They say the curse began in a bar that no longer exists.

Before the dust and boarded windows, before the roof sagged and the sign fell silent, there was a place called The Rail House. It stood at the edge of town, smelling of chalk and spilled beer, with a single pool table under a green-shaded lamp. The felt was always brushed smooth. The cues were straight. The balls were polished like moons.

And among them rolled the striped ones—bright-banded, proud, precise.

The curse came in with a man named Calder Voss.

He arrived one autumn evening when the air felt thin, as if the world were holding its breath. He wore a gray coat despite the warmth and carried his own cue in a black case that he never let anyone touch. His eyes were pale and sharp, and when he studied the table, it was with the intensity of someone reading a confession.

“I’ll play anyone,” he said softly.

No one had seen him before. No one would forget him after.

Calder never chose solids. He always claimed the stripes.

“I prefer what’s divided,” he told his first opponent, running a finger along the painted band of the thirteen ball. “Things that are never entirely one thing.”

He played like time had slowed for him alone. Angles bent obediently. The cue ball curved when it shouldn’t have. Every striped ball sank cleanly, as if pulled by invisible thread. One by one, they vanished into pockets without so much as kissing a rail.

He won that night. And the next. And the next.

Money changed hands. Pride shattered. Friendships cracked like dry wood. The more he won, the quieter the bar became when he entered. It wasn’t just his skill—it was the way the striped balls seemed to answer him. They moved with a strange eagerness, slipping past solids that should have blocked them, dodging collisions that physics insisted must happen.

Then came the night he lost.

It was to a woman named Mara Kell, a mechanic with steady hands and a laugh like breaking glass. She didn’t believe in mystique or destiny. She chalked her cue, nodded once, and said, “Rack ’em.”

Calder chose stripes, as always.

But that night, something resisted him. The ten ball rattled in the corner and bounced out. The fourteen stopped a hair short of the side pocket. Sweat beaded along his pale temples. The table felt wrong beneath his hands, like a floorboard about to give.

Mara cleared her solids methodically. Only the eight remained when Calder leaned over for what should have been an easy shot on the fifteen.

He struck.

The fifteen ball veered—sharply, impossibly—colliding with the eight and driving it into the pocket.

A loss.

Silence swallowed the room.

Calder stared at the table as though it had betrayed him. Slowly, deliberately, he set his cue down.

“You’ve broken the pattern,” he whispered to Mara.

“Good,” she replied.

He laughed then—a thin, splintering sound. “If I cannot have them,” he said, laying his palm flat against the felt, “no one will.”

The lights flickered.

Some swear the striped balls vibrated beneath the lamp, their painted bands shimmering like oil on water. Calder closed his eyes and spoke words no one recognized, syllables that felt heavy and metallic in the air.

When the power returned, he was gone.

So was Mara.

Only the balls remained, scattered across the table.

From that night forward, something was wrong with the stripes.

Players began to notice small things. A striped ball would drift just enough to miss an easy pocket. A clean shot would skid sideways at the last second. Bank shots warped. Combinations failed. It wasn’t constant—but it was consistent enough to raise goosebumps.

The solids behaved as expected. The eight ball waited patiently at the center of tension.

But the stripes…

The stripes seemed to choose.

They favored the desperate. They sabotaged the arrogant. They rattled in pockets when a bet was too high. They leapt unexpectedly when someone played for more than money—when pride, revenge, or love sat heavy at the table.

In time, players developed a saying:

“Don’t trust the stripes.”

The Rail House eventually closed. The table was sold. The balls were boxed and shipped to different bars across the state, mixed into new sets, their curse diluted—but never erased.

Even now, if you play long enough, you’ll feel it.

Line up a simple shot on the eleven. Aim carefully. Strike clean.

And just before it drops, you’ll see it—a flicker, a hesitation, a choice.

Because the striped balls remember the night a man tried to claim them.

And they have never forgiven being treated as something divided.