“Your aunt was just found poisoned, and you are next!” Leta cried, wringing the strap of her basket. Ovidia blinked slowly, her gaze drifting from Leta’s tight face to the wicker bundle in her hands. The warm, yeasty scent of blueberries and cinnamon wafted through the broken doorway, an irresistible siren call. “Poisoned?” Ovidia repeated, a yawn stretching her jaw. “Oh. That’s inconvenient for Aunt Blythe. Are those blueberry pastries, Leta? They smell divine.” Leta gaped, her mouth working without sound for a moment. Her frantic energy seemed to deflate slightly, a bewildered slump settling her shoulders. “Ovi, did you hear me? Your aunt, Blythe Gable, is at the clinic right now, clinging to life! The doctor said it was Belladonna, a ‘curse from the marsh’, they’re calling it. And people are saying you’re the next target because of the inheritance!” Ovidia waved a dismissive hand, already reaching for a warm treat. “Belladonna, huh? Sounds like someone just didn’t want to pay for a proper gardener. Honestly, Leta, the family estate has always had issues with invasive plants. You know how Aunt Blythe insists on those wild, untamed gardens. Probably just ate the wrong berry.” She took a large, deliberate bite, savoring the jammy sweetness. “Mm, these are superb. Did you use fresh berries?” Mercer, who had been quietly boarding up the ruined door with salvaged planks, paused, his hammer held aloft. His dark eyes, usually unreadable, flickered to Leta, then to Ovidia’s breakfast. A faint, almost imperceptible tension settled around him. Leta’s face twisted with a mixture of exasperation and genuine fear. “Ovi, you’re not taking this seriously! This isn’t about gardening! It’s about the Gable fortune. Everyone knows your aunt’s will names you as the sole heir. And now she’s struck down? It’s clearly a plot! You need to be careful. You need to be vigilant!” She moved further into the cabin, placing her basket on the small, rustic table. As she spoke, her gaze darted towards Ovidia’s teacup, which Mercer had refilled with warm chamomile. With a practiced, almost invisible flick of her wrist, Leta produced a tiny, intricately carved wooden vial from her pocket. Her fingers, quick and precise, unscrewed the stopper. A faint, crystalline powder, barely visible, drifted into the steaming tea. Mercer’s hammer dropped with a soft thud onto the floorboards. His head snapped up. His eyes, usually veiled, sharpened, focusing on Leta’s retreating hand, then on the cup. The air around him seemed to thicken, a silent, primal alarm ringing in the small cabin. Ovidia, oblivious, was halfway through her second crumbly cake. “Vigilance is so much work, Leta. Honestly, if someone wants the fortune, they can have it. I just want to nap without people screaming about curses. This cabin, Mercer, is perfect for napping.” She gestured vaguely at the cozy, albeit currently drafty, space. She reached for her teacup. Her fingers brushed the warm ceramic. Just as she was about to lift it, Mercer moved. Not with speed, but with a deliberate, almost clumsy shift of his large frame. His elbow, clad in a worn flannel sleeve, swept across the table. The teacup tilted, then fell, splashing the golden liquid across the wooden surface, narrowly missing Ovidia’s nightgown. “Apologies,” Mercer rumbled, his voice low, his eyes fixed on the spilled tea. “A moment of… unsteadiness.” He didn’t look at Leta, but the air around him crackled with a silent warning. He retrieved the cup, carefully setting it aside before wiping the table with a rag. His movements were precise, almost ritualistic, as if cleansing more than just spilled tea. Leta drew back, her brow knotting before smooth concern replaced the twitch. “Oh dear! Are you alright, Mercer? You looked quite pale for a moment there.” Mercer merely grunted, his back to them, continuing to secure the doorframe with quiet intensity. Before Leta could press the issue, another shadow fell across the now partially repaired doorway. Enid Sterling stood there, rain slicking her practical bob, a rolled-up scroll clutched in her hand. Her expression was sharp, lines carved deep around her mouth. “Ovidia,” Enid announced, her voice tight with urgency, “I’ve been speaking with the town elders. They’ve compiled a map of all the known ‘cursed’ hotspots in Tarnstead, especially within the Blackwood Bog. We believe the Belladonna came from the bog itself. We need to investigate. This could be our chance to unravel the true source of these ‘curses’.” She unrolled the large, brittle parchment, revealing a crudely drawn map dotted with red Xs and ominous scribbles. Ovidia peered at it, her eyelids heavy. She’d just brushed the last crumbs from her fingertips, and the chamomile scent in the air made her eyelids droop. “A map of cursed places?” she mumbled, her head lolling against her hand. “Sounds like a lot of hiking. You know, Enid, I really just want to find a place where I can hang my hammock without someone whispering about spectral bog-fiends or ancient grimoires.” Her gaze drifted across the map, tracing the dark, sprawling mass labeled ‘Blackwood Bog – High Supernatural Activity – DO NOT ENTER’. A particularly large, angry red X marked the very center of it. “That part,” Ovidia declared, pointing a sticky finger at the central red X. “The absolute worst bit. The most dangerous. Where no one would ever build anything.” She turned to Mercer, her eyes sparkling with sudden, lazy inspiration. “Mercer, darling, remember all that money I inherited from my… well, still-alive aunt? Use it. Buy that. Buy all of the Blackwood Bog, especially that big red X. If we own it, no one can build a noisy logging camp there. No one can disturb my future hammock sanctuary. Promise me no one will ever build near my nap spot.” Mercer looked from the map to Ovidia, then to the large, foreboding stretch of bog visible through the cabin’s single window. A faint, almost imperceptible smile touched his lips. He nodded once, a decisive motion. “Consider it done, Ovidia,” he said, his voice a low thrum. “No one will build near your nap spot.” Hours later, as the mist thickened and afternoon bled into a premature dusk, Mercer returned. He was coated head to toe in black, viscous mud, his usually neat hair plastered to his forehead. He hauled himself through the door, tracking bog-slime onto the clean floor, a rare lapse in his meticulous nature. He clutched something massive and lumpy in his gloved hands. With a grunt, he dropped it onto the table with a heavy thud, sending up a faint, earthy smell. “This swamp isn’t hexed, Ovi,” Mercer announced, his voice rough with effort, “It is built on a goldmine of rare medicinal truffles.”

The Cursed Real Estate