The Cursed Photo Dailymotion

“My ass is sore, Thorin. Are we almost there?” A chestnut-haired beauty pressed her hands against her back and stretched away from the pain of four straight days sitting in a wagon.

The dark-haired man beside her rolled his green eyes away from her newest complaint as it lingered in the air of the sultry Louisiana August morning. “Not much longer now, Sweet Girl.”

It finally dawned on her that the only scenery they passed so far was farmland, and she sighed as her fat red lips pouted. “Please tell me there's some kind of proper shopping and entertainment here. I don't want to be just sitting around talking to you all day.”

The leather straps pulled a little tighter around his fist as he did his best not to snap at his ordinarily pleasant sister. “I understand it isn’t easy for a young woman to be stuck out here in the country with nothing to do, but we're in hiding, remember?”

A house came into view through the trees, and he nudged her with his elbow. “We're home.”

With a quick yank on the reins, the horse pulled right as he made the turn for the drive, and the weeping willow trees lining the sandy driveway presented them with an old white-washed French Colonial. She gasped and threw her hand dramatically over her chest. “Oh, Thorin!” Her hands clapped together before she pointed at the porch. “Look at that swing! I love it.”

Trotting around the driveway circle, the horse came to a stop at the front porch. The dapper gentleman's perfectly combed hair fell over his eyes as he jumped down from the seat, and he gave his curly locks a push back with his hands before he gave one to Imara. “Go on in and air the place out.”

Little clouds of dust puffed from her skirt as her hands patted it down, and her eyes darted around the old house. “Yes, sir, this will do fine.”

It took a few slaps of her palm against the key to make the lock click, but eventually, the door popped open. The stench of the dusty old house that was closed up too long poured from the door, and Imara coughed as she swatted it away. “Lord have mercy! Thorin, can you bring me my bag, please? It needs a proper saging; this place is full of spirits.”

After he chuckled at her childish fears, he leaned across the buggy and grabbed her bag from the floor. “We're witches, for Pete's sake!”

The horse pulling down the drive whinnied, and Thorin narrowed his eyes to the wagon leaving a trail of dust in its wake. He jogged up the stairs and tossed her bag into her arms. “Here you go.” His hands rested on his hips as he smiled and inched away. “Now, when you’re all done chasing away the boogedyman, can you come out and help us with the crates and bags? They're coming down the road now.”

The back of her hand waved him off as she crossed over the threshold and glanced around the foyer. “I won't be long.”

With a snap of her fingers, the bundle of sage she pulled from her bag smoked, and she waved it around the rooms as she passed through each one, peeking through one eye while she navigated her way through the house. “Begone, you all. You don't live here anymore.”

Thorin was waiting for her with the sheets he’d removed from the furniture in his arms when she rounded the corner. “So, what are your thoughts?”

Her slightly upturned nose wrinkled as she nodded. “I got a good feeling; better things are coming for us.”

The giant of a human wearing denim overalls carried a trunk through the door on his shoulder like a bag of feathers. “Where should I put this?”

Imara nodded her head to the other side of the foyer and waved her hand. “The kitchen's this way.”