<i><b>The Story So Far</b>

The gypsy woman who read Rex's palm in Lithuania
had shrieked in his face, screaming a single word over
and over, pointing one bony, talon-like finger at him.

"Cursed," his translator had said, shrugging and
clapping his thick hands together to ward of spirits.

The rest of the trip hadn't gone any better. The diary
he'd found detailing the secret rituals of the local cults
had gone missing, but Rex was used to things like
that. Heck, he'd discovered and lost enough evidence
of strange things over the years to almost believe he</i>
might <i>be cursed. That business in Innsmouth with the
photographs that had blown out to sea in the wind. The
tracks in Dunwich that had washed away in the rain
just before he'd brought the sheriff out to see. Time
and again,</i> something <i> had gone wrong.

Stepping out of the offices of the Arkham Advertiser,
Rex sighed and ran his hand through his goatee. This
time, nothing was going to stop him from getting at
the truth.</i>