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  MAGIC OR MURDER?

  When miserly landlord Henry Deutch is found dead of an apparent heart attack, no one is happier than Anna Young. It was Henry who evicted Anna’s mother from his Catskill tenement, which eventually led to her death. Anna swore a blood oath of vengeance, but her alleged attacks were purely metaphysical. Yet, some claim them mortally effective; those who frequent her tiny shop for love charms and protective amulets attest that Anna Young is a master of black magic.

  Now a politically ambitious prosecutor has filed first-degree murder charges against Anna, contending that her spell casting literally frightened old Henry to death. And though the public remains divided among those who believe in Anna’s powers and those who think her a murderous fraud, one Del Pearson, her court-appointed lawyer, is about to discover the truth: whether Anna Young is a harmless charlatan, a cold-blooded killer. . .or quite something else indeed.

  ANNA REMAINED UNTIL HER

  MOTHER’S GRAVE WAS FILLED AND

  THE GRAVEDIGGERS HAD LEFT.

  Then she knelt over it in the thick darkness. She put her palms down on the cold, fresh earth and raised her head to look up at the cloudy black sky.

  It was as if something rose out of the grave into her arms and through her body. Her eyes were suddenly electric.

  “I hear, Mother,” she said. “And I swear he will not live to harm another.”

  CURSE

  Books by Andrew Neiderman

  Sisters

  Weekend

  Pin

  Brainchild

  Someone’s Watching

  Tender, Loving Care

  Imp

  Night Howl

  Child’s Play

  Teachers Pet

  Sight Unseen

  Love Child

  Reflection

  Illusion

  Playmates

  The Maddening

  Surrogate Child

  Perfect Little Angels

  Blood Child

  Sister, Sister

  After Life

  Duplicates

  The Solomon Organization

  Angel of Mercy

  The Devils Advocate

  The Dark

  In Double Jeopardy

  Neighborhood Watch

  Curse

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  A Pocket Star Book published by POCKET BOOKS, a division of Simon & Schuster, Inc. 1230 Avenue of the Americas, New York, NY 10020

  www.SimonandSchuster.com

  Copyright © 2000 by Andrew Neiderman

  All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce

  this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever.

  For information address Pocket Books, 1230 Avenue

  of the Americas, New York, NY 10020

  ISBN: 978-1-4516-6652-6

  eISBN-13: 978-1-4516-8261-8

  First Pocket Books printing October 2000

  POCKET STAR BOOKS and colophon are registered trademarks of

  Simon & Schuster, Inc.

  Front cover photo montage by John Vairo; photo credits: David Job/Tony Stone Images; Terje Rakke/The Image Bank; Thomek Sikora/The Image Bank

  For Robin Rue

  Who seized the moment and kept the flag flying high

  Thank you for purchasing this Pocket Star eBook.

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  Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Epilogue

  Curse

  Prologue

  Even without the mystical ceremony, burial at night was enough to unnerve the mourners. They clutched the black candles tightly in their right hands as if their holding firmly onto the light kept them from falling into the newly dug grave they surrounded. The pungent odor of freshly uncovered damp earth filled their nostrils, but no one coughed or as much as cleared his throat.

  They had been instructed to hold their candles at least six inches above their heads. Most had their arms stiffly extended, their bodies trembling like the bodies of subway riders clinging to their straps while the train jets into the night. Looking at each other, they saw how the small flames dripped yellow light over their faces and how their eyes glittered like those of the curious nocturnal creatures hovering in the shadows.

  The candles flickered in the cool late September New York Catskill Mountain evening, but not one was extinguished. Anna Young had lit them while reciting some ancient incantation and that seemed to help each defy the wind. No one present questioned her power to do just that.

  All those who were paying their final respects to Gussie Young felt they had benefitted from Anna’s mother’s spiritual gifts and were now benefitting from Anna’s. Some were here out of a sense of obligation; some out of fear that what they had been given would be taken away if they weren’t here.

  Standing in the old cemetery about a mile out of Sandburg proper, the mourners were surrounded by hickory, oak, and birch trees and wild berry bushes. It was a pristine, ancient place where the thick forest was dark even in the middle of the afternoon. The closest home was Melvin Bedik’s, a retired poultry and egg farmer, about midway between the cemetery and town.

  The mourners closed the gaps between them, trying to touch, trying to feel secure and protected. They continued to cling tightly to their candles and stared at Anna, wondering what would take place next in this strange yet fascinating burial service, while off to the side the gravediggers waited uneasily for her command to lower her mother’s coffin and make her an eternal citizen of this graveyard, the oldest in Sandburg, a hamlet in the town of Fallsburg. In New York state the communities were collected into townships and the townships into counties.

  The cemetery had recently been added to the Fallsburg township’s list of historical properties as a way to at least keep the graves and stones under the umbrella of the township’s maintenance. The church that had once supported it was long gone, and with its demise went anyone to administer care. The sanctuary itself had become a shell that had gone up in flames when a drunken homeless man had wandered into it and fallen asleep with a cigarette that had slipped from his fingers and ignited the dry wood. Reverend Carter, the Episcopalian minister, actually was heard to say, “What better place for him to die than there, cupped in God’s hand?”

  Anna stood at the foot of her mother’s grave. Her eyes were shut so tightly her eyelids looked like they had been stuck together since birth. Her head was back and she held her arms out to the side in crucifix fashion. In her right hand she clutched what the mourners knew to be strands of her dead mother’s gray hair, which the eighty-four-year-old Gussie Young had worn long and straight, nearly down to her wing bones. In her left hand, Anna held a silver chalice. Some of
the village children claimed they saw her drink a witch’s brew from it when there was a full moon.

  Everyone at the grave site had heard all of Anna’s chants, even the ones that were nearly whispered, but no one could make any sense out of them. The language was gibberish, yet melodic. Of course, they had anticipated something like this and nothing traditional. No one had expected the presence of any clergyman at the funeral, not with the way they all were condemning Anna and her mother for what they characterized as the Black Arts.

  Anna stopped her chant and tilted the chalice to pour what the mourners thought was either wine or blood over the strands of hair which she immediately dropped into the grave. Then she turned to the gravediggers and nodded.

  Mesmerized by her actions, they jumped to lower the coffin. They were both eager to do what had to be done and then leave. Anna watched, her hands pressed against her bosom. After the coffin settled at the bottom, she turned to the mourners.

  “My mother should not have died,” she declared. “Despite her age, it was not her time. You all know she had much work to complete. He who caused this is here among you and you know who he is and where he is. I will not leave you until he is gone. This was what I have promised my mother and what I promise you.”

  Anna looked down at the coffin.

  “My mother will not leave you either.”

  She smiled at them.

  “You all know this is true,” she said.

  No one spoke, but some nodded. When the first shovelful of dirt hit the coffin, a large crow screeched and flew over their heads. The gravediggers paused and gazed at each other as if they were deciding whether or not to throw down their shovels and run for their lives. Then they looked at Anna and quickly resumed.

  Anna nodded at the mourners, signaling the end. She turned back to the grave to watch the coffin being covered, and the mourners began their departing, each touching her arm or embracing her, speaking soft words of commiseration and then stepping away from the old cemetery and into their cars, snuffing out their candles one at a time.

  The cars pulled away quietly, no one leaving too fast, some even keeping their headlights off until they were a bit down the road. They looked like they had simply materialized out of the shadows, old black souls fleeing their entombment.

  Anna remained until her mother’s grave was filled and the gravediggers had left. Then she knelt over it in the thick darkness. She put her palms down on the cold, fresh earth and raised her head to look up at the cloudy black sky.

  It was as if something rose out of the grave into her arms and through her body. Her eyes were suddenly electric.

  “I hear, Mother,” she said. “And I swear he will not live to harm another.”

  One

  Whoever said that April was the cruelest month wasn’t thinking of upstate New York, Ralph Baxter thought There was nothing cruel about seeing the ground thaw and the buds sprout on the tree branches. And there was certainly nothing cruel about the warmer air, the bluer sky, the birds returning, and the cold shadows retreating to wherever the hell dark things dwelt. He stood on his large front porch and took a deep breath. He was seventy-four and widowed for three years. Five years before Jennie’s death, he and she had terminated the Cherrywood Lodge, his family’s old farmhouse that had been converted into a tourist rooming house twenty-eight years ago.

  It was a long time to be in the hospitality business, he thought, and laughed at what he imagined his grandfather would have said had he lived to see his cornfields turned into a couple of tennis and handball courts, a baseball field, and a swimming pool. The pool had long since gone to disrepair, the cement cracking, the paint nearly completely faded and gone. Weeds grew profusely where the baseball infield once was.

  During the heyday of the New York Catskill resort years, his guests would play in tournaments against the guests of other rooming houses and small hotels. They had great picnics with barbecued hamburgers and chicken, fresh corn on the cob, and a salad made with the vegetables from his own gardens. Their clientele was comprised from nice New York City families. The grounds were alive with children and noise. Jennie was like everyone’s grandmother. Guests got used to calling him Pop and her Mother Baxter. Despite what his grandfather would say, running a tourist house was a lot easier than farming and, for quite a few years, a lot more profitable, Ralph thought. It gave them enough for a comfortable retirement, but not enough to keep up a property this size.

  Now, of course, it was too much house for just him. He had shut down most of it, confining the heat to just the kitchen, small parlor, and one bedroom. The lobby was too big to keep warm in the winter. Paneling peeled, window casings expanded and contracted, the old rugs were worn thin, and the furniture, never really used anymore, looked like rejects from even the thrift stores. It pained him to see the property degenerate, but there wasn’t much he could do. Tourists were long gone. Even the memory of them dwindled and was lost in the darkness of the forest that surrounded his home and property, shadows and voices drifting in the wind. Occasionally, something would creak and echo in the house and he would lift his eyes expecting to see a group of New Yorkers walking down the hallway, laughing, their faces tan and robust, children trailing behind them, giggling and shouting, their voices tinkling like cans tied to the back bumper of a car for Just Marrieds.

  But there was no one there, no one’s voice or laugh to hear but his own.

  He dug out his pocket watch and checked the time. Henry Deutch was late. Unusual for that man to be late, he thought. From what he knew about the man, he worked like a Swiss timepiece: efficient, coldly methodical. Ralph didn’t like him. The only reason he was interested in Henry’s arrival was his curiosity as to what in hell that man wanted from him. He couldn’t recall passing more than a handful of words between them all these years.

  As if thinking about him produced him, Henry Deutch’s Mercedes came around the bend, up from Sandburg. The old road wasn’t traveled much anymore and the county rarely came by to clean or maintain it. The dust spiraled behind the car. From this perspective, it looked like the vehicle was on fire. Deutch pulled up the driveway and stopped. He seemed to wait for the dust to settle before stepping out.

  “Sorry I’m late,” he said without much remorse in his voice. One could easily see from his expression that he didn’t think it mattered very much to a man like Ralph Baxter. What else did he have to do with his time but to wait for busier, more productive men?

  “That’s all right; that’s all right,” Ralph said. He extended his hand when Henry reached the porch. It was a quick, perfunctory greeting. Deutch already looked preoccupied, nervous, even tense. “How you been, Henry?”

  “I’ve been better. Maybe you heard about my problem in town,” he added, and looked up expectantly, perhaps searching for a face bathed in sympathy.

  Ralph shook his head slowly.

  “No sir. Don’t get into town as much as I usta. What’s goin’ on?”

  “It’s that damn seamstress, the madwoman some people believe has supernatural powers . . . Anna Young.”

  Ralph nodded.

  “Yeah, I hear a lot about her. Heard she cured Simon Karachek’s arthritis.”

  “Ridiculous. All of them, idiots, paying good money for her hocus-pocus.”

  “I wouldn’t disregard all that out of hand, Henry. I remember when my father usta bring old lady Nussbaum up here to bless the soil with her charms. Rarely had a bad crop, too. ’Course, you probably don’t remember her. I was barely five or six and you weren’t even here yet. Railroad was just gettin’ to be a big thing up here then and of course, later it would encourage all those city people to come up here for summer holidays. They published a magazine called Summer Homes. Why, I can remember—”

  “Right,” Henry interrupted. “I don’t remember any of that and the railroad’s gone so why waste time talking about it?”

  Ralph could see how Henry’s impatience made him fidgety, that and whatever was going on in the village.
r />   “Um. How’s Anna Young a problem for you?”

  “She’s been harassing me,” he said, his face reddening with the effort. “I’ve had to get the law on her, not that it does much good.”

  “That so? Now that you mention it, I do recall something about you having her and her mother evicted nearly a year ago. That was a bit of a mess, wasn’t it?” Baxter asked with a twinkle in his eye. He knew the story, but pretended to be vague about it.

  Conniving old fox, Henry thought, just like the rest of them.

  “I had no lease with them. I was kind enough to give them a place to start, but I had to get them out of there.”

  “Why?”

  “Why? Because they were both crazy, spooking people, especially prospective new tenants, that’s why. How would you like someone smelling up your home with that stinky incense and burning candles in the windows while chanting gibberish all night?”

  “Yeah, I remember it better now. That eviction was quite a mess, quite a mess, and didn’t the old lady die soon after?”

  “How’s that my fault?”

  “I guess the turmoil was too much for her. Stress can kill, Henry,” Baxter said almost gleefully.

  “A man should have a right to do what he wants with his own property, shouldn’t he?” Henry practically screamed. His face looked like it was swelling as well as turning another shade of crimson.

  Ain’t he a time bomb, Ralph thought, but he enjoyed seeing Henry disturbed. He thought about his uncle Charlie, his father’s brother, who was good at putting little digs and scratches into people, infuriating them with remarks and expressions just for the pleasure of seeing how easy it was to rile them up.

  “I’ve got no argument with that, Henry,” Baxter said. “However, there are some people you just don’t want to cross. They have some sort of power.”

  “Nonsense,” Henry Deutch said, but not with as much enthusiasm as he had before. Ralph wondered how much about Anna Young Henry didn’t believe or didn’t want to believe and how much he couldn’t help believe. A woman like that could keep you up nights, for sure, he thought.