This is a prequel story to my previous story titled The Curse of the Black Bow. Feel free to read that first or after this as this can be read first but please check both stories out as they go well together.

A Prelude to The Curse of the Black Bow

The dust on the antique shop shelf was thick, undisturbed for decades. Martha, with her discerning eye for forgotten treasures, saw it immediately. Gleaming amidst the clutter of tarnished silverware and chipped porcelain was a bow, crafted from what looked like polished ebony. It was sleek, impossibly black, and utterly beautiful. No string, no discernible markings, just smooth, dark wood that seemed to drink the light.

"Oh, that's rather striking," she murmured, reaching out. Her fingers closed around the cold, smooth grip. It felt oddly perfect in her hand. She imagined it displayed over her fireplace, a conversation piece. "I'll take this," she told the young man behind the counter, a faint smile playing on her lips.

Later that evening, after carefully unwrapping the bow, Martha decided its prominent place would be on the small, decorative shelf directly above her bathtub. Humming contentedly, she drew a bubble bath. As the tub filled, she admiringly traced the bow's smooth curve with her fingers. After a moment, she gently set it down on the shelf. Just as she reached for her favorite scented candle, a drop of hot wax rolled down the side of the candle and landed precisely in her left eye. Martha screamed, recoiling so violently that her foot slipped on the wet tile, sending her head-first into the antique porcelain tub with a sickening crack. The water, now tinted a faint rose, slowly seeped over her still form.

Miles away, in a suburban garage, young Kevin was showing off his latest "score" to his friends. "Found it under a pile of old junk at a flea market! Pretty sweet, right?" he boasted, holding up the black bow. He practiced a few mock draws, admiring its dark luster. "Think I'll hang it in my room, looks sick." He set the bow down carefully on his workbench, turning to grab a wrench. A second later, a rogue spark from his friend's welding project ignited a can of WD-40 nearby. The resulting explosion vaporized the workbench, the tools, and Kevin, leaving nothing but a charred crater and the still-intact black bow lying innocently on the cracked concrete floor.

A month later, on a hiking trail deep in the national park, an experienced survivalist named David stumbled upon it. Lying half-buried in the damp earth, its dark wood contrasting sharply with the fallen leaves, was the bow. He picked it up, testing its weight, appreciating its craftsmanship. "Remarkable," he mused, "someone must have dropped this." He debated taking it with him but decided against it; too heavy for his pack. He tossed it casually back onto the leaf litter. As he turned to continue his hike, his foot snagged on a barely visible root. He plunged down the steep embankment, tumbling head over heels, until his fall was abruptly halted by a jagged, broken tree branch that impaled him through the chest. His final breath hitched as he lay pinned, staring up at the impassive canopy of trees.

The black bow always found a way to be discovered. Sometimes it was left in an open field, sometimes abandoned on a park bench. It never stayed in one place long. Anyone who touched it, admired it, considered keeping it, and then let it go, would soon meet a fate that defied explanation. A seemingly random, mundane object or event would twist into a cruel instrument of death, perfectly designed to extinguish life with ironic precision. It was a silent, patient hunter, always waiting for its next momentary owner to become its next permanent victim. The world was full of curious hands, eager to pick up something new, something beautiful, something...cursed.