Rise of The Abandoned Husband

"Right here," I said, tapping my foot on the ground beneath the cherry tree. "The digging needs to start exactly here."

The groundskeeper exchanged a skeptical glance with Damian before reluctantly positioning his shovel where I'd indicated. Two other workers stood nearby, tools in hand, clearly confused by the unusual request.

"Mr. Knight," Damian said, his voice tense, "I hope you understand what you're asking. This garden has been in our family for generations."

I nodded but didn't waver. "I understand. But what's buried here has been slowly killing your father. Trust me on this."

From behind us came the sound of approaching footsteps. Mr. Nolan had returned, his face a mask of professional indignation.

"Mr. Prescott," he called out to Alistair, who was seated in a garden chair wrapped in blankets. "Before you allow this... disruption to proceed, I feel obligated to offer one final warning. Disturbing the earth here without proper ritual preparation could worsen any existing imbalances."

Alistair's weathered face turned toward the feng shui master. "And yet you've been treating me for weeks with no improvement."

"These things take time—"

"Time I may not have," Alistair cut him off, then nodded toward me. "Let the young man proceed."

Mr. Nolan's posture stiffened as he turned to me, eyes narrowed. "Very well. Since you claim such expertise, perhaps you wouldn't mind a professional wager?"

"I'm not here to gamble," I replied, keeping my eyes on the spot I'd identified.

"Not gambling—accountability," Nolan insisted. "If your digging reveals nothing, you will publicly acknowledge your error and compensate the Prescott family for this unnecessary destruction. And if something is indeed found..." He paused dramatically. "I will acknowledge you as my master in the arcane arts."

The workers paused, shovels hovering above the ground, waiting for my response. I could feel everyone's eyes on me.

"Start digging," I instructed the workers, ignoring Nolan's challenge.

The groundskeeper drove his shovel into the soil with a decisive thrust. The earth gave way easily—too easily, I noted, as if it had been disturbed before. The other workers joined in, and soon they had created a shallow pit about three feet in diameter.

"Careful," I cautioned as they worked. "Go slowly."

Damian paced nervously beside his father's chair while Mr. Nolan stood with arms crossed, a smug smile playing at the corners of his mouth. The digging continued for nearly twenty minutes, the pit growing deeper with no sign of anything unusual.

"Two feet down and nothing but dirt," Mr. Nolan remarked loudly enough for everyone to hear. "Perhaps we should consult the stars next? Or read some tea leaves?"

I ignored the barb, focused intently on the excavation. The chill I'd felt earlier was growing stronger, more concentrated. We were getting close.

"Three feet now," the groundskeeper announced, wiping sweat from his brow despite the unnatural cold. "Still nothing, sir."

Mr. Nolan stepped forward. "I believe we've indulged this long enough. Mr. Prescott, with your permission, I'd like to begin proper remediation for—"

"Keep digging," I interrupted firmly.

"This is becoming absurd," Nolan snapped. "You clearly have no idea what you're—"

The metallic clang of a shovel striking something solid cut him off mid-sentence. The workers froze, exchanging nervous glances.

"What was that?" Damian asked, stepping closer to the pit.

The groundskeeper knelt down, brushing away loose soil with his gloved hands. "There's something here, sir. Feels like metal."

Mr. Nolan's smugness vanished, replaced by poorly concealed surprise. He moved closer to the pit, peering down with unconcealed curiosity.

"Uncover it completely," I instructed. "But don't open it."

The workers carefully removed more soil, revealing an iron box approximately two feet long and one foot wide. It was bound with rusted metal bands and had no visible lock or keyhole. The metal surface was covered with faded symbols that made the workers step back involuntarily.

"What... what is it?" Damian asked, his voice barely above a whisper.

Even from where I stood, I could feel the malevolence emanating from the box. This was definitely the source of the disturbance, the cause of Alistair's mysterious illness.

"It appears to be some kind of container," I said calmly, though I recognized the sinister nature of the symbols etched into its surface. "Mr. Nolan, perhaps you'd care to offer your professional assessment?"

The feng shui master approached cautiously, his earlier arrogance replaced by genuine concern. He crouched at the edge of the pit, studying the box without touching it.

"This shouldn't be here," he muttered, more to himself than to us. "These markings... they're not Chinese. They're not part of any traditional feng shui practice."

I nodded. "No, they're not. They're much older."

Alistair struggled to his feet, shrugging off his son's attempt to help him. "Open it," he commanded, his voice stronger than it had been all day.

"Father, I don't think—" Damian began.

"Open it," Alistair repeated. "I want to see what's been poisoning my home."

I stepped forward. "It should be opened, but carefully. The contents may be... disturbing."

With clear reluctance, the groundskeeper reached down and gripped the edges of the box. It opened more easily than its age would suggest, the lid swinging back on hidden hinges.

An overwhelming stench immediately filled the air—the unmistakable smell of old blood mixed with something putrid and dark. Inside the box lay a black knife with a bone handle, resting in a bed of dried plant matter and what appeared to be clumps of hair. A small glass vial of dark liquid had tipped over, its contents seeping into the other materials.

"Step back," I ordered sharply as the groundskeeper recoiled from the smell. "Don't touch anything."

Mr. Nolan had gone pale, his professional composure completely shattered. "This... this is..." he stammered.

"What is it?" Damian demanded, his face contorted with disgust. "What does this mean?"

Mr. Nolan seemed unable to form words, so I answered instead.

"It's a curse," I explained, examining the contents without touching them. "A very specific, very powerful type of curse aimed directly at your family—particularly your father."

"A curse?" Damian repeated incredulously. "You can't be serious."

Alistair had moved closer, peering down at the box with a mixture of horror and fascination. "Who would do this? And how long has it been here?"

Mr. Nolan finally found his voice. "This appears to be a Southwest Fury Soul Technique," he said quietly, all his previous mockery gone. "The black knife, the... the substance that smells like blood—it's black dog blood mixed with corpse oil. This is... this is not something anyone practices openly. It's forbidden knowledge."

"Corpse oil?" Damian echoed, his face paling.

"Oil collected from human remains," I clarified, noting how the materials had been arranged in a specific pattern. "Combined with other elements and buried near the foundation of a home, it creates a channel for negative energy to enter and target a specific person. In this case, your father."

Alistair swayed slightly, and Damian rushed to support him. "Who would do such a thing?" the elder Prescott asked, his voice strained.

"Someone who wanted you to suffer slowly," I replied honestly. "This type of curse isn't designed to kill quickly. It drains life force gradually, causing the victim to weaken over time until their body simply gives out."

"Can it be stopped?" Damian asked urgently.

Mr. Nolan had been staring at the contents of the box, visibly shaken. At Damian's question, he lifted his gaze to meet mine. There was a new respect in his eyes—and something else. Fear.

"The box must be properly neutralized," he said slowly. "This is beyond standard feng shui practice. It requires specific knowledge of counter-curses and purification rituals."

Damian turned to the feng shui master. "Can you handle this, Mr. Nolan? You said you've practiced for thirty years."

For a moment, Mr. Nolan seemed to consider claiming expertise he clearly didn't possess. Then his shoulders slumped slightly.

"No," he admitted, the word clearly difficult for him to say. "This is outside my area of knowledge. This is dark craft, something I've only read about in forbidden texts."

"Then what do we do?" Alistair asked, his voice weak but determined. "How do we remove this... this thing from our home?"

Mr. Nolan looked directly at me, the challenge in his eyes now replaced with genuine deference.

"Maybe," he said carefully, "you should ask Mr. Liam Knight about this issue..."

The whole garden fell silent as everyone turned to me. In the pit, the malevolent box sat open, its contents slowly poisoning the very air we breathed, waiting for my next move.