The Curse Breaker Channel
Summary: You run a successful curse-breaking YouTube channel. It’s very hard to keep an assistant.
There are two packages on the doorstep when you get home, half water-logged from the sprinklers and set right in front of the door rather than behind the pillars. You sigh and pull your messenger bag higher on your shoulder. Key in lock, hard twist and lift until the door gives up its hold on the wooden frame, and kick, kick, kick the packages inside. You could review the delivery driver, sure, but that wouldn’t solve the problem. They’d just send a new one who also wouldn’t know and your packages would continue to stay in range of the sprinklers and in view of the street.
Involve as few people as possible. If you ever get around to writing that book, that will be in the first five rules. You drop your keys in the bowl on the kitchen table, drop your bag onto a chair, head to the fridge. Maybe in the first ten rules. Twenty max.
Six bottles of clear liquid line the top shelf. Each glass is engraved and topped with an ornate cap. Silver, gold, cedar, redwood, wax, and cork. The last you pull out and pop, pouring yourself a shot directly into your mouth. The mix of spearmint and vodka nearly makes you vomit. The back of your throat burns and smoke thrashes in your lungs. You hold your breath for four seconds. Three seconds. Two seconds. Breathe out a cloud of black fog that drifts up to the ceiling and squats, as irritated and unhappy as a toad.
“Ribbit,” you say. The fog fades and you’re left looking at tin tiles it cost you a fortune to install badly and two fortunes to fix. After that you’d sworn off of HGTV reruns and decided to wait until the rest of the 1960s came back into fashion and your wood-paneled, shag-carpeted house became socially acceptable to host in again.
The hall to your front door isn’t illuminated by the light from the kitchen. The void hides your packages from view. If you really concentrate, you can almost make out something staring back at you. To your right is the living room. You could ignore it all, if you wanted. Crack open one of the beers stored in your cheese drawer, throw yourself onto your hideous paisley couch, flip on the TV. There’s a new season of a medical procedural your coworkers from the salon love or a documentary series about fancy chefs cooking fancy foods. You love fancy chefs. You love fancy food.
Your head throbs. Your shields wobble. Silt fills the air and you’re a cave diver looking for a guide rope as you stagger for the front door. Mother fucker. You wish the post office hadn’t cancelled your PO box. You would be able to ignore your fan mail a lot easier if it weren’t dripping on your hall rug.
You pick up and juggle your two packages until they’re both shoved under one arm. Then, holding the wall for support, you make your way to the content room. The shag carpet creates a lot of friction when you drag your feet. Static electricity jumps and sparks every time you reach for the next patch of wall. When you look for the content room’s light switch, a bolt actually arcs between your fingers and the metal plate, jolting the dark room into illumination a beat before you flip the switch.
Maybe the rule should be Involve as few people directly as possible. Three soft light boxes disperse a gentle purple glow across your set. A black desk, a red velvet tablecloth, a wooden bowl of river stones, a set of leather gloves carefully set to one side. In front of the desk, waiting like a silent sentry, is your tripod and camera.
“And the crowd is confused,” you say to the inert packages. They’re not pulling at you, not getting heavier, not thrashing. It doesn’t escape you that you’re beginning to sound a bit like one of your comment sections. The real horror here might be the internet brain rot you’ve slowly subjected yourself to over the past three years. Having an assistant to help moderate alleviates your symptoms.
You toss your fan mail behind the desk and get ready. The cape and mask you wear are piled on the sad, velvet chair in the corner opposite your set. When the assistant doesn’t run away, this is where they sit. When the assistant isn’t a coward, they get paid a generous 20%. When the assistant is a professional, they check the camera as you buckle all six buckles on the back of your head to keep the oval mask strapped to your face.
You take your mask – more accurately, your face plate – off and hang it on the back of your chair where your head would be. Your face plate grins at you with its leering, split mouth. The small, round eyes glow yellow. The LEDs the assistant put in before disappearing off the face of the planet are much better than the sightless, black holes your mask used to have. If the assistant ever deigned to call you back, you’d tell them that. You check the view finder on the camera, make sure that it can see you and your work surface.
Then you put your mask back on, turn on the camera, and stalk around your desk to take a seat.
“Boo boo says the ghost. Goo goo says the baby. Boo hoo says the assistant,” you say. You pick up your gloves and begin the work of wriggling your fingers into them. They’re tight after their cleaning, but much less blood-stained. “That’s the story of our assistant who is, once again, absent this week, dear listeners. Despite the same thing happening on this channel every single video, I might add. Nothing shocking about it and yet…” You look up directly into the camera. “Here we are. Alone. Ready for another unboxing.”
You’re probably going to add the same royalty-free spooky music you’ve always used over this video. The assistant is a lot better at sound effects and “broadening the audience through use of popular sound”, but that doesn’t mean your way isn’t just as good. So what if their videos always gross more views than yours? The algorithm favoring them was a fluke.
The packages make wet, sticky sounds as you adjust them on either side of your velvet workspace. The mic built into your mask likely caught it and you’ll need to edit out your whispered gross as well.
“Let’s see what has found its cosmic way into our seeking hands,” you say. You have to pull your silver letter opener out of the top drawer of the antique desk to slice off the letter taped to the top of the first package. It’s moist from the sprinklers and shines wetly as you gingerly unfold the single page inside. Luckily, it’s still legible. “Dear Breaker. Inside this box is every piece of jewelry my ex gave me. He died two months ago in a freak work accident. Since then, I’ve felt his presence. We broke up over a year ago and I know he never got over me. Since his death, I’ve lost my job. My current partner wakes up with scratches every night. There’s a heavy weight inside my chest. I’m afraid that it’s a sign he’s cursed me from the grave. Please, please, please help me. Cleanse whatever curse he’s left behind and send me back my jewelry. Thank you, Sally.”
You blink. Check the back of the letter. Slice open the box. Inside is a glass vase filled to the brim with jewelry and taped shut with packaging tape. Styrofoam peanuts fill the space around it, preventing it from breaking.
You look back at the camera. “Um, Sally. You didn’t include your return address? Or postage. I’m doing you a favor, Sally. Even if you did give me those things, I’m not paying you by dealing with the post office. They’re basically one step away from banning me anyways. Long story, I’m sure I’ve told it before.”
You don’t actually remember if you’ve told it before. The assistant would. If they were here, they’d encourage you to tell it to make sure your video got to the fifteen-minute mark.
“If you were really a fan of my channel, you’d know I don’t give the cursed items back,” you say. You pull out the vase and start picking at the tape with your letter opener. “And why would you want this back anyway? Your ex gave it to you. Doesn’t everyone throw away ex-partner presents when they break up? Or burn them? Pretty sure curses are the reason people always burn stuff from their ex.”
It's pretty obvious what item is the problem before you even upend the vase. But you have a channel to run so you make a big show of picking up each piece, judging it, and then casting it aside once it’s been deemed safe.
“Sally, the best taste I see here is you breaking up with him,” you say, holding up a small gold tiara. It’s got a spray of hearts coming off the apex. You grimace. “I know you won’t mind me getting rid of this. Un-cursed spiritually, sure, but not un-cursed fashionably.”
It’s fifty-fifty whether your audience laughs or calls you cringe.
After another few pieces, a rant about your useless assistant, and a small knowledge drop about how to use cubic zirconium in spellcasting, and you finally pick up the problem piece. It’s a locket in the shape of a heart (you’re beginning to suspect the ex-boyfriend had a thing for them) about the size of a quarter. The chain is too thick for the pendant and the locket is more yellow than gold. You hold it up by the clasp and let it spin in front of the camera.
“This,” you say, “is cursed.” Carefully, you lower it down onto your workspace. You grab a handful of river stones out of the bowl and place them in a circle around the necklace. “Always contain curses before working on them. Curses are, at their heart, parasites. Once they’ve become untethered, they’ll latch onto the first living thing nearby.” You grin at the camera despite knowing your audience can’t see it. “That’s why I don’t stream, you know. If I ever failed live, the curse could very well come for you, dear listener. So stop asking me to do a livestream.”
If the assistant were here, they’d tell you to be nicer.
You’re honestly thinking about the assistant a lot more than you thought you would. They’re your fourth “the assistant” and you should be used to the disappearing act by now. Sure the assistant spent the night (in the guest room!) whereas your other assistants all said your house was too haunted for them and left directly after filming. And maybe that led you to believe they were more cool with your perpetual haunted nature than the others. And that might have made you feel a little warm inside. And maybe you might have opened up to them a little which led to them telling you about their haunted childhood and you bonded over that. And maybe there are still spaghetti leftovers in your fridge from the first meal you cooked for them after hitting a million subscribers.
But all of that didn’t mean anything because they ran away. And that’s why you should be focusing on the cursed necklace instead of them.
You clear your throat. “Now, whatever is tethering this curse is inside the locket. I warn you, dear listener. This tether could be anything. Bone. Flesh. Or, as we learned last week, a worrying amount of blood with an alarmingly fresh quality.” You lean forward and whisper, “Are you ready?”
The pause you leave after the question is for suspense. It’s definitely not because the assistant would normally quip “Get on with it!” or “Wait, Breaker, let me get behind the ward—wait!”
Surely not.
Suddenly not in the mood for fanfare, you open the locket.
You’re even less in the mood now.
You gag. “Oh, yuck. I hope this doesn’t get me demonetized. For those listening, it’s, uh, hair. Very specific hair.” You frown at the camera. “Sally, for both of our sakes, I hope you didn’t wear this. Ever. I don’t think I need to tell you all what method I’ll be using to break this curse.”
Despite your ire with the assistant, you think you’ll play one of their soundbites here. Start that fire! Said in the same tone as one of those home makeover people would cry for the driver to move the truck out of the way of the new house. The first time they said it, it’d made you laugh.
The curse doesn’t fight very hard. “Because Sally didn’t cherish the necklace,” you tell the audience. You arrange the kindling in the copper cauldron you’ll be using in a clockwise pattern. It’s not really enough wood to keep the fire burning if it were a natural fire. Even with the curse fueling it, you don’t think it’ll burn longer than five minutes. “Curses need energy. Her ex was strong-willed enough to put a little oomph here, but that’s it. If Sally had been attached to this, it’d be a different story. I doubt it’ll even scream. Sorry, folks. I know we all love a good scream.”
The necklace surges away from your hand when you reach for it but runs up against the river stone circle. You snort when it tries to bite at you. Yeah right. You hold it over the cauldron with one hand, letting the audience see how it jerks against your grip. Your sceptics will cry about magnets and wires. Your believer will wonder why you still use a physical lighter when you should set the kindling ablaze with your mind.
Both sides of your audience tend to get it all a little wrong. All of them except the assistant. The assistant always got it right.
You drop the locket into the fire. Like you thought, it doesn’t scream. The flames shiver with veins of black and red. You watch the curse try to fight itself free.
“Will,” you say. Your fingers drum on the desk. Your eyes stay locked to the curse. Even a weak curse will win if you lose focus. “What will it take to meet someone that has enough of it? Enough will to stand bravely in the face of the darkness? Enough will to face the unknown that lurks in my crawlspace? Is it a spell I have yet to find? A sacrifice? What will it take to be known?”
You’ve sworn off spell-casting, but the temptation still lurks close to the surface. It pushes even closer, against your sternum like a begging cat, as the warmth the assistant gave you slowly grows cold.
You jolt when the flames finally splutter and die all at once. Your face burns. You’ll need to edit all of that out. Clearing your throat, you reach for the next package. “We have a bonus today, dear listener. Well-packaged. The letter is sealed correctly on the outside of the box. Take note, future cursed ones. This is how you send a curse to the Breaker.”
You pull off the letter and flip it open. You can tell this box is a dud. There’s no curse in here. You reach in without looking as you start to read.
“Dear Breaker,” you read, “Stop saying dramatic shit.” Your mouth drops open. Rage uncurls in your stomach. You look up at the camera. “I do not say—that’s not—” Your hand finds something long and thin in the box. You pull it out.
There’s a Snickers bar in the box. On the Snickers bar is written KEEP READING in metallic sharpie.
“If you recall, I’m just visiting home for the holidays,” the letter continues. You’re reading it out loud by instinct. A slow blush is pooling in your cheeks. “I’ll be back on the 13th for the Friday special. Eat this Snickers and go to bed. You probably decided to film as soon as you got this and you know that’s too late. You have work in the morning. I have tracking enabled. I’m giving you two hours to text me that you’re in bed before I release the Video.” You frown. “The Video…”
Then the bottom of your stomach drops. Not the Video. The face reveal video. The one where you did that stupid accent and tried to pretend you were British. The one you forgot to delete off of your privated series before giving the assistant access.
“Don’t delete this video,” you read. “We need it for the upload schedule. I’ll edit out all your rambling. Probably. Maybe. If you delete it, I’ll release The Video.”
You really need to get that video away from them.
“I have copies of The Video.”
Damn.
“Drink water.”
The assistant is not your mother.
“You kind of pay me to be your mother, so I’ll also tell you to brush your teeth.”
You won’t dignify that with a response.
“See you Friday, Breaker. Signed, Lu—The assistant,” you hastily say. Your face feels like it’s on fire. Why would they sign their real name?! You flip the letter upside down on the table and clear your throat. “Well. That’s it for the video. As always, stop cursing people and people, stop getting cursed. I’ll see you next time.”
You barely remember to turn off the camera in your haste to text the assistant. You’d fire them on Friday, see if you didn’t. Well, you might not. You think you’re going to hit 1.5 million subscribers on Friday. If you don’t, you’lk fire them. If you do, you’ll probably make steaks.
You think they like steaks.
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