The Curse(Hazel Dow) Braxton Connolly Parker stood silently in the shadows, looking up at the block of flats. In particular, a certain third floor apartment with the open window.

He knew who the flat belonged to. His kind-of-girlfriend, Chloe – a plain lass but nicely monied – had been there several times to get her fortune told. She gushed about the old woman’s abilities, and – more interestingly to Brax – about the arcane collectibles and finely mastered antiques casually scattered about the place. He knew there was a market for that kind of stuff, and for someone with his skills and experience, breaking into the place was going to be child’s play.

He stepped forward, one shadow separating from another, and quietly scaled the narrow maintenance staircase. Gently, gently, he eased the window open until it was wide enough for him to squeeze through, and stood motionless for a few moments to pick up any sounds of activity in the apartment. A cat rubbed past his ankle and he rubbed it under its chin. He was quite fond of cats.

He could hear the cat purring and the distant roar of late night traffic, but no other sounds. He aimed his torch at the ground, and adjusted the diffuser to minimise the brightness. A quick sweep of the room revealed a treasure trove of witchy paraphernalia, including a magnificent sphere, as black as night and as shiny as a mirror, mounted on delicately filigreed silver in the form of an eagle’s talon. Brax wandered over and gazed into the depths of the ball, cupping his hands around where he imagined its aura to be. He could see his own reflection swimming in the depths, a pale face with curly-wild black hair and shadows under his eyes.

He felt almost hypnotised as he watched the reflection of a ghostly apparition appear over his shoulder. Barely able to breathe, Brax took his hands away from the black ball and slowly turned around.

His face tightened with shock, and he was unable to draw a breath as he came face to face with a woman dressed in white, her untidy gray hair dancing in ringlets on her head.

The apparition opened her mouth to speak. “You trying to steal from me, boy?” she asked in the querulous tone of one who would rather be sleeping in her warm bed than confronting a would-be burglar.

Brax whooshed out a breath of relief, even as it dawned on him that he had just been busted by the homeowner. He proudly drew himself up and looked sternly at the old woman . “Do you make it a habit to sneak around in the dark and frighten folk?” he demanded. “I suppose you’re going to call the police on me, now?”

The old woman smirked. “Do you have no idea who I am, boy? I am Margaret Yorke, descendant of THE Margaret Yorke, one of the most powerful witches to ever be burned at the stake.”

Brax privately thought that if she was that good at magic, then she wouldn’t have been caught and executed. But at least the crazy old witch wasn’t going to call the police! He shrugged. “Oookay, so what? Are you going to turn me into a toad?”

“Oh no, my dear. I feel maybe something more subtle is in order. Something that will seem nothing, but will end up ruining your life and driving you insane!” She giggled, a horrible sound under the circumstances, then grabbed her hair and twisted it, as if seeking inspiration from the pain.

Brax was feeling seriously scared of this loony by now, but she was standing between him and his escape route, so all he could do was humour her delusions and, hopefully, leave this place in one piece.

The witch stopped pulling at her hair, stood tall, and looked Brax in the eye. He did not like the look on her face, and had to remind himself that there was no such thing as magic or witchcraft.

Margaret cleared her throat, and intoned “I, Margaret Yorke, condemn you ...” she looked a little flustered, and Brax took pity on her.

“Brax Parker, ma’am,” he supplied helpfully.

The witch nodded gratefully at him and tried again. “I, Margaret Yorke, condemn you, Brax Parker, to eternally suffer the next misadventure that befalls you!”

Brax looked at her. “Is that it?”

Margaret nodded in satisfaction and pointed at the window. “You may go, now.”

Brax sidled past her and headed for freedom, stepping on a piece of cord as he stumbled backwards.

The piece of cord turned out to be the tabby’s tail, who immediately screeched with all the vigour of one who had been mortally offended.

Brax clasped his hand to his chest and breathed in thin panicked whispers while he waited for his heart to return to its normal position in his chest and resume beating.

There was a weird sensation like the air was compressing around him before returning to normal with a quietly thunderous rumble. He looked at Margaret in bewilderment. “Is that it? I’m cursed to go around treading on cats’ tails?” He huffed out a short laugh.

The witch looked a little crestfallen. “Well I was rather hoping you’d fall out the window, or get hit by a car. But the dark forces move in mysterious ways.”

She flapped her hand at him, and Brax shuffled backwards out the window and down the service stairs. What a night! He chuckled to himself all the way down the ladder until he stepped onto firm ground. Or what he thought was firm ground. A small furry banshee screamed at him as Brax stood on yet another tail! He windmilled his arms for balance, but it was of no use. Down he went, knocking his head painfully on someone’s garbage bin, which then overbalanced and deposited a week’s worth of garbage on him.

Brax stumbled to his feet, two fossilised slices of pizza falling to the ground at his feet. He used them to scrape off slimy pasta and maggoty Chinese leftovers, retching and coughing in disgust at the stench. He shuffled carefully back to his car with no further incidents, apart from a group of homeless people wrinkling their noses at him and ostentatiously waving their hands in front of their noses. Rude.

Driving with all the windows open, Brax finally reached his apartment block. He quietly let himself in through the main doors, and tiptoed past his landlady’s door on his way to the stairs. Unfortunately, Brax was so focussed on not disturbing his landlady, that he completely forgot about her cat, Indigo, who liked to roam the building at night in search of mice. And ... yep, you guessed it. Indigo let out a wail that would have done an air siren proud, and seconds later his landlady appeared in the doorway like a cross trapdoor spider.

She reeled back a step after getting a whiff of Brax’s new bouquet, but came back strongly.

“Mr Parker,” she exclaimed, hands on hips. “I’ve been trying to catch up with you all week! You owe me nearly two month’s rent, and I’d like to know when I’m going to get it.”

Brax smiled winningly, feeling crusted food crack and break away from his face. “I’m sorry, Mrs Morrow,” he started. “I expect to come into some money soon ...”

“And when is soon? You told me ‘soon’ a month ago! I’m warning you now. You got two weeks, then you can find somewhere else to live. And clean yourself up, for Pete’s sake. You look like a bum.” She slammed the door shut, and Brax limped up the stairs to his room on the first floor to scrape his stinking clothes off his grimy body, and have the longest, hottest shower in the history of long, hot showers.

He lay in bed, thinking of his immediate future. His Plan B, as it were, which involved moving in with Chloe. He wasn’t confident that Chloe was quite there yet, and resolved to spend the next two weeks and all his charm on winning her over.

Saturday morning saw him at Chloe’s door, a bunch of white daisies in one hand, and a box of pastries in the other. Chloe opened the door and eyed the items with suspicion. “What’s the occasion, Brax? What have you done now?”

Brax felt and looked a little hurt. “I love you, Chloe!” he declared. “I just wanted to do something nice for you, that’s all. Can I come in? Please?”

Chloe shrugged. “I’ll put the kettle on,” she said, disappearing towards the kitchen and leaving Brax to find his own way. A chorus of screams and yowls preceded him as he trod on one tail after another on his way to the kitchen.

Bloody hell, he thought. How could he tread on so many tails when she only had three cats?

A grim faced tabby swiped at his leg and bit him painfully on the ankle as he trod on its tail for a third time.

Chloe stood at the kitchen door, arms folded, her face almost as unforgiving as the various furry faces he’d seen over the past few hours.

“I’m sorry, Braxton.” Uh, oh ... “I can never be with someone who hurts animals. You told me you liked cats! And quite frankly, that was the only positive thing about you. We’re through.” She pointed towards the front door. Brax took the hint, and despite taking every care, managed to tread on everyone’s tail again before he could exit the house.

Well, damn, he thought. Time for a Plan C. Get some money together, pay the rent, and sweet talk the landlady into giving him another chance. Yep.

He turned up at Mrs Morrow’s apartment, white daisies in one hand, and the box of pastries in the other. “Mrs Morrow,” he began. “I’m sorry for getting behind with the rent and treating you and your establishment with disrespect. Please take these” he shoved the gifts into her waiting arms, “and I beg of you, please give me another chance. I will get the rent to you in the next couple of days.”

Mrs Morrow took pity on him, for she wasn’t a bad soul. “You have until Friday to get up to date with your rent. You pay me what’s due, and I won’t kick you out. Providing you pay your rent on time in the future.”

Brax nodded his thanks, but Mrs Morrow had already shut the door and was no doubt on her way to the kitchen to have a cup of tea and some pastries.

Back in his apartment, Brax pored over the jobs he had already shortlisted. He needed a quick and easy score, with a decent payoff. He tapped thoughtfully on the Templestowe plan. A definite possibility, and one he could pull off almost immediately.

Every Saturday evening, without fail, Mr Templestowe would get picked up by one of his golf cronies and not come home until the small hours. During this time, Mrs Templestowe entertained her tennis coach and didn’t leave the bedroom for a couple of hours. Around midnight, she would kiss her paramour goodbye at the back door, then leave the door unlocked for her drunken husband when he finally rolled home.

Best of all, Brax had observed not one cat during his stakeouts!

It was nearly ten o'clock at night. Mr Templestowe had left for the evening, and Brax now lay patiently in some thick, prickly shrubbery, watching Mrs Templestowe and her lover toast each other with champagne filled glasses in the kitchen, before taking themselves and a bottle of wine to the bedroom.

Two hours later, they appeared at the back door, had a cuddle and a snog, then went their separate ways.

Shortly thereafter, the light went off in Mrs Templestowe’s bedroom, and he gave her half an hour to pass out drunk on champagne before making his move. He figured he had at least another two hours until the man of the house returned.

The back door was unlocked. So far, so good. The alarm was dark and silent, as he expected. Not a sound from upstairs except the occasional unladylike snore.

On stockinged feet, he made his way into the “parlour”. Parlour, for goodness’ sake! These people deserved to be robbed.

“Oh do come through into the PARLOUR, dear,” he mimicked quietly as he took himself up on his invitation. “Do have a cup of tea and a cucumber sandwich.” He switched on his torch and had a look around the Templestowe collection. He stuffed some nice looking silverware and gold pieces into his rucksack. It could be easily melted down and sold at base rate.

He made his way around the room, grabbing anything small and portable that looked like it might be of value. It was on his second sweep of the room that disaster struck. A black Siamese cat, invisible in the near darkness, slid in front of him, and his foot came down squarely on its tail.

Over the last day or so, Brax had heard some awful sounds coming from a variety of furry little bodies, but this Siamese won hands-down for sheer volume and pitch. And to add to the din, Brax tripped and became airborne for a second or two before colliding with a shelf full of brass knick-knacks and delicate china tea sets.

As he lay dazed among the wreckage, the lady of the house appeared, a golf club in her hand. “I’ve called the police!” she screamed.

Brax just nodded, completely unsurprised at the turn this night had taken. A little aggrieved, he gazed up at Mrs Templestowe. “I thought you didn’t have any cats!” he said crossly.

“We are babysitting for our daughter,” Mrs Templestowe explained.

The Siamese jumped on Brax’s chest and licked his nose. No hard feelings, bud.

Brax listened to a couple of cars pull up in the driveway, blue and red flashes illuminating the parlour.

He hoped they didn’t have cats in prison.

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