sister.”
This story is part of 13 Ghost Stories in 13 Days. Each entry in the series was written and published in a single day during October of 2020. This idea was completely stolen from Mark Macyk.
Day 1: The Devil’s Diphthong
Day 2: The Podcasting Ghost
Day 3: The Portal Potties
Day 4: The Household Accident
Day 5: The Scarecrow Competition
Day 6: The Cursed Father
Day 7: When the Car Hits the Tree
Day 8: Thank Christ It’s Halloween
Day 9: The Greek Halloween Myth
Day 10: The Ghost & The Cockroach
Day 11: Pampered
