The Fifteen Hundred Word Curse

Special Smashwords Edition

THE FIFTEEN HUNDRED WORD CURSE

by

Dr. Bruce E. Briley

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or to actual events or locales is entirely coincidental.

THE FIFTEEN HUNDRED WORD CURSE

Special Smashwords Edition

This eBook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This eBook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you’re reading this eBook and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return it and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of the author.

Copyright © 2012 Bruce E. Briley. All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book, or portions thereof, in any form. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical without the express written permission of the author. The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book via the Internet or via any other means without the permission of the publisher is illegal and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted materials.

The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.

Cover Designed by Amanda Marie McGovern, B.F.A.–Studio Arts, in cooperation with Telemachus Press, LLC

Cover art: Licensed to this Purpose

Published by Telemachus Press, LLC at Smashwords

http://www.telemachuspress.com

Visit the author website:

http://www.drbruceebriley.com

ISBN: 978-1-938701-52-8 (eBook)

Version 2014.01.29

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS and THANKS

Many thanks to Amanda Marie McGovern for her imaginative services in creating the covers for this series of books.

I would like to thank the Telemachus Press Team assigned to my project for their Professional handling of these books (and their author). I would recommend them to any serious author.

I must acknowledge the patience, good will and encouragement of my dear wife, Marilyn, during the process of writing and publishing these works.

Table of Contents

Acknowledgements And Thanks

Chapter I

Chapter II

Chapter III

Chapter IV

Chapter V

Chapter VI

Chapter VII

Chapter VIII

Chapter IX

Chapter X

Chapter XI

Chapter XII

Chapter XIII

Chapter XIV

Chapter XV

Chapter XVI

Chapter XVII

Chapter XVIII

Chapter XIX

Chapter XX

Other Books by Dr. Briley

About The Author

THE FIFTEEN HUNDRED WORD CURSE

CHAPTER I

A woman would describe him as rather attractive, but something of a klutz. Not in the sense of being awkward … he was actually rather well coordinated, and in fact he could dance quite well.

But ‘things’ had a way of happening to him, so that while he was a respected professional in his field, he had acquired a reputation for being socially inept. Not something you could put your finger on, mind you; there really didn’t seem to be a pattern to it. One day he would appear to be an absolute master at something, and the next, he would fall on his face doing the same thing.

His friends (and he had many) were tolerant of his problems, and in a perverse way enjoyed having him around precisely because of them, because it made them feel graceful by comparison.

Lately, however, Rolfe Graham’s problems had reached an acute stage, and he had had several accidents that were near fatal. He had been plagued by severe headaches, dizziness and fever, and his friends feared that he might be suffering from some severe organic problem. He had seen several physicians, had been poked, prodded and palpated, had had every orifice scrutinized, every chemical test performed twice; even a brain scan, and a computerized axial tomographic test had been performed. All proved negative. As far as the doctors were concerned, he was the picture of physical health. His mental health, however, was suspect, and he next found himself making the rounds of the shrinks, who all decided in short order that he was mentally sound but should be under an internist’s care. After ping-ponging a few times between the two schools of medicine, he gave up, deciding that he must have some rare disease that medicine did not yet know how to recognize, let alone treat, and he would either have to make the best of his lot until he expired, or figure it out on his own.

This made eminent good sense to him because he realized that no one else was nearly as interested in his malady as was he, and his interest grew daily as his symptoms grew worse.

The more-or-less classical symptoms of fever and dizziness did not concern him nearly as much as the bizarre occurrences that plagued him. At first the catch-all of ‘accident proneness’ seemed the only answer, but many of the accidents could in no way be attributed to ineptness or inattention on his part. The automobile jumping the curb and almost running him down, and the fragment of granite facing on a downtown building nearly striking him as it dislodged and fell, could hardly be his fault, and there were similar incidents on a daily basis, increasing in frequency and potential lethality.

He even began to wonder if he were imagining the events, but he rejected that possibility when others commented on them.

It was almost as if, in the words of one of his associates, Hell is after you. But Rolfe was not superstitious. Nor was he religious. He had always lived his adult life believing that it was the only one he could expect to live, looking askance at believers in the hereafter, and generally dismissing deeply religious people as harmless but misguided.

It wasn’t for the lack of opportunity that he had adopted his philosophy toward religion. His mother had dragged him to church regularly, and he had even been an altar boy in his tender years. But puberty had somehow bleached out any religious coloring that had been painstakingly rubbed upon him in his youth, and the urge to go to church had never resurfaced.

It was not surprising, then, that when he attended a cocktail party one evening during his travail, and while in his cups, he found himself badgering a young priest who was a visiting relative of the hostess, and who was obviously somewhat uncomfortable in the face of the revelry.

Rolfe was attractive and unattached, and therefore much in demand by hostesses in their insatiable efforts to stock such parties with presentable young men to try to balance the apparently inexhaustible supply of not-very-presentable young (and not so young) women who had not yet found a mate.

His experience had taught him to be polite but taciturn toward the women who were presented to him, and to bide his time until he spotted a winner. A winner was a girl he sensed he could bed for the night without any long-term commitments or regrets. They were never introduced to him, but he would become noticed by them through the simple expedient of spending a significant part of the evening staring at them.

He had seldom found a woman who could resist this tactic for long. One way or another, they would find themselves thrust together and he would make his move. Sometimes they would be so enthralled that he had merely to incline his head toward the door in a subtle way and they would immediately turn and fetch their wrap or whatever and accompany him out into the night.

The epitome had been reached with one such lady with whom he never exchanged a word. The process of seduction, lovemaking and farewell had all been strangely mute. More typically, a few words were exchanged.

Tonight, however, had been a bust. There really wasn’t much to choose from. He could have had a divorcee who was clearly hot to trot, or a married woman related to the hostess who was visiting from Florida without her husband. He was actually somewhat tempted by the latter option because he was fond of the kind of deep tan she sported and employed to set off several delicate gold-chain necklaces she wore, and with which she played as she talked with him, dangling them in and out of her cleavage in a suggestive way.

But he would have none of it. Instead, he decided to get quietly and thoroughly drunk. Even through eyes becoming bleary, however, he noticed the young priest standing in a comer nursing a drink and looking out of place and looking as though he felt out of place.

The young cleric was in mufti (a pair of comfortable tan slacks, a pull-over sweater, and what were once called penny loafers) except for the tell-tale collar. A number of women (the type who are titillated at the thought of tempting a vowed celibate) had approached him, but had been treated with polite aloofness and a studied refusal to move his eyes beyond their faces. Few women can long endure such treatment because it strips them of all their wiles.

Rolfe moved in on his blind side and began to rag him. Don’t you ever feel a little foolish throwing your life away as the follower of a set of musty and decaying beliefs? he asked patronizingly.

Not at all, replied the priest, welcoming the chance to proselytize. Don’t you ever feel a little empty throwing your life away as a follower of the pleasures of the flesh?

Actually, Father, Rolfe answered, unconsciously using the mode of address learned in his childhood, I don’t have to work at throwing it away … something seems to be taking care of that little chore for me. It was the first time he had voiced the feeling that had been growing in him that something was out to get him. It was at once a relief to express it out loud, and a frightening thing to hear himself say. (He must indeed be going nuts.)

The young priest listened attentively to Rolfe’s laments, and after a thoughtful pause, began asking a series of questions.

Do you ever hear … ‘voices’?

Not so you’d notice. (Rolfe thought he was being ‘put on.’)

Do you find that you have an aversion to churches and religious objects?

No more than usual, but ‘usual’ is considerable.

Do you ever feel that you’re acting against your will?

Constantly. I hate to work, but I do it all the time.

The priest sighed. Look Mister … (Rolfe supplied his surname), it sounds to me as though you have a very serious problem, and I’m just trying to get some notion of whether it might be in the Church’s province. He paused, and a strange look came over his face. You did say your name was Graham? Rolfe nodded, and the priest became agitated.

Do you know anything about your ancestry?

I think it’s all legitimate, if that’s what you mean, Rolfe replied in a derisive tone, then, as he recognized the earnest and almost frightened look on the priest’s face, he was abruptly sobered. All I know for certain is that I come from Scottish stock.

The young priest rested his hand on Rolfe’s shoulder and spoke in a strained tone of voice. "Mr. Graham, I could be completely wrong, but I think that you are in mortal danger, both physically and spiritually."

Rolfe blinked. He was tempted to make some flip remark such as, The devil you say, but could see not a hint of humor in the other man’s eyes. What in hell are you talking about, Father?

It’s a long story. What I’d like you to do is to come with me to visit an elderly, retired priest who has spent his life studying these things. Are you free tomorrow morning?

Well, I don’t know. Could you be a little more specific about what ‘things’ you’re talking about?

The priest took out a small pad and scribbled an address. "Mr. Graham, if you value your life and your immortal soul, be at this address tomorrow morning at nine." Then, with a last pitying look, the priest turned and was lost among the party guests.

Rolfe was left staring uncomprehendingly at the scrap of paper, and as the brief lucidity induced by his encounter receded under the alcoholic level in his bloodstream, he crumpled up the paper and threw it away in disgust, concluding that he had just been a victim of one of his practical joker friends, and wondered who the young man masquerading as a priest might have been.

CHAPTER II

He had awakened with a terrible hangover, one of the worst he could remember, and lay in bed with a tremendous sense of alarm. Sitting up, the pain in his head was so intense that he saw stars, and his thought processes were so sluggish that he could not recall what he might be alarmed about.

Staggering into the kitchen, he put on the coffee pot and searched in vain for a clean cup. He was an abysmal housekeeper, but his apartment was usually kept in passable shape by whomever his current girlfriend was. His problems of late had been so intense that he had not bestirred himself to find a young lady to fill the breach left when he’d had a falling out with his latest a couple of months before.

He stood under the shower a long time, letting the hot water soothe his head, then he shaved and ate the last of the contents of two nearly empty and dissimilar cereal boxes. He hated to grocery shop, and resolved to do something about the romantic side of his life soon.

Dressing quickly, he descended in the elevator to the garage of the posh apartment building peopled only by professionals and old money.

Hopping into his ancient but well preserved twelve cylinder Jaguar, he fired up the engine and roared out of the building.

To a man like Rolfe, a Jaguar was not merely a car, it was a symbol of virility. Its throaty growl, its incredible acceleration, its ability to claw its way around comers, represented to him his sexual prowess, his strength, his ability to control a situation.

He imagined (perhaps with some validity) that the sound of its engine, so unlike domestic cars, would make the navels of every young woman within earshot tingle.

Large portions of his weekends were showered upon the aging vehicle. Tuning, adjusting the valves, searching for the source of a nagging chassis squeak, picking hairpins out of the upholstery.

The finish required constant attention, and the tires, because of the violent way he drove, wore in peculiar ways that caused him to tinker endlessly with the castor and camber of the front end in hopes of improving the situation.

Because he tuned the car on the hairy edge, it would tend to ping with almost any gas, and he would drive miles out of his way to patronize a small refiner’s outlet because the octane of its gas was a smidge higher than that offered by the biggies.

It had even occurred to him that, if he ever became so dissipated as to decide to marry, he should insist upon adding to his bride’s wedding vows the promise never to begrudge him time with the Jag.

He was driving for some time before it began to dawn upon him that he didn’t know where he was going or why he had arisen so early on a Sunday, the day he was so fond of sleeping-in.

A shiver went down his back and an eerie feeling came over him as he recalled the words of the young priest the night before about acting against his will. Of course he didn’t exactly feel that he was acting against his will just now, he was just sitting here calmly driving himself to God knew where.

He felt as though a part of his intellect was sitting beside him watching his actions in some puzzlement, but without alarm.

After a time, he found himself upon a street that was residential, and of brick, causing his cheeks to vibrate as he sped over them with his stiff-suspensioned Jaguar.

As he rounded a corner at his customary twice the speed-limit rate, a large cat crossed his path. His reflexes caused him to forsake the turn and veer down another, intersecting street.

He was unconcerned about the slight change in course because he was sure that the next street would afford a path back to where he was going (wherever that was). But the next street was blocked off by rubbish, as was the one after that, and then an abandoned factory which stretched for blocks loomed to his left, and no street penetrated its bulk.

He was becoming annoyed, but he stubbornly refused to allow himself to turn the car and retrace his path. He simply urged the powerful auto to greater speed, planning to compensate for the greater distance covered via that act.

The street gradually narrowed until it was the width of only one car, but Rolfe hardly noticed, so intent was he on reaching a turning intersection.

To his chagrin, the street made an abrupt turn and ceased to exist, forcing him to brake heavily. The car stalled, probably because the carburetor float had been jammed by the sudden deceleration, and the engine was flooding.

Looking about, he noted with mild interest that he was stalled on a pair of railroad tracks. A second look disturbed him somewhat when he saw that the rails were not rusty as would have been true for an abandoned spur line. They were shiny and bright, indicating that they were heavily, and perhaps frequently used.

Glancing up the track, he was only somewhat surprised, therefore, to see the squarish front of a diesel locomotive engine bearing down upon him. He sat frozen for a moment, hearing the frantic blare of the power horn from the engine cab, and the screeching of the brakes that could not possibly stop such a huge mass in time.

The rational thing to do was to leap out of the car and run for his life, but his affection for the car was so great that he did not even consider that option.

His mind, which had momentarily gone into shock, recovered in a flash, and he slipped the car into reverse and turned the ignition switch.

Unlike newer cars, the ancient Jag did not possess an interlock to prevent starting while it was in gear, so the starter turning the recalcitrant engine also turned the drive shaft and the rear wheels. Geared down, there was sufficient torque to move the car, but ever so slowly.

Rolfe watched as if in a trance as the car slowly inched backward while the locomotive rushed toward him. Time seemed to expand as the space between the two vehicles compressed.

At last the huge cab of the locomotive struck the automobile … and exchanged several milligrams of paint, producing