Chapter 3: The Curse Spreads

Every man who’d been with the mountain woman woke up covered in white hair, fur sprouting from every pore.

Their children—boys and girls both—started walking on all fours, backs arched like wild animals.

They howled at the lake, mad as coyotes under a full moon.

Folks at the diner started whispering about a curse, blaming it on bad water or something foul in the woods.

Doctors from the county hospital came, but they just shrugged and called in Old Man Murphy, who’d lived here ninety-three years.

Murphy squinted through his thick glasses at the men’s hair and cursed at my father:

"You damn fool, bringin’ this on us all! If you want trouble, keep it to yourself—don’t drag the whole town down! Quick, get rid of her body! Chop her up and bury the pieces all over town—separate graves, so her spirit can’t crawl back together. Old Appalachian lore."

The men listened. They hauled her out of the lake with boat hooks, sawed off her head with a rusty blade, and hacked the rest into thirty-five more pieces. The sound of bone cracking made even the toughest men flinch.

My father buried her legs behind his trailer. The other men scattered the rest around town.

But nobody dared bury the head. Finally, my father shoved it into my trembling hands.

"Go on—bury it out back."

Her eyes snapped open. Light flickered in those broken pupils—like stars fighting through clouds. Her lips moved, silent. I understood.

I wiped my tears, managed a shaky smile, and buried her under the old oak facing the cabin.

I knew she’d never rest until she came home.