99 Curses

Kara’s Vale is a spooky place that lends itself well to the tales of witches and black magic that founded it. But nobody ever expected anything like this.

Ted, the police sergeant, has two problems. One of them is a drinking problem. The other is the gruesome massacre of nine people at a party in the town hall. There’s blood on the walls, guts on the floor and a head swinging from the chandelier. These murders make no sense. And none of the surviving witnesses saw an attacker. Ted believes this is the work of supernatural forces.

The witch, on the other hand, has ninety problems: the ninety remaining residents of Kara’s Vale. She’s got an impossible amount of power, a strong stomach and a vivid imagination, and she’s using all three to systematically tear Kara’s Vale apart. She watches with glee as the police scratch their heads and the bodies pile up. She never wanted any of this. At least, not at first. Now, she wants it all. And nothing is going to stand in her way.

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3. The Unfortunate Death of Mr Krueger

Ted woke up in his messy bed, in his messy room, in his messy house, like it was any other day, but it was not any other day. Today would be another shitstorm of wild accusations and superstition. He acquired both his main hip flask and his backup one; he knew he was going to need it. as he turned to leave via his rotting wooden door, an unearthly screech emanated from behind him

"KIDNEY!".

Ted sighed with unknowable regret.

"Yeah, yeah. Fuck you too, you flying feathered shit. The food's above the sink; you're clever enough to speak, so you're clever enough to fucking FEED YASELF, ​you ungrateful TWAT!"

He abruptly left his house. His first port of call in his investigation into the previous night's massacre was the dead mayor's main rival, Aaron krueger- an unfortunate name for an unfortunate man- who many in the town had likened to a frog due to the copious amounts of sweat the man produced constantly, providing him with an aura of repulsiveness. Ted met the new mayor in the temporary offices set up in his house on the outskirts of town.

"Thanks for agreeing to see me, Mr mayor."

"No problem, Ted. Just trying to get justice for the dead and catch the bastard who did this." He said, running a sodden handkerchief over his sweaty scalp. "So what do you want to know?"

"Where were you at 10 o' clock last night?"

"I was out drowning my sorrows at the local bar. You can ask the bartender if you want; I was there all night, although I don't remember any of it after the ninth round of vodka- is it me, or is it really warm and windy in here?"

"Thank you for your cooperation, Mayor Krueger, and no, it's just you. Do you want me to open a window?"

"No thanks. I've got it." The mayor stammered, moving towards the window in his overly large sodden suit before he collapsed onto the floor, he was sweating more than usual, even for him.

"WHAT ​the FUCK is happening to this ​TOWN? I mean, ​COME ON, ​SERIOUSLY?" Ted shouted. He ran to the nearest first aid kit, but he knew he was too late. When he returned, all that was left was a ruined suit and a puddle of water. 

* * * * *

Kara's Vale was high up in the mountains. Aside from bird shit and mud, ice was the most common thing to come by. Carving it into the exact likeness of the soggily paunchy, jowly, milky-eyed Aaron Krueger had been the hard part. Her virtual melding powers hadn't been up to scratch, and she'd been too tired to try a mould, so she'd had a go at scraping it by hand, inside her fucking freezer, with a fucking scalpel and a reference photo torn out of the local paper. Creativity was a bitch, and it took time. That was why she'd given up painting at the age of nine and taken up voodoo instead. She'd soaked her spell into the ice sculpture's wetly glassy depths before it'd started to melt, then put it on her table and rested her chin in her hands and waited. ​Waited. Waited some more.

Why the fuck did black magic involve so much fucking ​waiting?

​She flicked the voodoo doll with a finger, letting it clank ​down onto the coffee table's dampened surface. The ice was starting to sweat, sharp corners rolling soft and features blurring, but it wasn't ​enough. ​She wanted more drama. More pain. Slow burns were one thing. ​Fast ​burns were a whole new level of fucked-up glory. She ran up the basement stairs, and then up the regular stairs, and grabbed her hairdryer out of the bedroom drawer. She brought it downstairs and plugged it into the socket. And then she turned it onto full blast, pointed that hideous onslaught of boiling hell straight at her little ice-man, and watched him liquefy.

 

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