Chapter 2: Bad Luck Strikes Twice

Strangely enough, after my mom said that, the fear faded. Her words always had that magic. Maybe it was just being home, but for the first time in weeks, I slept through the night.

Just like she said, it had to be coincidence. If there was a real pattern, wouldn’t my great-great-grandpa have died at eighty, his dad at ninety? It didn’t add up.

I even joked with myself the next morning, pouring milk into my coffee: If there really was a curse, wouldn’t someone have noticed by now? It’s just numbers, not fate.

I let it go. When the parent-teacher conference came, I chickened out and didn’t ask about the homework. Otherwise, I’d look like a nut.

I fidgeted with my car keys the whole meeting, barely hearing a word about field trips or multiplication tables. I shook the teacher’s hand and left, telling myself it wasn’t worth the embarrassment.

But peace didn’t last. Two weeks later, my regular birthday snuck up on me.

I’d forgotten about it until Facebook started with the “Happy birthday!” messages. I half-smiled, half-cringed. Just another Tuesday.

And that day, on my way to work, a car came straight at me.

I was crossing Main, coffee in hand, when tires screeched. For a split second, time froze—the pickup’s grille burned into my memory. My heart hammered in my chest.

I twisted, and the car missed me by inches. The rush of air was real, my coffee splattered across the curb. My knees wobbled.

One thought: If I’d been slower, I’d have been hit. Maybe killed.

My life flashed by—my son’s laugh, my wife’s tired smile, my mom’s hug. This can’t be it. Not today.

The car sped away, not even looking back. Before I could process it, a sedan barreled through the intersection, missing me by a foot. I barely had time to curse before I dove for the curb.

A guy on a bike swerved around me, shaking his head. "You okay, man?" I nodded, too stunned to answer.

The walk sign was green! Were all the drivers in Toledo crazy? One after another, running red lights, barreling through the crosswalk.

I looked up—the light was still green. My hands shook so hard I dropped my keys. Was it just me? Was something in the water?

The second car didn’t stop either. Anger flashed, then pure fear.

A part of me wanted to chase after them, but my legs wouldn’t move. I leaned against a lamppost, breathing hard, trying not to puke.

So is this just coincidence? Thirty years, no accidents, but today, on my birthday, two cars almost kill me?

Once is bad luck. Twice, on this day? My palms went cold.

No, my luck’s in the gutter today—who knows what else could happen. I called in sick, barely trusting my voice. My boss grumbled, but I didn’t care. I needed to get home, somewhere safe.

At home, I deadbolted the door, shut the curtains, and flopped on the couch. Netflix played quietly, but I couldn’t focus. My phone buzzed with birthday messages, but I ignored them all.

So I hid out. My wife was at her parents’ place and didn’t notice anything. She texted me she’d be late. I told her I wasn’t feeling well—no need to worry her. I half-watched the clock, waiting for the day to end.

That evening, she brought our son home. The kitchen filled with the smell of garlic and onions. My son colored at the table, humming. My wife hummed to a country song, her ponytail bouncing.

They talked to me, but I didn’t want to answer. As I ate, a stabbing pain hit my stomach.

I tried to brush it off, but the pain only sharpened, burning through my gut.

Their voices faded, echoing like I was underwater. I clutched my stomach, slid off my chair onto the cold linoleum.

I collapsed and blacked out. The last thing I saw was my wife’s panicked face dialing 911.

Was I going to die? I didn’t want to die yet. Memories flashed—my son’s first steps, my dad’s old jokes, summer porch nights. I wasn’t ready.

When I opened my eyes, I was in the hospital. I hadn’t died—just ended up there with food poisoning.

The harsh overhead lights stung my eyes, and the beeping of machines reminded me I was still here. I could smell bleach and something fried from the cafeteria down the hall. Relief and confusion flooded me.

Food poisoning? I’d eaten my wife’s cooking for years, never got sick. This was a first.

I stared at the IV, half-expecting to wake up. The nurse told me I’d be okay—just a rough night, some fluids.

The sky was already bright. My nerve-wracking birthday was finally over. Sunlight crept through the blinds. I’d survived. Barely.

Actually, I never celebrate my regular calendar birthday, just my birthday by old family tradition. If I hadn’t been freaked out about turning thirty, I wouldn’t have remembered the day.

The tradition always felt quaint—now it felt like a warning. I tried to remember the last time I’d felt this much dread over a birthday. Never.

Soon I saw my wife and kid. They were at the table, eating quietly. Since they ate less, their symptoms were milder.

My wife had dark circles under her eyes, my son sipped ginger ale, bored. I tried to smile, but my stomach twisted.

Because I didn’t feel like talking and just kept eating, I ended up with the worst of it.

I remembered ignoring their chatter at dinner, shoveling in food just to keep my mind busy. Now I paid the price.

But my wife just made regular home-cooked food—so how did we get sick?

I thought back to the groceries she’d brought home, the way she’d washed the lettuce three times. It didn’t add up.

According to the doctor, it was the veggies from the market—way too much pesticide residue.

He handed me a pamphlet about food safety. “Sometimes these things slip through the cracks. You just got unlucky.”

A heavy feeling stuck in my chest. How could something this rare happen to me, on this day of all days?

My hands shook as I turned the pamphlet. Bad luck was one thing, but this felt targeted, personal.

Soon my wife came over. She’s usually tough, but now she looked upset: "Babe, I’m sorry. I made you and our son sick. I didn’t mean to. I won’t buy veggies from that place again. Please don’t be mad."

Her voice wavered, eyes glassy. I reached for her hand, brushing my thumb over her knuckles, feeling her cool skin.

Seeing her like that, I couldn’t even be angry. She got sick too.

She looked so small and tired in the hospital chair. We were both just scared, clinging to each other like life rafts.

And even if she wanted to hurt me, she wouldn’t hurt our son, and he got sick too.

My son looked at me, wide-eyed. Whatever this was, it wasn’t anyone’s fault—least of all hers.

I sighed and patted her hand. "It’s okay, it’s not your fault. Don’t be upset."

I tried to sound braver than I felt. We’d weathered worse—medical bills, layoffs, the usual storms. We’d get through this too.

After comforting her, I couldn’t help but think: my regular birthday almost cost me my life. When my real birthday comes, will I survive?

The thought gnawed at me. I stared at the white ceiling tiles, counting them to drown out the fear.

Now, whether I believe it or not, I have to. This kind of freaky, supernatural bad luck is too much. Is my family really cursed? I have to find someone who knows about this stuff.

I Googled everything—family curses, spiritual advisors, local exorcists. I even thought about calling those late-night radio shows that talk about hauntings between weather updates and country hits.