September 25, 2024

The Fourteen-Fourteen Curse
by William Quincy Belle

This story first appeared online and in Belle's short story collection Salmagundi.

Click here to listen to this story on the Kaidankai Podcast.



Donald tucked the blue recycling bin under one arm and stepped into the hall.

“Hey, Donald.” The man came toward him, looked at the blue bin and held up his own. “Saturday’s chores. Let’s all be good to the environment.”

“I do my part, Mr. Buntrock.” Donald nodded and smiled as he passed. In the utility room, he emptied his bin into a chute on the wall, listening to the various items clatter as they fell from the fourteenth floor to the basement.

Back in his apartment, Donald walked into the living room and saw the stack of newspapers from the previous week. “Oh, shoot.” Resigned, he once again brought out the blue bin and walked around, looking for other items he had forgotten. He took an almost empty and long expired bottle of orange juice from the refrigerator, put it in the bin, and headed back to the utility room.

In the hallway, Mr. Buntrock walked toward him and held up his bin. “Hey, Donald. Saturday’s chores. Let’s all be good to the environment.”

“Yes.” Donald half-smiled, took a few steps, and stopped. He stared after Mr. Buntrock. He shook his head and continued with his errand.

In the kitchen, the clock showed five past two in the afternoon. Tea and a cookie would hit the spot. Donald opened the refrigerator, furrowing his brow as he stared at an almost empty bottle of orange juice. He looked toward the recycling bin and glanced again at the bottle. After emptying it in the sink, Donald took a step toward the blue bin and stopped. Through the arched entry to the living room, he saw a stack of newspapers. He walked over, picked up the top copy, and read yesterday’s date.

What’s going on?

Donald set everything down and went to the washroom to splash cold water on his face. He rubbed his eyes, dried off, and returned to the living room. The bottle and newspapers were gone. His head jerked.

He hurried to the kitchen and inspected the refrigerator. He moved items around but didn’t see the bottle. The blue bin was empty. He stood in the middle of the kitchen, perplexed. A noise sounded in the hall. Curious, he stuck his head out to see Mr. Buntrock pulling the door to his apartment closed, picking up a blue bin with both hands, and making his way down the hall. “Saturday’s chores, Donald. Let’s all be good to the environment.”

Donald stared at him in disbelief.

Mr. Buntrock stopped. “What’s the matter? You okay?”

“How many bins of recycling do you have?”

“Just one. Why?”

Donald looked up and down the hall. “Nothing. I thought I had seen you take the bin out earlier.”

“Nope. I’ve been watching the game. They went to commercial, so I’m taking advantage of the break to get this task out of the way.” Mr. Buntrock walked toward the utility room. “Have a good one.”

Donald shut the door, glaring at his blue bin. He glanced around the kitchen until the view out the window caught his attention. It was dark. He strode across the room, pressed his face against the pane, and looked out over the city. Lighted buildings twinkled under a pitch-black sky. The clock read 11:35 p.m. It was night. He strolled to the living room and sat down. Was he having a stroke? Did he have a brain aneurysm? Was a medical condition affecting his perception or was he blacking out?

He noticed a clock on the side table showed 2:20 p.m. He twisted toward the windows. Rays of sun shone onto the floor. He jumped up and ran to the kitchen window. The scene outside showed a warm, bright afternoon.

Donald leaned back against the counter, running one hand through his hair. He tried in vain to make sense of the situation, comparing it to every other experience. His gaze wandered around the room, taking in the table, two chairs, and refrigerator. The sink and overhead cupboards. Everything looked normal. Everything seemed in order.

Donald chuckled. “This is crazy.”

Saying the words out loud felt comforting. He’d been hallucinating, and now it was over. Donald filled the kettle with water and plugged it in. He grabbed an individually wrapped tea bag from the cupboard. The bag went into the mug, and the folded wrapper was to go in the recycling bin, but first, he checked the bin. It was empty. He chuckled and threw out the wrapper.

Donald stood at the counter, tapping one finger on the plastic laminate. Should he see his doctor? Should he be concerned? Such a thing had never happened. Was this one of those cases where somebody ignores the early warning signs of an impending medical emergency and ends up dying? On Monday, he must phone his doctor — to make sure.

His gaze focused on the kettle. It wasn’t plugged in. But he had plugged it in, hadn’t he? Donald frowned.

There was a plop out into the hall. He checked the time. It was seven o’clock, and there was no mug on the counter. He opened the door to find a newspaper on his doorstep. Other newspapers dotted the length of the hall. He picked up the paper and read the date. It showed Friday.

Donald tossed the paper on the counter and sat in an armchair, using his cell phone to search for the number of the after-hours clinic. He shouldn’t wait until Monday. He needed help now.

The kettle whistled, softly at first but with increasing intensity. Donald gazed through the arch into the kitchen. Steam rose from the spout of the kettle. The newspaper was gone, but the mug was there. The clock displayed 2:35 p.m.

He walked into the kitchen and unplugged the kettle.

What’s going on? This is crazy.

Donald strode out of his apartment to Mr. Buntrock’s. He knocked. There was a moment of silence, followed by muffled footsteps. The door opened, and an unfamiliar face appeared.

“May I help you?”

Donald gawked at the stranger, looking first at the apartment number on the door, then at the name tag Arthur Treacher. “Uh ... Is Mr. Buntrock here?”

“Who?”

“Mr. Buntrock.”

“I’m sorry. You must have the wrong apartment.”

“But ...”

“You must have the wrong floor, then. Go back down to the lobby and verify it using the building’s directory.”

“I ... uh ...”

“Good luck.” The man nodded and shut the door. Dumbfounded, Donald stood in the hall before shuffling back to his apartment. His mind raced, unable to grasp the random changes in time.

His eyes lit up.

Time? Changes in time? Is that what’s going on?

He reentered his apartment and stopped at the arch opening into the living room. His jaw dropped. Everything was different: the furniture, the layout, the curtains. It wasn’t his apartment.

He walked back to the door and opened it to look at the number. It was correct. This was his apartment. He read the name tag — Mr. and Mrs. Fred Schwartz — and gasped. Those were the previous owners, but he’d now been in the apartment for over a year.

Donald shut the door and went to the kitchen, leaned back against the counter, and folded his arms. Time was changing. At least his time was changing, but he didn’t know how or why. Time travel was impossible. Or was it?

The clock showed 2:45 p.m. He whipped around, looking into the living room, once again furnished with his things. Donald ran to the opening, scanning the room. He had returned to the present.

He ran down the hall and knocked on his neighbor’s door. Mr. Buntrock opened it and smiled. “Hey, Donald. What can I do for you?”

“Have you noticed anything unusual today?” Donald asked.

“Unusual?” Mr. Buntrock raised an eyebrow. “Like what?”

“I ... well ...” His eyes darted around. “I’ve been seeing odd things.”

“Hmmm, the fourteen–fourteen curse?”

“What?”

Mr. Buntrock shrugged. “Oh, a story I heard about the building. About your apartment.”

“Nobody ever said anything about this.”

“Tenants change. People forget. Stories get lost in time.” Mr. Buntrock leaned against the doorjamb. “It’s all a bunch of mumbo jumbo. I never paid it any mind.”

“What’s the story?”

“We’re not on the fourteenth floor. We’re on the thirteenth. The builders left out thirteen in the numbering, so this floor became fourteen. However, it’s the thirteenth.” Mr. Buntrock shook his head and chortled. “We’re such a superstitious lot.”

“Okay.” Donald hung on his words.

“Your apartment is number fourteen, but it’s the thirteenth apartment.”

Donald looked down the hall, nodding. “Because there’s no number thirteen.”

“Right. Your address, fourteen–fourteen, is thirteen–thirteen. Your apartment has the double whammy of being numbered thirteen twice. It’s bad luck times two.”

“You mentioned a curse?”

“Ah, yes. The curse.” Mr. Buntrock grinned. “Rumor has it bad things have happened to the previous tenants.”

“Such as?”

“I haven’t been here that long, so I don’t know if any of these stories are true. Tenants reported strange occurrences in the apartment. One tenant disappeared. The police investigated but never turned up anything. The person had no next of kin, so building management sold everything and gave the proceeds to charity.”

“Strange occurrences?”

“Things moving around the apartment. Items disappeared only to reappear. One bloke thought he was moving through time, visiting the apartment at previous points in the past.”

“Why doesn’t this happen all the time?”

“The curse only happens after Friday the thirteenth on Saturday the fourteenth. And it only happens in the fourteenth hour: two in the afternoon.”

“That’s crazy.” Donald pursed his lips. “Didn’t anybody do anything?”

“You’re kidding, right? Who’s going to do anything with a story like that? What could anybody do? Time travel? That’s one for the books.” Mr. Buntrock chuckled. “People learned to stay out of the apartment between two and three on the day following Friday the thirteenth.” He gave Donald a sly look. “I’m guessing you being here means you’d like to report something funny.”

Donald hesitated. “No, no. I overheard somebody mention something about it, and I got curious. That’s all.”

Mr. Buntrock eyed him. “Sure?”

“Nope. That’s it. You’ve been here longer than me, so I thought you might know something.” Donald started down the hall. “Thanks.”

“No problem.”

Donald turned the handle of his apartment and glanced up the hall. Mr. Buntrock stood at his door, watching him. Donald waved and went inside.

As he shut the door, he felt a breeze against his cheek. He turned around and faced a space open to the outside. Steel posts spread out along the edge of a cement floor. His apartment was gone. There were no walls. No windows. It was the empty floor of a building under construction.

Frantic, he whipped around. The door had vanished. The cement floor extended to the other side of the building, punctuated by more steel supports. Donald walked over to where his kitchen should be, sliding one foot to the edge. Steel girders and cement flooring were visible, thirteen stories to the ground. Donald realized the cityscape was different. Buildings were missing, and smaller buildings dotted the surroundings. The area looked older, even historical. He got the sense he was in a different era.

When was this building constructed?

He moved back from the edge and looked over the floor at the vast, open area spotted with vertical steel posts. At each end of the rectangular building, there was a cement shaft with a fire door. Donald walked to the closest one, pushed the bar, and stepped into the stairwell. The pneumatic closer eased the door shut. He glanced down the stairwell, taking in the railings of the different flights, all the way to the ground. He looked up and rubbed his chin.

What’s going on?

Donald pulled the door handle. He peeked through the opening and saw the fourteenth-floor hallway stretching to the other end of the building. He stepped into the hall, and he examined the walls, running his hand over the paper. This was his hall. This was the present.

As he reached his apartment door and turned the handle, Donald heard another door open. Mr. Buntrock stepped out and waved.

“I’m going out for dinner tonight,” he said. He locked his door and headed past Donald. “We’re going to the new pub that opened around the corner. I’ve never been there, so I couldn’t pass up the chance. Rumor has it their shepherd’s pie is mouthwatering.”

Donald turned his head toward him. “Try the house lager. I had a pint last week. It was good.”

“Thanks.” As Mr. Buntrock continued to the elevators, he waved.

Donald smiled, pushing open the door and stepping into his apartment. For a few dizzying seconds, he somersaulted as he plummeted to the ground, startled by the looming concrete structures.


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Saturday, June 24, 2056. A local demolition company has called in police to investigate two skeletons found between the enclosed support walls of the foundation for the Hullmark Building. ABC Demolition was in the last stages of tearing down the 1960s structure to make way for a new condo–shopping complex when they discovered the human remains. The bodies were entombed in the sealed space during the original construction of the building. Police suspect foul play. However, after a hundred years, the possibility of finding the perpetrator is remote. The investigation continues.

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William Quincy Belle is just a guy. Nobody famous; nobody rich; just some guy who likes to periodically add his two cents worth with the hope, accounting for inflation, that $0.02 is not over-evaluating his contribution. He claims that at the heart of the writing process is some sort of (psychotic) urge to put it down on paper and likes to recite the following which so far he hasn't been able to attribute to anyone: "A writer is an egomaniac with low self-esteem." You will find Mr. Belle's unbridled stream of consciousness here (https://www.amazon.com/stores/William-Quincy-Belle/author/B01M1IQ69G).

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