I am 15 chapters ahead on my patreón, check it out if you are interested.
https://www.patréon.com/emperordragon
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Chapter 94: The Uncursing of Jay Pritchett
Jay's Perspective
Jay Pritchett had endured worse mornings, no question about it. There was that time Gloria's telenovelas started blasting at five in the morning because she'd "just remembered a cliffhanger from 1997." And of course, the day Phil Dunphy—his overly affectionate son-in-law—attempted to hug him not once, but twice. Two unsolicited embraces in twenty-four hours. That kind of trauma didn't just go away.
So no, Jay wasn't exactly quaking in his golf shoes over a supposedly "cursed" necklace.
He stood in front of the mirror, adjusting the chain around his neck. It gleamed a little too brightly, like it was trying too hard. It was ornate, flashy, and gave off the vibe of a supernatural mob boss on his wedding day. Not really Jay's aesthetic. But he wasn't planning on attending a fashion show—or an exorcism. He was going golfing. No one on the course cared what jewelry you wore, as long as your swing didn't ruin the peace and your phone stayed on silent. Still, he couldn't help but glance at the necklace again. It did make him look a little... eccentrically rich.
He was halfway to the front door when Gloria appeared, arms crossed and looking every bit like a warning signal dressed in designer heels.
"You're still wearing that?" she demanded, voice teetering between alarm and judgment.
Jay, already wearing his golf cap and stubborn expression, didn't miss a beat. "Yes, Gloria. I like to stand by my poor decisions. Builds character."
She stepped forward, narrowing her eyes in that way that meant a story from her colorful family history was coming. "My great-uncle Fernando also thought he was above the curse. He wore the necklace once."
Jay sighed, already predicting the punchline. "Let me guess. He met a tragic end?"
"He was attacked by an owl. Then arrested."
Jay blinked. "That... escalated quickly."
"I'm serious, Jay. You always mock things you don't understand. The necklace doesn't like to be mocked."
Jay waved her off and reached for his keys. "Relax. If an owl arrests me, I'll write a formal apology."
At that exact moment, Manny appeared, backpack strapped on and camcorder in hand like he was about to break a paranormal news story.
"Okay, I'm ready. I'm going to document your entire day. If anything happens—injuries, emotional disturbances, spectral interactions—we'll have it all on tape."
Jay looked at him like he was an alien. "You think I'm going to let you follow me around with your middle school X-Files fan gear?"
"This could be huge," Manny said earnestly. "A documented curse. Real-time reactions. Skeptic versus supernatural. It's a film festival waiting to happen."
Jay didn't bother dignifying that with a response. He opened the front door. "I'm going to golf. You're going to whatever angsty arts camp you signed up for this week."
He shut the door behind him before either of them could protest.
The golf course was everything he needed it to be: quiet, sunlit, and most importantly, not haunted. The smell of trimmed grass mixed with the faint aroma of rich-man cologne and freedom. Jay let out a slow breath. This was peace. This was sanctuary.
He stepped up for his first swing, feeling the tension melt away—until—
SPLAT.
A squirt of ketchup hit him dead center on his favorite golf shirt.
He froze.
Behind him, a panicked voice stammered apologies. Some poor soul had tripped over a hot dog while navigating the snack cart. The trajectory had been perfect—right over Jay's shoulder, straight onto his chest like some bizarre condiment airstrike.
Jay looked down at the stain, eyebrows twitching. "Really?"
He muttered to himself. "Minor inconvenience. Not a curse. Just... an aggressive lunch accident. Condimental betrayal, that's all."
He shook it off, or at least tried to. The game would bring him back to balance.
But fate had other ideas.
Midway through the back nine, he reached into his pocket for his wallet to grab a few bucks for a drink—and came up empty. He checked the other pocket. Then the inside of his golf bag. Then his golf cart. Then his shoes, just in case. Nothing.
Gone.
"Still not cursed," he grumbled. "Just… apparently I've decided to become forgetful today of all days."
He powered through the rest of the game, though his focus was off and his score was one Gloria would call "spiritually disappointing." He headed toward his car, craving nothing more than the solace of leather seats and cold air conditioning. He pulled the handle.
Nothing.
He tried again. Still nothing.
It wasn't jammed. It wasn't stubborn. It was lifeless. The lock didn't even pretend to try.
Jay yanked on the handle with increasing frustration, then thumped the door. "Oh, come on!"
A nearby maintenance worker tried to help, but even his efforts were no match for whatever had possessed Jay's vehicle. In the end, Jay had to do what he hated most in the world: ask for help.
Jon arrived twenty minutes later, driving up with the smug energy of someone who had predicted exactly this outcome.
He rolled down the window. "Need a ride, old man? Or should I call a priest?"
Jay exhaled. "Keep joking. One more electrical failure and Gloria's going to stage a full-blown exorcism."
He leaned against Jon's car, watching in defeat as a tow truck pulled his own car away like it had died heroically in battle.
"This is all just coincidence," Jay insisted, mostly to himself. "A bad morning. These things happen. Shirts get ruined. Wallets disappear. Car locks die. It's not a—"
WHIRRRRRRR—
A low mechanical whine cut through the air.
They turned.
A golf cart, completely unmanned, came barreling down a hill at full speed. It zigzagged wildly like it had unfinished business with Jay Pritchett.
Jon's eyes widened. "Jay—!"
Without thinking, Jon lunged forward, grabbing Jay by the shoulder and yanking him out of the way just in time. The cart zoomed past them and crashed into a metal garbage bin with a loud CLANG. It spun for a second, honked once like a dying goose, and slumped to a crooked stop.
Jay looked from the crashed cart to Jon, then slowly, almost reluctantly, down at the necklace resting on his chest.
He took a deep breath. "Okay… maybe... just maybe... this thing has some kind of personal vendetta."
Jon gave him a look. "You think?"
Jay rubbed the back of his neck, expression torn between grumbling denial and creeping belief.
"Gloria's going to say 'I told you so' in three languages, isn't she?"
Jon patted him on the shoulder, grinning. "And Manny's going to want to call his documentary 'The Haunting of the Closet King.'"
Jay groaned. "I should've just worn the watch."
They both laughed, but Jay's hand lingered a second longer on the necklace—just in case.