A World's Curse

Atlas sat, cross-legged, staring up at his counselor from the floor. He was hugging a pillow to his body, almost in tears as he tried to recount the events of that fateful day. “Tell me about it again,” the counselor—Mrs. Daughtry—said for possibly the hundredth time. She’d begun taking notes about two meetings ago and now had several pages in her notebook filled with recounts of the story. Atlas remembered every detail; he remembered the screams, the clatter of books, and even the light that struck his eyes the last time he saw his grandfather.

“Okay,” he sighed, his voice quivering. He hated telling this story. He’d possibly said it a thousand times in the week since it happened, usually to classmates, his parents, or Mrs. Daughtry.

“About two weeks ago, I was at my grandfather’s house,” he began, forcing back tears. Once again, he fell into the rhythm that was remembrance.


Two weeks ago was Atlas’s sixteenth birthday, February 13th. Per tradition, he spent the day at his grandpa’s house with his friends. Since Atlas had few friends—only about three or four, he wasn’t quite sure yet—he only invited the closest: his best friend since he was nine, Tristan, and his most recent friend, Gabriella. Both of the friends knew Grandpa Dean very well, especially Tristan. Atlas spent almost every weekend possible at Dean’s home, often times inviting Tristan over to stay a day or two. They all shared a love for reading, but Tristan also liked to write stories, and was now on his way to publishing his very first novel.

Atlas wasn’t big for celebrating birthdays. When he was young, he enjoyed having his family over and everyone gathering around to sing “Happy Birthday” and the cutting of the cake and the opening of presents, but by now everything had died out. He’d grown to despise the majority of his family; they often criticized how he acted, the way he spoke (quietly, often as to not disturb the other conversations), and picked on him for being ‘too skinny’. Now, he spent his birthdays with his three closest friends. No excess family, no parents, just three teenagers and an elderly war veteran in an old Victorian house, blasting The Beatles or Pink Floyd while playing Xbox.

That day—a Friday, Atlas remembered exactly—Dean spent most of his time in the attic-library readying the present for Atlas. Given that every year since he was two Dean had gotten him a book, Atlas expected some kind of new adventure novel, but what he longed for most was a first peek at A World’s Curse.

Everyone had left. Gabby had to go to a piano recital, so she went first after an hour of Call of Duty and cake, and Tristan left around six so his parents wouldn’t bitch at him for being late. Atlas was in the kitchen before it happened, scrubbing excess cake off of the tin over the sink. Just when he finished getting the last bit off, there was a scream from upstairs and a loud clatter. “Shit,” Atlas cursed to himself and turned around. He thought Dean had fallen and quickly rushed up the flight of stairs to the second floor closet where he found the drop-down ladder and climbed up it. As he set his foot on the first rung, there was a loud scream. It wasn’t the kind of scream that came from excitement, pleasure, or pain; it was the kind of scream that escaped from one’s mouth as they knew it would be the last sound they ever made. It was a scream of fear, of knowing that you’ll never scream again.

As Atlas emerged in the attic-library, there was a bright flash of light. It was mixed with hues of yellow, blue, green, and red. It was blinding and the vision of the optical rainbow was instilled in his brain, a permanent reminder that he didn’t get a one-last-look at his grandfather, just a flash of light.

When the hues faded, the house settled, the scream stopped, and everything seemed normal. At least, everything seemed normal. Then, he saw it; on the chifferobe across the room, a book was missing. A World’s Curse lay on the red rug, the lone beam of yellow light from the setting sun hitting the faded-purple hardcover. His grandfather wasn’t in the room. Atlas suspected the book had consumed him—he suspected the book had sucked him into the worn paper and he was gone forever, but that was a ludicrous thought.

He didn’t get a last look at his grandfather. The only thing he had to remember him by was that gut-wrenching scream of knowing and the bright flash of light. Nothing more.


“M-hmm,” Daughtry nodded, scrawling the last bit of the story in her notebook. Atlas figured the only thing written in it was notes on him. “Okay, so you think this book—A World’s Curse—sucked your grandfather into it?”

Atlas nodded. “Yes, and I know it seems completely crazy but that’s the only answer. I didn’t hurt my grandfather; I couldn’t even hurt a bug let alone a human being.”

Daughtry nodded. “Yes, and I realize that, but the police don’t. Sympathy and guilt-tripping won’t work in court, you need rock-solid proof that you and your friends didn’t get together and kick the shit out of that old man.”

“He wasn’t just any old man, he was my best friend.” Atlas corrected her.

She nodded again. “I see,” she said and scrawled something in her notes.

“What are you writing?” Atlas asked, arching his neck in an attempt to see.

Daughtry sighed and read the notes aloud, “‘Patient seems to be aggressive when I refer to Dean as anything but his grandfather or best friend.’”

“Meh,” was all Atlas could choke out. It wasn’t false, but it wasn’t exactly the whole truth, either.

Daughtry looked up at the clock on the wall. “You’d better get to class,” she told Atlas, “don’t wanna be late for bio.”

“You sure?” Atlas asked. He was always late for bio.

“Yes,” Daughtry said. She scrawled a quick note on a piece of paper, ripped it from the book, and handed it to her patient. “Now, go get your stuff. School is for learning, not complaining.”

Atlas nodded. The two gave each other weak, half-smiles and he exited the room. Remembrance was a painful nostalgia. He hoped to just forget the whole incident, but it was stuck there in the front of his mind like a bright flashing light, screaming “NOTICE ME, NOTICE ME.”

All he wanted to do was shut off the light, if only for a second.


Atlas usually had counseling every Monday at twelve, right after 6th period during lunch, but since his grandfather died he’d been having it every day during homeroom, right after lunch, meaning he only had two periods before the end of the day. He relished in this, it was fantastic that he thought the whole day would go by slowly before counseling, and then it went by lightning-fast with his two easiest classes: biology and physics.

When the day came to an end, Atlas left the building. He drove home in his grandpa’s old car; it was an old mustang that Atlas guessed was from the 80’s. He wasn’t that great with cars.

When Atlas got home, he climbed up the stairs and closed the door to his room. His bedroom was like any other teenager’s room: it was painted with white walls, posters advertising rock bands and old movies hung up, a desk beside his closet door and a bed right under the window. He threw his school stuff on the desk, right next to his computer, and collapsed onto his bed. Sighing to himself, he mumbled into his pillow, “I hate my life.”

Then came a knock at his door; Atlas turned and although he didn’t say anything, the door still opened. His dad stepped a foot into the room.

“What?” Atlas asked, laying his head back down.

“Did you forget?” his dad asked. Atlas’s father, Joseph, was a shorter man; he had broad shoulders, a reddish, Native American skin tone, and a deep voice. He was bald and usually wore hats, but in the wake of his father’s death he’d stopped caring about how he looked.

“Forget about what?” Atlas asked.

His father sighed. “We were going to clean out dad’s house today, you promised to help.”

“Oh,” was all Atlas could manage. It took him a moment, but he shoved himself out of bed and he left the house with his father. The two drove in Joseph’s Grand Am to Dean’s Victorian country home. It was three stories tall, white siding on the outside and a black roof going up to sharp points. The shudders on the windows were closed, the door, which was painted dark green, was locked, so Atlas had to use his key to get in.

Inside, it was musty and dank. The wooden floor creaked with their footsteps. Atlas thought it seemed empty without his grandfather here to occupy the estate, it seemed dead. Hollow, even. The furniture was covered in plastic tarp; the TV and Xbox had all of the other electronic, mobile items were removed from the premises, giving the home a very quaint feeling. As Atlas walked through the door, he felt as if he’d crossed a threshold into the late 1800’s.

A couple books sat on a windowsill next to the staircase. Atlas brushed his hands across the covers as he ventured up the stairs. They were only there to get some books from the library and some important documents in Dean’s files. Everything else was going to go to charity, once the investigation was done of course. Atlas still couldn’t believe they thought he had killed his grandpa.

“What do you think of moving in here?” Atlas’s dad asked as they reached the second floor.

Inside, he cringed at the thought. Atlas just wanted to drop everything about his grandfather and move on and forget, but moving in here would make it difficult. Instead of voicing his opposition, all he said was, “I think it could be fun.”

“Your mother and I”—his dad struggled up the last step, grunting—“were thinking about taking it over as long as it’s not given away in his will.”

Oh, great, Atlas thought sarcastically. He didn’t say anything. He continued up the stairs and up the ladder into the attic; his favorite room.

Surprisingly enough, the cops had yet to confiscate A World’s Curse from the family. To them, it was just a book and Atlas’s story was a lie. Mrs. Daughtry had told the investigator that Atlas was just suffering from post-traumatic stress disorder and imagined the whole thing, but it was kind of confusing for Atlas as to why because 1) it didn’t explain why there was no body and 2) Atlas would be more focused on telling the police who murdered his best friend contrary to getting PTSD and making up stories.

Atlas picked up the book, but didn’t open it. His heart began to beat fast as his fingers brushed along the cover and picked it up off of the floor. He was no longer intrigued by this book, he feared it. It was dangerous, he knew, and just picking it up made him feel as if it would suck him in like it did his grandfather… or, at least, what Atlas thought it had done. Either way, he didn’t want to open it.

Atlas and his father took all the books they wanted. Out of the nearly four-hundred there, they only took six. Atlas took A World’s Curse, To Kill a Mockingbird, Brave New World, 1984, and Utopia. His father took The Great Gatsby, for Atlas’s mother, who hadn’t read it yet.

They were climbing down the ladder when there was a knock at the door. Atlas rushed down the rungs, set the books on the railing of the stairs, and rushed down the steps. He swung open the door, meeting the eyes of a young man. The man wore a fine, gray suit, wired-spectacles, and had a 5 o’clock shadow that Atlas thought looked really good on him, fading down his jawline and chin from his brown hair.

“Hello,” the man held out a hand for Atlas to shake. “I’m Mr. Bradley, the attorney. I’m here to read the will?”

Atlas took Bradley’s hand and was about to say something, but his father appeared behind him. “Oh, Mr. Bradley!” he said excitedly, pushing Atlas out of the way. “We weren’t expecting you until tomorrow.” They both smiled wide and shook hands.

“N—no, I’m sure the appointment was today,” Bradley said.

Joseph sighed. “Oh well, come on in. You can sit right there on the couch; just strip off the tarp.” Atlas and his father let Bradley in. He had a small, brown leather briefcase in his hand. In it, Atlas presumed, were the documents about his grandfather: the last will and testament, a copy of the police report, house documents, and such. Atlas was ordered to get everyone tea, and he did so. He made some herbal stuff his grandfather liked and carried it into the kitchen.

As Atlas examined everyone in the room, he thought it was ironic. He expected everyone in the family to be here for the reading, but it was just the two people Dean had cared about the most. His wife died in childbirth while giving birth to Joseph’s sisters, two twins, and they grew up resenting their father and moved to Seattle for college.

“So,” Mr. Bradley said, clearing his throat and opening the briefcase. He didn’t drink his tea; he just set it on the floor. He pulled the papers out of the case and held them in front of him; he then began to recite the words written. “The last will and testament of Dean Johansson of two-twelve Woodbury St. states, ‘I leave my estate to my only known grandson, Atlas Johansson, along with my complete library. With him, I also leave instructions and my mustang. I leave everything else to my only son, Joseph Johansson.’”

Atlas and Joseph thanked the lawyer then he left, without even taking a sip of his tea. After cleaning up a little, the two left. As soon as they got home, Atlas stuffed the books in his closet and collapsed onto his bed. Though it was only seven, he found that sleep was a near-perfect escape from his life.

He slept his problems away for the weekend.