Jonah wiped the sweat from his brow and clutched one of the heavy gold bars to his chest.
He was sat huddled in the darkest corner of his bedroom, staring at the heavily barricaded door and muttering a prayer over and over through trembling, chapped lips.
When Jonah had heard about what happened to Kriss, found impaled on his banister through the anus, half his guts splattered all down the stairs, Jonah had worked frantically to turn his pokey little house into a fortress, hacking apart furniture and nailing it to every door and window.
Deep down, he knew it was a pointless endeavour. Even now, he could hear those heavy footsteps ascending the stairs; the jangling of iron chains; the low sea shanty drifting to his ears.
Each of them had taken a stash of the gold for themselves, splitting it equally, and each had met a gruesome, unexplained end, just as had been foretold. How Jonah had scoffed at the so-called “curse”, even after Roody had killed himself out of sheer terror.
As the doorknob to his bedroom door turned rapidly and Jonah heard hands pounding against it, a ghastly mist flowing from under the door and enveloping the house, he couldn’t help but wish he’d followed Roody’s example before the spirits had come for him, too…
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