Chapter 1: The Curse in the Waiting Room

The day Natalie picked up that folder at the hospital, I should’ve known our lives were about to flip inside out.

It was one of those muggy Ohio afternoons in Maple Heights, the kind where everything feels just a little off—like the universe is holding its breath. Natalie sat in that endless beige lobby, scrolling through emails on her phone, half-listening to the sputter of a busted soda machine, when her number was finally called.

Inside the folder was a ten-dollar bill, with the words: "Buy ten years of life. Break the deal and your whole family dies."

The message was scrawled in thick, angry red, the sort of warning you’d expect on a back alley wall or maybe in some urban legend subreddit. Natalie blinked, unsure if this was some prank, or if she’d just stumbled into the middle of a hidden camera show.

She claimed not to believe it, but that very night, she was admitted to the ICU.

Even as she laughed it off, I caught her glancing at the bill again, thumb tracing the words like she was trying to rub them away. I knew that look—it meant she was already spiraling inside.

She joked on the car ride home—"Some people’ll write anything on a bill these days"—but I saw how she twisted her ring until her finger went white. Later, her mom called in a panic from the ER, and suddenly, we were living in a hospital corridor, clutching styrofoam cups of cold coffee and praying.

But I am the local Soul Ferryman—the underworld’s emissary, a messenger who guides souls.

Of course, no one in Maple Heights would ever believe it. By day, I’m just Caleb: pizza guy, movie buff, the one who remembers everyone’s birthday and never turns down a late-night Waffle House run. But after dark, my phone lights up with a different kind of delivery route.

Someone bought more life, and the debt landed on my girlfriend. Are you all right?

The night she collapsed, I felt a chill in my bones—like the air itself had shifted. Out on my delivery run, I swear I could hear the faint jangle of the underworld’s call, even louder than the local police sirens.

That day, my girlfriend Natalie went to the hospital in Maple Heights for a checkup.

Natalie had just landed her first full-time job at the Maple Heights Public Library, and her insurance barely covered the basics. The hospital, a squat concrete block with flickering fluorescent lights, always made her feel small. She texted me a selfie from the waiting room, nose scrunched up, captioned: “Guess who forgot her umbrella again?”

An old woman approached, holding a medical record folder, and handed it to her. "Miss, you dropped something."

The woman looked like she’d stepped out of another era—scraggly white hair, faded paisley dress, and the faintest whiff of menthol cigarettes. Natalie hesitated, glancing at the folder, then up at the woman’s watery blue eyes. "Oh, thanks, ma’am—didn’t even notice I dropped anything," she said, her Midwestern manners automatic.

Natalie took it and thanked her.

Her fingers brushed the old woman’s, skin papery thin. There was a quick snap of static, and Natalie shivered. “Thanks, I didn’t even realize I’d dropped anything,” she said, hugging the folder to her chest.

When she opened it, she found a ten-dollar bill inside.

It was crisp and weirdly new, like it had just come out of an ATM—except for the words scrawled across its face in what looked like red marker. Natalie frowned, pulling out the bill, searching the folder for paperwork or some kind of explanation. Nothing—just the bill, folded once, sitting alone.

On the bill, in red ink, were the words: "Buy ten years of life."

Her breath hitched. The letters looked almost wet, the red ink bleeding at the edges. She traced the writing with her finger, a cold shiver running through her. All those TikTok stories about cursed bills suddenly didn’t seem so funny.

There was a bloody fingerprint on the note, a few gross white hairs tangled around it, and a pinch of ashes.

Natalie gagged. The hairs clung to the bill like cobwebs, and the ashes left faint gray smudges on her thumb. She looked around, half-expecting someone to leap out and yell, “Gotcha!” but the waiting room was silent, except for the soft tap of the receptionist’s keyboard.

As Natalie stared in shock, the old woman suddenly blew, scattering the ashes from the bill right into Natalie’s face.

The grit stung her eyes, and the taste—like old pennies and burnt toast—made her gag. She wiped at her cheeks, but the gray smears only spread. The old woman’s breath was icy, the kind that cuts through your jacket on a January night.

"Thank you, sweetie, you’re so kind, hehe."

The old woman’s smile was crooked, revealing yellowed teeth. Her laugh was a high, weird giggle that made the back of Natalie’s neck crawl. She took a shaky step back, already eyeing the exit.

Only then did Natalie realize: this old woman was trying to pawn off a life-buying curse.

A cold, nauseating feeling crept over her. She’d heard those cursed-bill stories on TikTok, warnings about picking up anything left at intersections or near hospitals. Natalie always thought they were just that—stories. Until now.

She’d heard rumors before—people would drop these so-called 'cursed bills' at intersections near hospitals. Natalie always made sure to avoid any stray coins or bills, never daring to touch them.

She remembered her mother’s warnings—never pick up weird money in parking lots, never trust the charity envelopes wedged under your wipers. Bad luck sticks to the desperate, her mom always said.

But she hadn't expected the trick to escalate like this.

This was different. Someone had shoved it right into her hands—no random chance, no way to shrug it off. Anger bubbled up, mixing with fear.

By the time Natalie snapped out of it, the old woman was already running far away.

Her shoes slapped the linoleum, fast for someone her age. She moved with the jittery energy of a raccoon raiding a dumpster—furtive, almost wild.

Her tiny feet moved fast, and she cackled, "Once bought, it can’t be returned. Otherwise, your whole family dies. Accept your fate, girl!"

The words echoed, loud enough for heads to turn. Natalie’s ears burned. A young guy looked over, shrugged, and went back to his phone. She stood frozen, the bill suddenly heavy in her palm.

Hearing that, Natalie grew furious and chased after her, catching up at the hospital entrance.

Natalie wasn’t letting this slide. She dashed out, sneakers squeaking, weaving between wheelchairs and strollers. She caught the old woman just before she slipped out the automatic doors, grabbing her shoulder with more force than she meant.

The old woman, who had been smiling, suddenly collapsed to the ground, groaning in pain and rolling around, yelling that she’d been hurt by a young woman.

People stopped and stared. The old lady howled, “Help! She shoved me! I’m just an old woman, and she attacked me!” Natalie’s heart pounded. She looked down at her hand, shocked at herself.

Natalie slapped the medical record folder onto her face and shouted, "You’re the one trying to buy more life with ten bucks!"

Her voice cracked—part fury, part panic. Someone in scrubs paused, and a security guard started toward them, radio crackling. Natalie’s hands trembled as she held out the folder, the bill fluttering to the floor.

The old woman wiped her face and began to wail, "You young people pick up bad luck and then blame me. I don’t know what you’re talking about!"

Her sobs were Oscar-worthy, drawing a crowd. “Kids these days, no respect!” she shrieked, clutching her hip. Someone whipped out a phone and started filming.

A few men standing nearby came over to watch, saying the old lady looked badly hurt and needed to be checked out quickly.

The crowd closed in, voices blurring—"She needs a doctor!" "Don’t let her go!" Someone suggested calling 911. Natalie’s mouth went dry; this was spiraling fast.

They told Natalie that if anything happened to the old woman, her own life would be over, so she should pay up to avoid disaster.

A guy in a puffy jacket leaned in, voice low: “It’s not worth it, hon. Just give her something. No need to make trouble—you don’t want her cursing you for real.”

The old woman kept crying, saying she felt unwell.

She started moaning about her heart, clutching her chest for effect. Natalie’s head spun, brain scrambling for an escape.

Natalie had just started working and had never encountered anything like this. The people around her kept pressuring her, and she didn’t know what to do.

She tried calling me, but the line went straight to voicemail. Her palms were slick, mind racing with worst-case scenarios. Every instinct screamed to run, but the crowd closed her in.

In her panic, she ended up giving the old woman five hundred dollars.

She fumbled in her purse, pulling out her emergency cash—the rent money her mom had slipped her “just in case.” She counted out five crisp hundreds, thrust them into the old woman’s hand, and backed away, cheeks burning with shame and self-loathing.

She wanted to scream, but her voice caught. How could she be so stupid? Her mom’s rent money—gone. Would she even tell her? Or just keep this secret, let it eat her up?

Once she calmed down, she remembered to check the security cameras and call the police, but the group had already vanished.

She scanned the lobby, but the old woman and her so-called witnesses had melted away, leaving only the echo of their voices. The security guard shrugged—"Those folks know how to move. Happens all the time."

Only then did she realize they were a scam ring.

It was a setup, the whole thing—a con as old as time. Natalie cursed herself, wishing she’d trusted her gut and walked away.

She just had to swallow it—chalk it up to another Maple Heights horror story.

She tried not to cry, not in public. Instead, she pressed her back to a vending machine and forced herself to breathe. She texted me, just three words: “Worst day ever.”

She kept telling herself it was all superstition.

She googled "cursed bills hospital scam" while waiting for her appointment, scrolling through message boards full of people saying, “Don’t worry, it’s just a trick.” But the pit in her stomach wouldn’t go away.

But while waiting in line at the hospital, the words on the bill and the old woman’s threats kept echoing in her mind.

Her mind replayed the scene over and over. She kept glancing around, half-expecting the old woman to reappear, that cackle ringing down the hall.

She’d already been unlucky at work lately, and now this happened.

The library’s budget cuts, the boss with the wandering hands, the rain that soaked her only decent sneakers—now this. Natalie felt like the universe had it out for her.

Why was she so naïve?

She blamed herself—should’ve known better, should’ve run—but she couldn’t stop shaking.

The more she thought about it, the angrier she got, and tears streamed down her face.

She wiped her eyes with her sleeve, hoping no one noticed. A little boy stared, then looked away. “Get a grip, Natalie,” she whispered.

Suddenly, she couldn’t breathe, her vision went black, and she collapsed.

Time warped—her body hit the floor, and for a second, the world muted. Then the chaos snapped back: shouting, running feet, the crash of a metal cart. Her last thought before the world faded was, “Please—just let this be a bad dream.”