The Moirai's Curse

“…There. Right there! Pause it!”

Brad’s finger pressed hard against the LCD screen, ripples of discoloration emanating outward. “See? That little boy. He wasn’t holding a balloon, nobody was. Don’t you remember?” It was a small detail; Imperceptible, or close to it. Something he was never meant to notice.

“You know what, maybe you’re right. I think...” Liz’s face contorted in deep thought. “But... Okay but if so, what does it matter? Who cares?”

“I don’t know what it’s supposed to mean, but it’s not nothing. The whole talent show is changing. Each time we watch it back, it’s like a save file being overwritten.”

“No. That’s crazy, no way. I’m calling Jeanine, or Billy’s dad. They filmed it too.” Brad left the room as Liz dialed, refilling his coffee mug while muttering incomprehensibly to himself.

“… Yes, the little boy, he was wearing a hoodie. Was he holding anythi—Oh no, I’m sorry to hear that. Well did you SEE him holding anything, from what you remember? Okay, thank you, I know it’s an odd que… Yeah, I’ll explain it all when I see you next, I know it’s strange. Thanks, you too. Yeah, we’ll do dinner next week, tell Alice and Billy I said hi, and I’ll make a copy of our video for you as well.”

Before the phone even reached its cradle on the desk, Liz huffed. “I guess their video was damaged somehow. It’s all scratched out, static. He said even the audio is off.” She scratched her head. Without looking away from the screen, she dug a note pad and two pens from the desk “Rewind, let’s watch again and take notes, this is the second change we spotted.”

The next 30 minutes entailed a flurry of hastily jotted notes and half-doubts, a flood of information transcribed for reference. “Okay, should we watch again?” Brad’s finger hovered over the play button.

As the video played back yet again, the pair diligently compared notes, marking any discrepancies. Minor changes were found; A girl’s dress went from a floral print to polkadots; one performance went from interpretive dance to tap-dance. One parent who had never done so before stared directly into the camera. Nothing extraordinary. Until the juggler.

Jimmy Cranston had been juggling since the second grade. After three years, his abilities weren’t insignificant, and he’d graduated from simple balls to juggling pins, even unsharpened knives. His greatest achievement to date was learning to ride a unicycle, and the eventual combination of cycling and juggling. It was a sight to behold for a boy of 10, and both Brad and Liz assumed he’d be taking the talent show’s top prize. His placing third overall caught them off-guard, but the other finalists had performed admirably, so no further thought was given.

As the pair watched the video for the fifth time, circling portions of their notes, scribbling changes and marking important findings, they gaped at the disaster as it unfolded; Jimmy Cranston kept staring at something off in the far left corner of the auditorium. Losing sight of the tightly controlled arcs as the pins twirled through the air, he began to move erratically atop the unicycle. He inched closer and closer towards the edge of the stage, trying to regain mastery of the pins. The pair watched in stunted disbelief as he tumbled off the raised stage, and heard the sickening squelch of bone fragmenting, the audience’s collective gasp. Liz and Brad stared at one another, the only sound the boy’s frantic cries from the monitor’s speaker.

“Oh God, what...” The words died in her throat as Brad pressed stop. “Okay. Okay, what just happened? Was that—”

“No. That didn’t happen before.” He stared at her, both unmoving and shakily all at once. “Does that mean he really did get hurt though?”

Liz gnawed on her lower lip for a beat, hypotheses coursing through her mind. She reached for the phone, found the Cranston family’s number, and dialed. As the ringing began, she pressed speakerphone and waited. The few seconds passed like eons, neither of them blinking or breathing. “___ Hello?”

“Felicia, hi, it’s Liz. I’m here with Brad. We wanted to call and check in on you guys, how is Jimmy?”

“Thanks for calling” Felicia’s voice was drenched in both gratitude for the call and empathetic pain for her son. “He’s okay, all things considered, but I think we’ll let him skip the next few days at school. He’s embarrassed, and still hurting.”

Liz and Brad stared at one another as the full implication hit them both. “That’s completely understandable.” Liz’s voice was monotone, the kind of sound that only sneaks out when grappling with the unbelievable. She forcibly shook herself out of it.

“He had a clean break on his right forearm, and a hairline fracture on the left.”

“Oh, sweetie, I’m so sorry. Give him some warm thoughts from us. Do you think he’d be feeling up to a visit later? I can bring Hannah by, maybe pick up some ice cream for him, or one of his favorite treats”

“That’s kind, but I think we’ll just have a quiet day at home. Maybe tomorrow though?”

“Of course, whatever he prefers is totally fine. And if you need anything at all, don’t hesitate.”

After the thank yous and goodbyes were exchanged, the couple continued staring at one another as Liz hung up. Brad’s eyes closed, his face strained, trying to make sense of all the pieces. “So. 2 hours ago, Jimmy was fine. 20 minutes ago, the video changed. 2 minutes ago, his arm has been broken since yesterday.”

“We’re going crazy, right? Tell me this isn’t what I think.” Liz stared at her husband pleadingly, already knowing the answer.

“No. I think it IS happening.”

Silence.

Slowly, Brad reached out to press play. Liz slapped his hand away. “What is WRONG with you? We can’t”

“It’s already happened. He can’t break his arms any worse, let’s see if there are any other changes.”

“NO. Someone could get hurt. Worse than that boy already did.”

“… I’ll be ready to stop it if we see anything about to happen. We still don’t even know how this works, if maybe we can undo it somehow. Shouldn’t we at least try?” Liz stared at him, hoping to change his mind.

When he didn’t waver, she relented. “Fine. But the second we see something dangerous, we stop.”

With a nod, he pressed play. As they watched the screen, the field of view shifted, moving to focus on the boy still lying on the ground in agony. Chills ran down Liz’s spine, Brad’s breath beginning to falter as the audience, who had been focused solely on the boy, began to turn one by one. Each looking directly at the camera. When they initially filmed the talent show, the camcorder was mounted on a tripod, view centered on the stage. But now it moved about the room, focused on other points and sounds, as if sentient. As if it could be either Brad or Liz, reliving the event themselves. A pair of teachers in the background, just a few feet from the edge of the raised platform that served as a stage, whispered to one another. One pointed directly at the camera, the other nodding. A few parents stared wildly, then looked away, refusing to acknowledge its presence.

After a few tense moments, the talent show continued. Warily now, with audience members worriedly stealing a glance at the camera every few moments. One little girl even started to cry as she attempted a clarinet solo, before running from the stage. When the principal announced the winner and runners up, her jovial demeanor was now replaced with fear. She gulped hard as she called the contestants onstage; All but Jimmy Cranston, who was already heading to the hospital by this time in the playback. When the video concluded, the pair sat in stunned silence.

“They were… they knew we were watching. They looked scared, looked–”

“Stuck”

“What now?” Liz was afraid of whatever the answer might be but felt compelled to ask.

Brad thought, carefully weighing his words. “There’s two choices, I think. We never watch it again. We get rid of it, or erase it, or bury it and pretend it never happened.” He shook his head. “Or, we—we keep going, see if we can change it, see if we can help them. Because they were—People. Those were living people we saw, and I’m pretty sure they’re trapped. We have to at least try to fix whatever’s happening.”

“But what if we make it worse? Jimmy was fine at first, what if WE broke his arm by watching it? What if something else happens? What if something happens to Hannah?”

“We won’t let it. If either of us, in any way, feel like she’s in danger or something might happen, we stop it then and there. Nothing’s worth more than our kid. But if we do nothing” Brad’s gaze shifted to his feet. “I don’t think I’ll ever forget the looks on their faces. Whether they were real—our actual friends and their actual children—or not, those looks are gonna haunt me. We should try.”

After a long moment and a heavy sigh, Liz nodded her head. “You’re right, I’d hate myself if we did nothing. But how do we actually make sure she stays safe?”

“We keep our eyes on her. If, and when she’s on screen, we pause right after and go check on her here, in person. And if anything at all feels off in regard to her safety, the whole thing is done. Agreed?”

Liz nodded, and pressed play once again.

The change this time was almost immediate. The audience, scared before, seemed terrified now. The eyes of anxious parents consistently found the camera lens, or darted off to one side, some fixed point that the camera never fully faced, in the same direction as whatever had distracted Jimmy Cranston. One mother stared straight into the lens, right at Liz and Brad, then motioned with her eyes in the direction the other parents intentionally avoided, save for short nervous glances. Eventually, the woman pointed a finger as inconspicuously as she could manage in the same direction.

The action did not go unnoticed. Within a few seconds a scream pealed through the monitor’s speaker, as the woman stood, staring at whatever she’d motioned toward, backing away slowly. Her pace quickened as she pleaded no, apologizing to whatever drew nearer.

Within moments, the camera centered on the woman, suspended from the ground and clutching her neck as if being held by the throat, her legs thrashing violently. Where another figure should be, holding the woman up, blurred static and dark lines like a scrambled cable-tv channel dominated the screen. An unseen menace, a nameless and formless shape held the woman aloft. “Stop the video. Stop it now!” Brad complied, reaching up and pressing the button. The video played on. “It. It’s not working, it won’t stop.” He frantically mashed pause, then stop, then tried to manually open and remove the video cassette to no avail.

“Well do SOMETHING” Liz implored.

“I’m trying!” The desperate attempts proved fruitless. As all else failed, Brad looked away. Liz buried her face into his chest.

Murmurs, shrieks, gasps. Then crunch. Then a thud. Brad quietly retched.

Silence.

“Did we just kill her?!” Tears welled in Liz’s eyes.

The principal walked to the microphone onstage, visibly shaking. “N—Ne—N…ext up. Is Hannah. Weatherby…” she stared straight into the camera lens with an apologetic look, silently begging forgiveness.

“Go get her. Right now.” Brad stared unblinkingly at the screen.

Without hesitation Liz burst toward the door, feet barely touching the ground as she flew toward the stairs. “HANNAH! BABY COME HERE!”

Brad pulled himself away from the screen, clawing at the power cord plugged into the outlet. He yanked hard, the cord freeing itself from the socket, but the video played on. He ripped the A/V cables from the monitor, frantic. Again, it played on even still.

As the staticky, distorted portion of video moved ever closer to the stage, he could make out vague features; Thin gangly limbs like tendrils closed the gap. A humanoid hand eagerly drummed the air next to its thigh with long, boney fingers.

Hannah stood center stage now. A tear rolled down her eye as the camera lens zoomed in close on her face. The distorted bit of screen now stretched in front of her neck as the camera panned out once again. For a split second, the static lifted. An impossibly tall, thin man stood, hand on Hannah’s shoulder, index finger reaching across her throat. A wild grin that stretched unnaturally far, nearly bisecting his entire face, connected ear to ear. Jagged teeth and hungry eyes stared directly at Brad through the screen. He helplessly whimpered. The other hand covered his mouth, agape. “HANNAH---” he began to cry.

A spark arced from the back of the VCR, a thin whisp of smoke rose silently as the video cut out. Brad froze for a moment, panting short, choppy breaths. He sprinted after his wife and daughter. “Han—Hannah—Hannah!”

Silence.