Chapter One: Mal de Ojo

"Ouch! Damn it…"I hissed as blood smeared across the receipt I had just finished. Angrily I sucked on the paper cut and tore the worthless scrap out of the notebook to start again. It was three a.m., and just past my lunch break, but I was still ready to go home and crawl beneath my sheets. Working as a night secretary had not been one of my greatest ideas—not that I had many of those.

The door screeched open as I was putting in the last seal number. Dale poked his head in, searching past the piles of folders and empty coffee cups to find me. He looked as annoyed as I felt.

"Isn't that paperwork done yet, Marie?" he asked, rather snarkily.

"Yeah, yeah, here," I flipped the clean copies on top of the nearest pile before I began on next weeks shipments. I loved Friday nights…well, I guess it was Saturday morning now…

The door closed with a sharp thud. No one was cheery on the night shift, not since the coffee machine had broken and Boss wouldn't pay to get a new one.

I shoved stained napkins and old post-its to one side, growling a little under my breath. There was the keyboard!

The day secretary and I had a little war going on. Three times I had cleaned this freaking desk to military neatness, and the next night I came in, it was a disaster. Now, I refused to move a single paper clip. I think he was pissed because I got paid a teensy bit more, but hey, if he wanted the big bucks, he should suck it up and work the graveyard shift.

Rap, rap!

I looked up and saw a dark shape behind the bent blinds, brown with dirt and grease.

"C'mon," I called, waving.

The door opened slightly, and I recognized one of the newbies, Mark…something. He was young, with long, silky caramel hair. I wanted it for myself.

"What's up?" I asked, glancing momentarily from the computer screen, where the program was booting up and asking for my password.

"I'm here for my check." He had a pleasant voice. It probably would be even nicer if the tone weren't so short. He looked away and I saw his jaw clench. What was his problem?

I sighed and scooted away from the desk. The keys jangled as I unhooked them from my belt and shoved one into the locked cabinet.

"Name?" I could be short, too.

"Zachary Tilbane."

Huh, I guess his name wasn't Mark. I flipped through the white envelopes as he stood there, and I could literally feel the agitation shooting from him, just like I could feel his eyes glaring on my neck.

"Could you be any slower?"

I flipped around, his check in hand, "Ex-cuse me?"

His eyebrows disappeared into his hat, "I didn't say anything."

"Sure you didn't," my scowl was probably not pretty. I was really sick and tired of the games these guys liked to play. "Sign your name off on the clipboard, then you can get out."

He locked his eyes onto mine, and the tension was suddenly strung tight between us. I felt like I was locked into a battle of wills with this guy who was probably a foot taller and a fourth grader heavier in muscle. My insides cringed, and I suddenly wanted to sink into the chair and apologize for the command. My knees twitched, ready to melt.

I gritted my teeth and clenched my hands into fists instead. I wasn't some damn dog and this was my office until six.

"Is there a problem Mr. Tilbane?" I said, careful to keep my voice steady and authoritative.

He actually snarled at me. "Who the hell are you? You don't belong here. Leave."

Shock made my mind go blank. The door was already slamming before my brain rebooted.

"What the hell?" I asked myself. He didn't like me because…I was a woman, maybe? Jeez, what a loser. For a minute I felt like I was stuck inside some daytime drama, or teenage novel.

"Asshole," I muttered before sitting down in front of the glaring screen again. The online database had timed out, now I had to go through the whole process again. Yes, I blamed Mr. Tilbane to the bottom of my soul.

It took forever for six a.m. to arrive, and by six o' three I was already locking the office. It would not be opened again until the day shift started at nine. And tomorrow was Sunday, so it was going to be my day off. With a sigh, a little of the heavy weight that had been residing in my chest let go. I smiled to myself as I crossed the parking lot, illuminated with the glowing orange light of the street lamps.

The salty brine of ocean had never smelled so good as that moment. When I got home, I would crawl into my bed, which would be softer than a dream.

" 'Night, Marie," someone called, and I waved cheerily before crawling into the rusted tin can that was my car. The navy blue paint was chipped and dull with age, all the fenders were bent beyond repair by the previous owner, and three of the hubcaps were missing. Inside didn't look any better, and there was a mysterious odor that I was not brave enough to identify—but it ran, and it was mine, and that was good enough for me.

It took twenty-six minutes to get back to my itsy-bitsy apartment. It was three rooms: a closet sized bedroom that barely fit a double-bed and a dresser, the teensiest bathroom in the world that could hold a toilet, sink, and shower/bath combo, and then there was the living/dining/kitchen area that was hardly bigger than the bedroom. I was proud as hell of it. I set my keys on the little breakfast table and stripped as I headed for the bedroom. Somehow, I managed to find an oversized T-Shirt in the pre-dawn gloom.

I started to crawl under the covers, but had to stop to open the curtains and blinds. It let in the wonderful pink and gold sky. I could not sleep without the light, because I was absolutely petrified of the dark. I didn't even know why, I only knew that since I woke up in the hospital, absolute darkness sent me into a panic attack. I could not remember my real name, or where I was born, but I know I am terrified of the dark.

Something bad must have happened in there.

I touched the pink scars on my arms. They were slightly raised, but smooth, like knife-cuts, as if someone had knives for fingers and grabbed my arms. They ran down my belly, too, and on my thighs, though, those didn't cover, fine, spidery white scars like my arms. I curled up tighter in the center of the bed and closed my eyes tight. They told me I wasn't raped, that the cuts and bruises would heal in time and that even my memory would return with therapy. I was really rare, they said, while writing on their clipboards. Amnesia like mine wasn't as common as Hollywood made it seem.

Functional amnesia, they called it. Brought on by traumatic stress. Give it time, they said. I remembered nothing. I clenched my fingers around my scarred arms. I don't think I wanted to, either.

Even though I was drop-dead tired, it took awhile for sleep to claim me. It was always a struggle, I think because I had nightmares. I never remembered them though; I only woke up sweaty with a thudding heart and the bed torn to pieces. But…I was so tired…

The phone was ringing.

I sat up, shivering as my damp skin met the cool air. My eyes stung from the sunlight glaring through the window. It stopped and I sighed, flopping back on my scattered pillows.

Brrrrnng! Brrrrnng!

I pulled myself up again, a little annoyed. What was the emergency? I crawled across the haphazard sheets to the foot of the bed and tripped to the door. The phone was shrieking indignantly as I picked it up and muttered a grumbly, "Hello?"

"Marie?" It was the day secretary, and he sounded just as grumbly.

"What is it Ned?" I asked, releasing my irritation with a breath.

"Boss wanted me to tell you to come in tonight, lookin' nice. The owner's comin' for a look-see," he sounded bored and it made my insides boil.

"And this couldn't have waited a few more hours?" I was agonizing over the fact that I knew I wouldn't be able to get back to sleep. Just how I needed to meet the big boss, with the eyes of a crack whore.

"Sorry, were you asleep?" I could hear the wicked grin in his voice.

"Fuck off, Ned," I growled before hanging up.

I looked at my cheap yard sale clock, ten twenty-seven. Huh, four hours of sleep. Damn, what a dick.

I stumbled over to the bathroom and turned the water on as hot as it would go. It was turning into fall and I did not like a big heating bill, so a good hot shower sounded like heaven. I stayed in there longer than I should have, but the hot spray felt so good against my back, muscles tensed from stress and bad sleep. I growled to myself, disappointment hanging heavy in my chest. It really wasn't fair. It was supposed to be my day off. I only got one a week, and well…this just sucked.

Outside the shower, I brushed my teeth and slapped some lotion on my face and hands. For a moment my eyes met my reflection, and I stared for just a minute. The person looking back at me seemed impossibly young—about twelve years old. The doctors told me I was in my late teens to early twenties. Sure. How old was I?

I leaned in closer over the sink and wiped away some of the vapor. I saw dark hair that turned into an unmanageable mess if I left it for too long. My eyebrows were almost black and arched heavily across my brow bone. Underneath my eyes looked large and lost. Little girl eyes. No wonder they thought I didn't belong there. I stepped back, no longer wanting to look. The Boss had to pay me under the table because I didn't have a social security number or any kind of identification. It was the only job I could find, being like I was.

That meant that I would go into tonight and work without complaint. I didn't have any choice if I wanted to continue living with a roof over my head and food on the table.

"O-kay, now that that's out of the way," I muttered before throwing some clothes on.

For two minutes I stared inside my refrigerator, before I decided that I didn't want anything to eat. With a sigh, I looked at my ticking rooster. It was only eleven, what was I going to do for ten more hours? I yawned, eyes roving around the room, past the half-wall room divider into the living/dining room—not that it housed much else than a couch and a TV. On the coffee table sat my little stack of bills, separated by a bare inch from the general clutter. Ah. That was it. Boring chores.

So for two hours I balanced my finances in the red notebook I kept. Of course, all the cash went to the landlord, and he in turn paid the companies. He only charged me a ten percent service fee. Highway robbery, I swear. It was hard to live without an identity.

After the bills, I moved on to my laundry. I shoved everything on the floor and hamper into my mesh bag and headed downstairs. The hallways in my building were a dingy brown, from floors to ceiling. It made me wonder if it was the natural color or the build up of years of stains. The smell was a nostril burning mix of burned food, mothballs, and tobacco.

I huffed my way to the stairwell door, the over-stuffed mesh bag growing heavier with every step. I struggled with the greasy handle, and it squealed as I turned it one way and then the other. Finally, the catch released, and the door pulled heavily open with a tired groan.

The severe lack of windows, and poor, flickering lighting made me pause at the top of the shadowy stairs. I hated the stairs. I always felt like I was walking into a dark pit. The ceiling light flashed softly, taunting me with images of the cold concrete and bare walls. I blew out a breath and tried to ignore the tightening along my spine, as if I had eyes on my back.

"There is nothing there," I told myself sternly, but it sort of lost the effect when my voice grew weaker with every word. I wasn't sure what it was about the dark that terrified me so much, but as I descended the steps, my skin felt like it could feel the shadows pressing on me, like translucent hands brushing against me. The light buzzed ominously and I halted, staring at it like it was the last hope in a ruined world.

"No, no, please," I whispered just before it flashed blue, and died.

Complete black fell over me like a heavy blanket, and I could not move. My back tightened more, and the feeling spread to my chest, squeezing my heart and lungs until my breath came in short gasps. Tickling fingers seemed to dance over my scalp, teasing the roots of my hair, and I bit back a scream.

That was the first rule of the dark: never scream. Don't make a sound.

My heart was pounding so hard that the blood whooshed in my ears. It sounded like a voice, whispering, but I couldn't make out the words. I shut my eyes tight. It's not real. It's not real. I took a slow step down, my whole body trembling as if I had a fever.

And it was cold in the stairway. Freezing. I felt like I should have been able to see my breath, if there had been a light. Oh, God. I wanted a light.

The whispering in my ears grew louder, like a voiceless scream, and the chills that swept over my skin were so strong that they felt like the hard grip of bony fingers. I ground my teeth together and took another step down as hot tears rolled down my face.

There was one more flight of stairs around the corner, just one. Ten steps.

It was too long.

When my foot hit the landing, a whoosh of cold air swept up from the floor, freezing the already icy sweat on my spine.

"Don't GOOO!" the whisper seemed to plead, and the sound echoed in my ear. My breath hissed out in a half-scream, before I bit my lips together. The taste of salty, metallic blood filled my mouth. I stood and shivered, trying not to make a sound as my guts squirmed like snakes inside my belly.

Ten steps.

I moved my foot hesitantly, until it reached the edge of the top step.

"NOOO!" the voice screamed and the temperature plummeted. My hair whipped around my face and I stumbled down the steps, panicked. The skin between my shoulder blades prickled and pulled and…slam!

A heavy weight catapulted into my back and knocked me down the last half of the stairs. I landed in the filmy pool of light coming in from the door's thin rectangle window. It wasn't enough. I gasped, as the stairwell filled with a roar, like the building momentum of a train. The walls seemed to shake as something massive impacted the walls. The mortar crumbled and flew in the wind tunnel ripping through the black.

I screamed and fumbled with the door, but the knob wouldn't twist under my frantic hands. The angry blows moved closer to me, and I felt the heat pass me, like an electrical bolt. The glass shattered above and darted to the floor like thousands of tiny knives.

The cold intensified until my skin felt like it was going to crack and fall off.

"You haaave to staaaay," the wind howled and I screamed again. Open! Open! OPEN!

I fell forward as the door suddenly gave way, and I landed hard on the concrete.

"Dios mio! What are you doing down there, niña?" I looked up and saw Mrs. Caballero standing behind the door, one hand to her chest as if she had had a fright. "Did you fall?"

"I—" I looked behind me at the stairwell. It was quiet, and perfectly normal looking. I slumped on top of my dirty laundry, which had probably saved me from a broken neck, but my knee hadn't faired so well. It had landed on the doorstop, and as I realized I was hurt, pain started shooting up and down my leg. "Yeah, I fell."

"Emanuel!" she called, half turning. "Come help, Marie fell down the stairs!"

I felt my face turning red. "It's okay, Mrs. Caballero, really, I'll be all right…"

She shook her head before picking me up and dusting me off, as if I was a small child. "I heard you scream. You scared me, niña! I thought you were being murdered!" I laughed quietly with her, but it felt closer to the truth than anything else.

I saw her frown, and she turned to the slightly open door of her apartment. "Emanuel! Leave your computer games, and come help. Rapido!"

"Aww, Mama!"

"It's really all right—"

"Emanuel! —" She started yelling in rapid Spanish which I wasn't fluent enough to recognize. Almost immediately a door slammed from within the apartment and I heard heavy thudding footsteps.

"I don't want to be a bother—"

"You are no bother, Marie," Mrs. Caballero said, patting my hand. "It is good to help your neighbors."

I had to agree when I took my first step and yelped with pain. Geez, had my knee gotten bigger since I looked at it?

"Oh dios mio, look what you have done to yourself, niña. Come on…ah, Emanuel, finally. Help Marie into the kitchen, I'll make a remedy for her."

Emanuel was standing in the door staring at me. His eyes were wide, as if I had grown a second head…or didn't have one. Did he look pale?

"Uh—" I began, but she had already scooped up my laundry bag, and Emanuel was putting my arm over his shoulder so I could lean on him as I walked. It was awkward because he was about six inches taller than me and his face was completely set.

It was awkward to say the least, and I didn't know if I should thank him or apologize. He didn't look like he wanted to say anything, so I limped along in silence. The weight of it hung heavily in the air—or so it seemed to me. I couldn't stand it anymore.

"Sorry I had to interrupt your game," I said as we worked our way around the small table in the short entryway.

"Huh?"

"Were you at an important level in your game?"

"Oh. No, no," he shook his head as he said it, and we turned around the wall and were abruptly in the kitchen. I saw that Mrs. Caballero had painted the walls of her main room a deep orangey-yellow. It made the room seem even cozier, but it was warm and inviting. She had light curtains in front of her large window, where two small green couches sat. Scattered pillows created a rainbow effect on top of them.

"At the table, por favor," Mrs. Caballero said as she put a teapot on one of the burners.

I sat gratefully in the basket seat, and the pain in my knee receded to a dull throb. Emanuel backed away sharply, as if I had some sort of disease.

"Thanks," I said anyway, with a sigh, and leaned back.

"Like I said, niña, you are welcome," Mrs. Caballero smiled as she pulled a parchment wrapped packet down from the cupboard. At the top I could see several similar ones, as well as old jelly and pickle jars filled with weeds. Was she making tea?

"I should probably be okay with some ice," I said, but my voice hung uncertainly in the air. My knee was swelling pretty badly and I was beginning to wonder if I had fractured it. Would I have to go to the emergency room? Well, it didn't matter I couldn't afford it. No health insurance.

Mrs. Caballero laughed. "Well, it would probably be a good start. Emanuel, would you, please?"

Emanuel moved away from the wall he had been leaning against and disappeared into the bedroom. Mrs. Caballero watched him, her brows furrowing and a frown thinning her lips. It was an expression that transformed her entire face from the kind mask I had always seen.

"Something wrong?"

"Hmm?" It was a moment before her eyes focused, and at once a smile was in place again. "It's nothing but a mother's worry. I've never seen him so quiet," she said, and laughed off the awkward moment.

"Oh."

Emanuel came back at that moment, a hand towel in his fist. I watched as mother and son almost danced around the miniscule kitchen, one ducking as the other reached into a tall cupboard, moving here or there to be out of the other's way. I stayed silent and uncomfortable in my chair, like I had intruded on these people's lives and had no right to be there. The look in Emanuel's eyes as he turned back told me that I was right to feel that way. He put the bag of ice wrapped in the towel on my leg, careful not to touch skin. Or maybe I was just being paranoid.

A strong, odor filled the room and I saw that Mrs. Caballero was pouring hot water over the powder from the packet.

"What is that?" I asked, shifting a little in my seat, trying to get a better look.

"A natural remedy, my mother taught me, and her mother taught her."

"Umm—"

The older woman looked over her shoulder and noted my face. "Don't worry, niña. It is mostly flaxseed, to reduce the swelling." She turned back to the mixture she was stirring with a spoon into a paste. She began to sing, crooning to the little glass bowl. I opened my mouth to say something, but it was Emanuel who spoke.

"My mother is a curadera, a healer. She is singing to the good spirits, asking them to take the dark spirits away from you," he watched as my heart skipped a beat.

"Dark spirits?" I breathed.

"Yes," he paused, and his chin rose. "The ones that cause the pain and swelling in your knee."

"Oh," a relieved laugh escaped me. A frown creased his smooth brow.

"It is not something to be laughed at. My mother has healed many people, though she lost her sight—"

"Emanuel." Just one word. But I felt a small shiver on my spine, and I dared to glance back at the speaker. Mrs. Caballero had stopped singing, and she stood with both hands on top of the stove, her head down, and rigid back to us.

The boy's face darkened, I could almost see the anger seeping into the air around him, like a black cloud. "It is true," he hissed. "You have lost your sight. You can't even see what you've invited in to your own house!"

"I may have lost my sight, niño, but I still have my senses. Enough to know what I have invited in my own home," her voice grew as dark as Emanuel's face, and suddenly I felt a great need to retreat to the safety of the hallway. But I would have to pass between them to exit the apartment, something I had absolutely no desire to do.

"Do you really? Do you see that thing crawling over her, feeding like a parasite?"

Mrs. Caballero laughed. "Is that what you see, little Emanuel?"

I opened my mouth to interrupt, thought better of it, and stayed quiet.

"Both of your eyes lie to you, just like she lies to you. But you don't have the training to understand yet, do you? ¿Comprende?" her eyes glinted as she spoke in rapid Spanish. Her spit flew as her tongue wrapped around the angry words and Emanuel's face paled. Finally, his eyes slid over to me. I sat, clutching the chair, and looking between them, clueless.

"Si," Mrs. Caballero finally slowed down, and her entire body slumped, as if caving in on its self. She finally turned to me. "You must understand, Marie. I have been watching you ever since you came to our building. I saw it then, and I knew, when I felt your terror as you slept. Emanuel felt it, too, and thinks your are plagued by demons," she shook her head. "But it is not that. You plague yourself, don't you?" Her voice was a whisper.

"Mrs. Caballero?" I asked, feeling very uncomfortable.

"You are cursed, niña."

I didn't breath. I didn't blink. I'm not even sure my heart was beating. It felt that way, tormented by horrible dreams that I couldn't remember, and terrified of the things that lived in the dark. The things that only I could see.

Mrs. Caballero looked straight at me at that moment, her eyes boring into mine as if she could carve the curse out. "You bear the Mal de Ojo. The Evil Eye."

"What's that?" I whispered.

"You see things, Marie? Things that you believe are not real. You have, ever since you were a child?" Mrs. Caballero questioned, kneeling in front of me.

"I—I wouldn't know. I can't remember anything before I came here…from the hospital…" I trailed off as her fingers brushed my forehead, and her eyes closed. She squeezed them shut, tight, her face twisted in concentration. And I felt something inside my head, tickling like little bugs underneath my skull. I hissed out a breath. "Stop…" Her brow furrowed deeper.

"There is something there…black and twisted," I shuddered and moaned as the bugs became fingers, too big. Pain seared through my head, but she kept going, probing deeper. "It sticks like spider silk…what are you hiding?...there—" she gasped as I screamed, the pain bursting through me as if she would split my brain in half.

"Mama!" Emanuel cried and raced forward, but Mrs. Caballero's other hand grabbed my arm, her fingers dug like claws into my flesh. She began to rant, screaming.

The boy pried her off as I scuttled back, the chair fell to the floor with me in it, but I was far better off than Mrs. Caballero, who was rolling on the floor in a fit as Emanuel tried to restrain her. I crawled forward hesitantly.

"No! Don't come near her!" I sat back, eyes wide as the older woman twitched, her dark hair flying on the white linoleum. Blood dripped from her eyes and mouth. She must have bit her tongue. It created red stars on the clean white and mixed with the boy's tears.

After what seemed like hours, Mrs. Caballero finally laid still, her breathing heavy and her eyes closed. It was only then that Emanuel looked at me, and there was hatred in his face. It was blind and I could feel it pouring over me like boiling oil.

"You get out of here, diabla," he hissed, and his eyes looked pure black from where he leaned over his mother. I felt pain stab through my chest, like a knife. "Alma mala, ¡dejame! LEAVE!"

I scuttled back like a crab, eyes wide. The lights flickered and went out, no sunlight came through the windows. The air became thick and heavy, hard to breathe. I wanted nothing else but to leave that place.

"I'm sorry," I choked out, but I didn't really know what I was apologizing for.

"GET OUT! DEMONICA!"

I grabbed my laundry before I rushed out the door.

As the door slammed behind me, I immediately felt better. The cool air kissed my hot neck and cheeks, and my knees gave way. For a minute I sat there, letting the adrenaline pulse through me. For a long time there was only silence, and then came the soft murmur of voices and it was as if a spell was lifted. Emanuel spoke, and Mrs. Caballero answered him back. A great weight I hadn't known I had been carrying, lifted.

I stood, my laundry bag hanging from one hand. My head was pounding. If I was trapped in some strange nightmare, I wanted to wake up… if not…

I swallowed hard and tried not to see the shadows moving in the corner of my eyes. I rubbed my face, ready to scratch out the traitorous things, but then I would be trapped, sightless, in my own head. That was scarier to me than any kind of monster. With miserable resignation I walked into the sunlight and sighed. I could almost feel my skin preening towards the little warmth—towards the safety. There were no shadows in the sunlight.

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