The Cursed Series, Parts 3 & 4 (Cursed #3-4) - Rebecca Donovan Page 0,7

distance, having stopped when she discovered I was no longer behind her. “Are you okay?”

“Sorry.” I shake off the onslaught of conspiracy theories. “Coming.”

I follow Ashton’s light, continuing to stumble over the forest floor, and swat at the swarm of mosquitoes hovering around me. Why did I agree to this?

What seems like an eternity later, I hear the murmur of voices and the tinny echo of music. And then the barn appears out of nowhere. A faint glow giving shape to a large, shadowed structure.

“There was a farm out here?” I ask, inspecting the silhouetted forest surrounding the abandoned building. I can’t make out remnants of a house or a field in any direction.

“I don’t get it either. But this barn is old, so who knows.”

“And you’re positive it won’t fall down on top of us?”

“There’s some broken boards, but I don’t think it’s going anywhere. They actually knew how to build things back then.”

As we get closer, I realize there isn’t a road or a driveway leading to it. Only more trees. I spot a couple ATVs, one with a trailer attached to it, along with a few dirt bikes propped against tree trunks.

“Where does everyone park?” I ask as the twang of country music becomes more distinct.

“There’s a dirt road a couple miles through the woods. No one lives on it, so there isn’t anyone to complain about the cars. The police probably know about this place, but they don’t come out here. I mean, what are they going to do? Bring everyone in on the back of an ATV?”

Clusters of people stand outside, leaning against the worn wooden planks. Others sit on boulders embedded sporadically around the perimeter. When we step up to the opening, all I see is plaid—lots of plaid tied around waists or with the sleeves rolled up, slung over T-shirts. Even most of the girls are wearing softer hues of short-sleeved plaid paired with jeans or torn denim skirts. I fight not to roll my eyes.

The barn is smaller than I pictured. It’s about the size of a large two-bay garage at a gas station but with a second level. Except the upper floor doesn’t have many boards intact. The open space is packed, which surprises me. Teens around here are so desperate to party, they’re forced to walk a couple miles into the woods just to drink beers and listen to music that barely has a bass. If they start line dancing, I swear I’m out of here.

We step through the large sliding doors. That’s when I notice it’s a little bigger than I first thought. Dilapidated stalls take up the entire right side. Twinkle lights strung between posts let off a faint glow—presumably battery-operated since there definitely isn’t any electricity. And blanket-covered bales of hay are scattered around the perimeter for people to sit on.

Despite the fact that it’s in a barn, it’s just a typical party. People stand in clusters with red Solo cups in their hands, talking or laughing—those who have had too much to drink can be heard over the hum of voices. Couples, who think no one can see them, make out in dark corners. And there’s always that group of girls who really want to dance, even if they’re the only ones, standing on top of hay bales, shaking their asses.

“Keg’s over here.” Ashton nudges my shoulder.

“It smells weird in here,” I tell her as we cross the dirt floor scattered with hay.

“What do you expect? It’s a barn.”

There’s a line of people with empty cups spilling out of a stall next to a back entrance.

When we reach the front, Ashton pulls out a twenty and hands it to the guy manning the keg. “Two.”

“Didn’t know we needed money for beer,” I tell her. “I’ll pay you back when we get to school.”

“Don’t worry about it. I asked you to come. I’ll pay for your beer.”

“Thanks.” I hesitate a second before taking the cup.

“Grant’s not here,” Ashton assures me, picking up on my reluctance to accept the beer. “He never comes to these things. It’s mostly local PG kids rebelling.”

“It’s not that. I mean, it is, but it’s also, I wanted to see if I could. Be sober … for me.” I pause to take a sip from the cup and fight the cringe my body wants to make. “Besides, I hate beer.”

Ashton laughs. “Keep drinking. Eventually, you won’t care.”

I fight down a couple more gulps. This beer is different from the watery cans I’m used