#SpookyShowcase: The Fall of the Tower of Babel by Andy Grieser

Welcome to the 9th annual #SpookyShowcase, a Halloween artist and author showcase. A full schedule of submissions can be found here so you don’t miss a single entry for THESE DEADLY CURSES. Now, on to today’s submission!

The Fall of the Tower of Babel by Andy Grieser

“I am,” he said after a swig of brown ale, “cursed.”

She laughed politely, and he felt a twinge. The bar was nice. The woman in front of him was nicer. When she bent to retrieve a bottle from under the bar, he looked away. He would do worse to her tonight than staring.

He took a long sip, and then another, waiting patiently while she worked. It had to be tonight.

The tide of customers ebbed, and she wandered back to him. “So you’re cursed,” she grinned.

“You get that a lot.” It wasn’t a question.

“Every damn day.”

He forced a smile and hoped it looked natural. “The downside to working behind a bar. You get to hear all the problems.”

She nodded, her eyes slipping from his. He was losing her.

“But I really am.”

The clink of glass. The low buzz of conversation. Murmured sounds from a football game on the screen above dark wood. Thank the gods, their words were indistinct.

“I’m not going to turn into a frog or anything.” Nothing that innocent. “But my parents cursed me. And then I helped it along. Something’s following me.”

He winced. His words needed to be a tapestry for this to work. Instead, they were a haphazard mess. He started over.

“My parents cursed me. They did. They said the right words in the right order and called… something.”

She laughed again, the tone genuine. He relaxed a little. It was working.

“So they were witches?” she asked.

He shrugged. “Witches are different. But I know a woman whose poetry will lift your life, turn your heart toward love. I’ve seen posts online build a murder. Speeches that change normal people into zombies. It isn’t as simple as shouting something angry. Curses take years, word by word.”

Like he was doing to her. He closed his eyes for a moment and let the guilt pass.

“My parents,” he said, “were unhappy. My father came from a small town. He wanted more without earning more. So he settled and, when I was just a boy, started cursing me. I don’t think he realized it. Or maybe his own parents cursed him, made him bitter but aware enough to pass the pain.”

He looked steadily at her. “You can do that, you know. Pass the pain. You can move a curse to someone else.”

The big test. Would she walk away? Had he scared her? Then this was all for nothing.

She returned his look, not moving. “Sounds like expectations to me.”

“Yeah.” He nodded. He’d chosen her well. “It does. And then you have someone proficient at the violin but miserable. You have a research scientist who only ever wanted to paint. Or a painter whose every work is a reflection of her desire to explore quantum physics.”

“So it’s not a curse. No oogie-boogie eye of newt or whatever.”

“But those are.” The television above the bar had switched to local news, flashing lights and a breathless anchor. He forced his eyes away. Time was running short. “You’re right, though. Not everything is a curse. Just the right words in the right order. And emotion. My father was angry. Disappointed. His words piled on top of each other in just the right sequence.”

She set another pint in front of him. “Yeah? But you still don’t look froggy.”

“Yeah. He was different. He wanted exotic. Had a thing for blondes. So he worshipped them. Put them in front of me. Playboys, movies, comic books. Blondes, big busts, bad attitudes. He built that up, see? But he did it in just the right way. I never had a chance.”

He stopped and took a long pull from his beer. She had – unconsciously? – moved a hand to touch her short dark hair. His words were building in her.

“He could have said one word. He could have laughed in the right place, and the entire thing would have collapsed. That’s the other truth about curses. Up to a point, you can take them back.”

“Like in the movies, where someone always says a spell wrong and the demon comes out.”

He nodded. “Right. That’s all we’re doing. The words come out just right and make magic. Sometimes.”

“Are you casting a spell on me?”

Yes.

He snorted. “Nope. Just telling a story.” Liar.

She crossed her arms. “People set unrealistic expectations all the time.”

“Sure. But when you really believe it – when you put so much into it – it’s something more.” And right now? He’s very scared. There’s emotion behind every word. The broadcast is still focused on flashing lights, this time an aerial view. He knows he’d recognize the streets if he tried. The other one is closer.

“When my father died,” he continued, “he was full of anger. He never stopped talking about what would make my life perfect. He never stopped wishing for it. And that was enough. All that energy went… well. I’m cursed.”

She smirked. “Cursed with big-titted blondes.”

“Fair enough.” He sipped again. “And it was great at first. She showed up at his funeral. The passion was… well, angry. But then the anger seeped into everything she did. She couldn’t be anything but what had made her. Life isn’t anger – not a good life – and so she was even angrier that life couldn’t fulfill her. She turned it on me.” He stopped. Outside, the whoop of sirens got louder.

“Angry girlfriend. You’re in a bar. I’ve heard a hundred of those stories.”

“You don’t understand. She… does things. She shows up in my apartment when it’s locked. She talks in her sleep, but it’s no language I’ve ever heard. And she gets so angry. So, so angry. I have to get rid of her. She’s a curse, see? Her entire sense of self was wrapped up in the words my father spoke and the belief behind them.”

Her eyes flashed. “Or you took his words to heart and projected them onto her.”

He felt the bricks slipping. “What?”

“You blame your father for everything. All he did was run his mouth. That sucks, I know. I hear it all the time from this side of the bar. And maybe she’s a bitch. But don’t put your problems on some crazy black magic.”

“No, wait. Stop. I can undo it. I can—”

“Undo what? Your father was a sad man. You’re not much better. You want to believe in anything? Believe that you and he got everything you deserve.”

The sirens were outside now, and the sound of shouting. Too late.

His voice was small. “I can make her human again.”

The door to the bar burst open, and all she could see through it was darkness. The lights flickered, and something spoke outside in a language that birthed all other languages. He didn’t make a noise. One moment he sat in a stool, and the next he was out in the darkness. The door slammed shut, and the sirens howled away, following something away through the night.

Strange syllables echoed in her ears, every word ever spoken, and then faded.

She stared, then poured a shot of Jameson’s and gulped it down. “I am,” she told the woman across the bar, “cursed.”