yessleep

This is Part 4 of my terrible experience in Kingsley, the main town in the peninsula King’s Cove, where I went to visit my boyfriend Nick’s family a few months ago. You can read the earlier parts here:

Hindsight is 20/20, right? Looking back on it, it’s so easy to blame Nick for not realising the extent of the depravity and horror that had unfolded so rapidly after he left his parental home and moved to the city, in mid-2021, after the death of his father. He had blocked out so much of what had happened, with the crow-rites and festival- my therapist talks about “purposeful forgetting” describing how we block out unpleasant and distressing memories and this definitely applied to him. And of course, I am well aware that I come across as foolish and confused.

Oh poor Nick. No-one deserves to go like that. When the police found the remains of the body- ah well, I’ll get to that.

I loved him so much. He was my first “real” adult relationship- alongside my first “real” adult job, which I couldn’t keep after I returned, I was that traumatized. I am only slowly beginning to regain my life.

I had been so excited to go to Kingsley- so happy to meet his mom Violet and his cousin Craig. He didn’t talk too much about them, but I never thought anything was wrong with that charming oceanside town. And our videochats with Violet had been perfectly fine. If anyone is to blame, it’s probably Violet, who must have realised something of what Craig and his followers were up to, and yet chose not to share and let Nick and I visit. She would have known how Aunt Margaret, Craig’s mom, and her husband died, how could she not?

Yes, blame the mom. That’s the easy way out. Poor Violet. Well, she paid the price as much as anyone on that terrible peninsula.

Anyway, back to the story.

With Nick dragged off, I started running back to the house, tears streaming down my face, to let Violet know what had happened. But in my confusion and terror, I took the wrong turn, and within minutes, I ended up by craggy rocks by the ocean. My phone obviously had no reception.

In an odd way, the crashing waves, the loneliness, the high soaring white seagulls gave me comfort. After all the nonsense with the black crows, the seagulls minding their own business were absolutely delightful, and I found myself lying back on a rock, letting myself be soothed by the sound of their calls, the waves, and their looping flights. I know I should get up, find help, find Violet, but I simply didn’t want to.

Hours passed.

I realise, looking back, that my irrational decision to stay in the rocks was what actually saved me. By simply following my survival instinct and remaining there, hidden from view in the dips of the rocks, I lived.

But eventually, propelled by hunger and my body aching from prolonged contact with the chilly damp rocks, I had to get up and leave the shelter of the ocean.

I walked back towards the town. As disoriented as I was, I figured out my way and soon spotted Nick’s house. It was already early afternoon.

I was pleased to see our car waiting patiently in the driveway. The front door swung open, and for a moment, I foolishly expected to see Violet standing there smiling, holding a tray of crose jam and fresh-baked muffins.

Crose jam? Oh god, was I becoming one of them?

I shook my head as I bounded up the steps. “Violet?” I called through the open door. There was no answer. I went inside.

Of course, you know a house is empty as soon as you set foot in it. I called out a couple more times, moving from room to room. In the kitchen I noticed the signs of the struggle- the overturned bowl of dough, the trail of flour, broken glassware.

They must have taken her here.

I picked up the landline, no reception. I desperately punched 911 into my cell again, no use. I went upstairs, looking for the car keys. And then I picked up a journal lying on the nightstand and without thinking, flipped it open. I recognized Nick’s handwriting and despite the sense of urgency, couldn’t help reading.

“April 5th, 2020 - Aunt Margaret says we should do something better with the Crows Festival this year, distract the kids. It feels like everyone is going crazy, and I think that’s a cool idea. Craig said he would help to make it really fun.

April 10th, 2020. Everybody is fighting, god I hate this. Dad says holding a big festival would be breaking the covid rules, even though it’s outdoors. I’m almost 19 now and I’m still stuck at home and have to listen to Dad. He yelled at Aunt Margaret and Craig during our family zoom happy hour and told them they were irresponsible with the kids. I can’t wait to leave this town. I wish Mom would leave too.”

I continued reading with growing horror. Nick’s dad- he died in May that year, not of COVID as I had assumed, but his body was found in a field, tied to a pole with his arms outstretched, covered in tar and black crow feathers. The cause of death was never determined.

And then three months later, Aunt Margaret had died, this time of COVID, so Nick wrote in his journal pages.

From the road I heard a car passing and stayed low making sure I couldn’t be seen in the windows by anyone driving by. There wasn’t nothing else here for me, and I opened the door to the backyard.

And then, I saw it.

Violet’s corpse hanging from a thick rope tied to the eaves above the door. Blood from her cut throat had soaked the rope and pooled beneath her, both eyes had been messily cut out leaving red streaks down her cheeks. The smell hit hard, my heart pounded and stomach knotted as I fought the urge to throw up. Steeling myself, I moved around her dangling body making sure not to touch her as I moved out into the backyard and off into the woods.

I still thought I could find Nick and leave together.

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