Chapter 3: The Redwater Hag's Curse

It was my coworker, Marcus Lee. I almost cried from relief.

His name popped up on the screen, familiar and safe. I let out a breath I didn’t know I was holding.

He sounded anxious, but the second I picked up, I could hear him relax. That helped. A little.

"Man, thank God you answered. I thought you’d…" He trailed off. The pause was heavy. I could hear relief—and something else. Fear.

There was a pause, like he was searching for words. I could hear the relief in his voice, but also fear—real fear. It made my skin crawl.

"You’ve been targeted! That thing wasn’t a boar—I know what it is!" My blood went cold. I gripped the phone tighter, knuckles white.

His words sent a new wave of terror through me. I squeezed the phone, knuckles aching. My heart hammered.

I raced home, not daring to slow down. Every red light felt like a trap. Every shadow moved.

Every shadow jumped, every sound made me flinch. I kept checking my mirrors, half-expecting red eyes to pop up behind me. I was jumpy as hell.

Only after I locked my door did I check Messenger. The group chat had exploded—hundreds of messages in minutes. My head spun.

The messages scrolled faster than I could read. Everyone was talking at once, their words blurring into a storm of panic and wild guesses. I felt dizzy.

ChaseTheStorm: "If I’m not wrong, this kid took Redwater Road! Why won’t he listen?" My stomach twisted.

BigTex: "God, that’s no boar! This kid is done for." The words made my hands shake.

Old Hank: "@BigTex, you’re always spouting doom and gloom, but you never explain. Didn’t your family live out by Redwater? So tell us—what is that thing?" My curiosity mixed with dread.

BigTex: "Can’t say! It’ll hear. Look it up yourselves! Redwater is mostly old families—even now, nearly everyone there’s named Lee. Once that thing gets you, it won’t let go." The mention of Lee made me pause. Marcus.

The mention of the Lee family made me stop. I thought of Marcus—his nervous energy, his warnings. Did he know more?

Marcus Lee is a fellow gig driver, also a college kid, but a local—he knows way more than I do about this place. I trusted him.

He’s the kind of guy who blends in—faded Braves cap, hoodie up, always glancing at the exits. We bonded over late shifts and cold fries, swapping stories to pass the time. He gets it.

He’s short, skinny, pale as a ghost—probably terrified of sunburn, always rocking that baseball cap. I always teased him about it.

His skin was nearly see-through, the kind that burns after five minutes in the Florida sun. He wore long sleeves, even in July—said it was for the bugs, but I always figured it was something else. Something deeper.

We’d crossed paths a bunch, became friends, even grabbed burgers together sometimes. It was nice having someone to talk to who didn’t think I was nuts for working nights.

He had this weird habit of dissecting every burger, picking it apart like a scientist. We’d argue about toppings, laugh, kill time between orders. It made the job bearable.

I’d help him out with work too, since he struggled with heavy stuff. Didn’t mind. He was good company, and that’s rare in this gig.

He’d always thank me with a shy smile, promising to pay me back. I never cared—he was a good dude. In this line of work, that counts for a lot.

He had class in the morning, had already gone to bed, but the group chat blew up his phone and woke him. Poor guy.

His messages were full of typos, the kind you make when you’re half-asleep and scared. I could picture him sitting up in bed, squinting at his phone, trying to make sense of the chaos. My chest tightened.

As soon as he read the messages, he said it was like a bolt of lightning—he was wide awake, adrenaline pumping. I could relate.

He told me later his heart pounded so hard he thought it’d wake his roommate. He’d never seen the group so panicked—not even during hurricane season. That scared him more than anything.

Back home, I was parched. Opened the fridge for sweet tea, but just holding the bottle made me nervous—I couldn’t even drink my favorite. That’s how shaken I was.

The cool glass sweated in my palm, but my throat was locked up. I set it down, hands trembling, and tried to calm my breathing. Didn’t work.

Guess I was still rattled. Who wouldn’t be, after a night like this? I felt raw.

I paced my tiny kitchen, lights blazing, every shadow looking suspicious. I checked the locks again. And again.

I let the group know I was safe, then called Marcus. My hands shook as I typed.

My fingers fumbled with the phone. The relief in the chat was almost physical, but the fear lingered, just under the surface. I felt it, too.

"You said I’ve been targeted—by what? BigTex knows, but he won’t say." I needed answers. My voice was thin.

My voice was barely above a whisper. I hated sounding so scared, but I couldn’t help it. I needed to know.

Marcus was silent for a few seconds, just clattering noises in the background. My nerves stretched thin.

I pictured him rummaging through his desk, maybe grabbing a lucky charm. The silence dragged on, heavy and awkward. My heart thudded.

"What are you doing?" I tried to sound chill, but my voice cracked. I needed answers, not more mystery.

I tried to play it cool, but my voice wobbled. I needed the truth, not more suspense.

After the noise stopped, Marcus finally explained. I could hear him moving around.

I heard the creak of bedsprings, the thud of something hitting the floor. He sounded breathless, like he’d just sprinted across campus. My nerves jangled.

"I sleep on the lower bunk, but I just moved to the top one. Luckily, most people went home for break—dorm’s just me." His words made no sense at first.

His words made no sense. Why would switching bunks matter? I waited, confused and a little impatient, heart pounding.

I was confused—what did changing bunks have to do with anything? My brain spun.

I pictured his dorm—narrow bunks, peeling paint. Didn’t seem like the kind of place monsters cared about height. But what did I know?

Marcus lowered his voice, sounding nervous. Like he was about to share a secret he’d never told anyone.

He whispered, voice shaky, like he was scared someone—or something—might hear. The fear was contagious. I felt it, too.

"Listen, BigTex is right. If you say its name with both feet on the floor, it can hear you. That’s why I climbed up." I glanced at my own feet, suddenly wishing I was standing on a chair.

The logic was twisted, but I believed him in that moment. Anything to feel safer. I shifted my weight, uneasy.

"What is it? What’s so creepy about it?" I needed to know, even if I wasn’t sure I wanted the answer. My skin crawled.

I needed to know, even if it made everything worse. I braced myself.

Marcus swallowed, voice trembling. I heard him breathe in, shaky, like he was about to say something he’d regret.

I heard him take a ragged breath, steeling himself. My heart pounded.

"The Redwater Hag. Evan, you ran into the Redwater Hag." The name hit me like a bucket of ice water.

The name sent a chill through me, colder than anything I’d felt all night. It sounded ancient, heavy with pain. My hands shook.

Marcus said the Redwater Hag is a half-human, half-demon thing, unique to the old families around Redwater. My blood ran cold.

He explained that every generation, the curse picks someone—usually a woman—from one of the founding families. They’re normal by day, but at night, the curse takes over, twisting them into something monstrous. My skin prickled.

"By day, they’re perfectly normal folks. But at night, the curse controls them. That’s why you never see anyone near Redwater after dark." His voice was grave.

He said the families all know, but no one talks about it. It’s just the way things are. You learn to keep your head down, stay inside, and never, ever take a shortcut after midnight. I swallowed hard.

I didn’t get it. "What’s the curse?" My voice was tiny.

My voice was small, uncertain. I felt like a little kid again, huddled around a campfire, listening to ghost stories. Except this one was real.

"It’s complicated. Just think of it like a witch’s curse that takes over a person. But it’s not some guardian spirit—it’s pure evil, and it doesn’t need an invitation." I shivered.

He said it was old magic, the kind that seeps into the ground and never lets go. The curse doesn’t care if you’re good or bad—it just wants to feed. I hugged myself.

In some old families, when women reach a certain age or time, they awaken as vessels for the curse. It’s not something they can refuse. Once awakened, they become the Redwater Hag—the thing I ran into. My heart pounded.

He said the transformation is agony, for the person and their family. Some try to fight it, but most just vanish, leaving rumors and empty chairs at the table. My chest tightened.

"By day, they might look human. But at night, they’re completely taken over, turned into monsters." The words echoed in my head.

The words echoed, mixing with memories of those red eyes and that twisted smile. I felt sick, dizzy with fear. My legs shook.

Suddenly, it clicked. I blurted out, "So what I saw on Redwater Road wasn’t a boar, it was…" My voice trembled.

My voice shook, but I had to say it out loud, make it real. My scalp prickled.

"So what I saw on Redwater Road wasn’t a boar, it was…" I couldn’t finish. My skin crawled.

My scalp prickled. Even remembering it made me want to run. I hugged myself tight.

The image flashed—jewelry, red shawl, human hands on animal legs. I shuddered, hugging myself for comfort. Nightmare fuel.

Something not quite human, not quite animal. My mind whirled.

It was the stuff of nightmares, the kind of thing you hope only exists in stories. I wished it was just a story.

"Told you—it was the Redwater Hag!" Marcus’s voice was urgent, desperate for me to believe him. I did. Every word felt true.

Marcus’s voice was desperate, pleading for me to understand. I did. Every word hit home. I believed him.

Marcus said the Redwater Hag is a kind of evil witch, growing stronger by feeding on people—souls or livers. The stronger it gets, the more forms it can take. My stomach twisted.

He said it starts small—stealing chickens, scaring dogs—but the longer it goes without feeding, the bolder it gets. Eventually, it comes for people. My blood ran cold.

"But it’s not a true spirit. No matter what it turns into—animal or person—it keeps some of its own features. Like that boar you saw with human hands and feet." My mind reeled.

He said the jewelry, the shawl, the eyes—those were clues. The Hag can’t hide everything, no matter how hard it tries. My skin crawled.

The more I heard, the more my skin crawled. My stomach churned. This was too much.

I wrapped my arms around myself, trying to stop the shivers. The fear was deep, bone-deep, and it wasn’t going anywhere soon. I felt raw.

Is this really something I should be hearing in 2025? Feels like I’m trapped in a horror movie. I laughed, but it sounded hollow.

I glanced at my phone, half-expecting a camera crew to pop out, someone to yell "cut." But it was just Marcus, voice trembling on the other end. No escape.

"Everything you experienced was the Hag luring you in. It’s vengeful, petty—if it doesn’t get you tonight, it’ll hold a grudge. It won’t let you go." I swallowed.

He said the only hope was to keep moving, never let it catch your scent again. Even then, it might not be enough. My heart thudded.

Just as Marcus finished, my doorbell rang. The sound sliced through the silence. I froze, phone clutched in a death grip.

The sound was sharp, sudden. I froze, every muscle tensed. My breath caught. Not again.

I glanced at my watch, icy dread flooding me. The digital numbers glowed: 4:44 a.m. The witching hour, my grandma always called it. I swallowed hard, nerves jangling.

4:44 a.m. Who the hell could be at my door? My mind raced.

The question echoed in my head, louder than the ringing. I took a shaky breath, heart pounding, and waited to see what would happen next. Waiting, hoping, dreading.