Cursed Waters

0

Sam 

The first time my mother told me to stay away from the Clearwater girls, I was eight years old.

I was standing in my front yard, watching as my dad uneasily conversed with a neighbor, his eyes on the house across the street. My mom came to stand next to me, her arms crossed over her chest. One of her shoes, I noticed, was crushing the head of a pretty purple flower.

"Those girls," my mom said, watching the Clearwater kids in question — there seemed to be an endless line of them — as they trudged up and down the shiny new driveway, boxes in their arms, "will be the death of this neighborhood."

"Why?" I asked, watching the Clearwater girl I knew who was my age — Millie.

Millie Clearwater, pretty as a sunset. Even at eight years old, when girls were still gross and I much preferred the company of my boys, I knew Millie was something to behold.

"Because," my mom said plainly, "those girls were born into puddles. The rain washes secrets away, Sam, and where they collect is no good."

One of the longest standing myths of our town was that the Clearwater girls were cursed. Born to puddles, as my mother said, every Clearwater girl came with the promise of death to anyone who loved her.

To me, they weren't cursed, though. They were just magical. Enchanting. 

"But..." I was confused. "They're so pretty. How can they be bad?"

At such a young age, it was impossible to wrap my brain around the thought that such beautiful creatures could be as terrible as everyone said.

My mom stared across the street, at not just the girls, but the man who was trailing behind them.

When she spoke, her voice was grave. "The prettiest things often turn out to be the deadliest."

The truth is, my mother wasn't wrong.