I had always known that my family wasn’t like others. Growing up in a small town in the middle of nowhere, you catch little whispers. A story here, a rumor there. But there was one thing that was always consistent. My family was cursed.
The elders always tried their best to protect us kids.
“Hush…child.” My mother said, comforting twelve year old me.
Children can be quite cruel sometimes. On that day, I remember them being a lot more vicious. The daily ritual of being called names and having supision ridden stares directed at me had finally gotten to me. It was a cycle that would repeat through my childhood.
“They’re jealous of the life you have.” She said, wiping away my tears.
And, thinking about it now, she was probably right. Hidden behind the stories was a collective maliciousness that game from a place of envy. I admit, I did grow up privillaged. My family was notably wealthy. We owned a large piece of land, with an old mansion that housed four generations of the Arbor family.
A younger mind never really questions its own being. The innocence of a child seeks to learn more about the world around itself. I was the same way, never questioning how my family came to be so affluent. All I was told was that we used to be farmers, and that somehow, my great-great granddad made a fortune in trade. Ever since then, my family has owned some part of major business in our town.
In simpler parts of the world such as this, faith plays an important role in the daily lives of the people. The catholic church was an important point of integration for most people living here. My mother, being a devout Catholic, would attend this church from time to time, but other than that, most of my family never really indulged in it. It wasn’t just that religion was not really important to the Arbor family, but with the way the elders approached it, it was almost as if it was a source of great discomfort. Even though my dad never really cared as much, my mom’s visits to the church had been the cause of many arguments and conflicts at home.
One of the earliest incidents I can remember happened when I was around ten years old. My imagination ran wild, and I was aware of the stories surrounding my family by this time, but the seriousness of it just hadn’t set in yet. I shared a room with my brother, Ezekiel, who was about eight years old at the time. We both had a fear of the dark, and so it was decided that we would feel much better if we shared a room rather than try to make it through the night by ourselves.
Like I said before, my family never cared about faith. My mom, despite her beliefs, never really shared them with her children. We had no crosses, no bibles, and no one looking out for us. It was just the darkness of the night and the silence of the house that accompanied us children in the room. With no source of comfort, nothing to protect me, the complete blackness of the night was absolutely terrifying. We were never told ghost stories. Never allowed to watch anything even slightly scary. Our fears were never fed into. And yet, being there, in the complete darkness brought out something primal in me. No, it was more than that. That house never really felt right.
Even in the day, the old creaking floors and the almost hollow seeming wall felt uneasy. The brooding silence despite the house being full of people gave it an aura of sorrow. It was always as if something bad had happened. But in the night, in the looming darkness, it transformed into something I can only describe as evil. There was something evil in there, and I felt bound to it. I could go as far as possible- to the end of the world even- and it would still be there, lurking like a shadow, waiting with a sadistic smile, knowing that I was completely helpless.
Laying there, in the dark, I heard Ezekiel speak from his bed next to mine.
“Psst… Hunter.” He whispered, “Are you awake?”
“Yes.” I whispered back, feeling uneasy. “What do you want?”
“I had a bad dream.” He said, “I-“
“I don’t want to hear it!” I said, rather strongly, not wanting to feed my fears.
“Listen to me…” He whispered. “I need to go to pee.”
“I’m not going out there.” I said.
“Please.” Ezekiel whined.
“No.” I said sternly. “What if Papa is out there?” Papa was our word for the oldest Ardor, our great-grandad.
He was a wheelchair bound man who mostly kept to himself. Old age had taken away his mind long before I was born. He spend his days looking out the window in his room upstairs, mumbling to himself from time to time. He made both of us uneasy.
“The nurse is here tonight.” Ezekiel said, “He’ll be in his room.”
I groaned. I gathered all the courage I could, and got out of bed.
“Let’s just get this over with.” I said. “Hurry, or I’ll leave you out there.”
We held hands, navigating through the dark hallway, lit only by the faint blue moonlight. Empty room, after empty room, we kept walking and I felt my unease rise.
Suddenly, Ezekiel stops walking. He turns to look behind him.
“What?” I ask, fear and anger rising.
“Hunter…” Ezekiel whimpers, “I think there’s someone out here. Listen.
I hear a slow creak, as if someone quietly stopped walking.
I feel chills run down my spine. I yank at his arm, angry at him for making this situation worse.
“Stop it! Let’s keep moving!” I whisper in a voice shakier than I expected.
We keep walking until we get to the bathroom at the end of the hall. As we begin moving towards the door, we pause, gripping our hands tighter.
We hear something from inside the bathroom that made my stomach drop. Muffled, but frantic muching. Sounds of chewing and ripping, and the eventual loud gulps made their way through the door. Was I dreaming? Do I dare open the door? My breath was caught in my throat.
I turn to look at Ezekiel and slowly push open the door. Through the moonlight, I saw the shape of a man. My body froze, my eyes forced to witness the horror that lay beyond.
It, whatever it was, sat squatting on the bathroom floor. It’s skin was dark, as if burnt. I knew that whatever it was, wasn’t human, it couldn’t be. It had a long, almost serpent like back tall and hunced over, glistening in moisture. It’s head was like that of a person, except it had long hair, flowing down with a bare, pale patch in the middle. It clutched onto what looked like a large rat, tearing and chewing away at the poor creature.
I heard Ezekiel whimper, letting out a quiet sob. It broke me out of my trance. I turn to face him, realizing that he had wet himself.
The horror, still greedily ate away at the poor little creature. It was too occupied or maybe too uncaring to notice us. Either way, it never even acknowledged our presence. We slowly backed away, and then went crying to our parents’ room. We knocked on the door, crying and whimpering, afraid to make too much noise, fearing that we would capture the thing’s interest.
My mom comforted us, ensuring that it was probably just a nightmare, or maybe a trick of the mind, despite the fact that both of us witnessed it.
My father, on the other hand, sat on the bed with a concerned look on his face. He locked the door behind us and almost stood guard next to it. Thinking about it now, it is odd that he never took us boys to the bathroom in a bid to prove to us that there was nothing to fear. It was as if he was unsure about going out there himself. He promised that we would be safe in here, and there was nothing to fear. Such things did not exist.
Now, in my adult years, its horrifying looking back at things. My younger brother, Zeke and I, still talk from time to time, but he has made his best efforts to stay away from the family. I do not blame him, but he’s always been uncomfortable every time we talk. It’s almost as if he wants nothing to do with any of us. Even in my attempts to bring up that one night, he would tell me that nothing ever happened, refusing that he ever saw anything. There’s an unspoken agreement between the two of us it seems. I refuse to challenge refusal to acknowledge that night, unwilling to bring up a traumatic childhood memory, and he still continues to be my brother.
Another incident that I can share has to do with my Aunt Jeanie. My father’s youngest sister, she was always close to me growing up. A couple years ago, while I was away from home, I got a call from her, wanting to catch up. Since it was a weekend, we talked for hours, reminiscing about every the memories we shared. After she finished sharing one particular story, recalling the time she and my father were children, and that she startled my father one night, causing him to take a fall down the stairs, I remembered my own experiences in that house. Since it was a topic I had learnt to avoid talking about growing up, I figured that as an adult, I was more likely to get an answer. I asked my aunt about the house and if she’s had any strange experiences.
She went silent. I could practically feel her discomfort through the phone, but before I could change the topic, she answered.
“You know… I’ve never really wanted to talk about this with you kids, but I suppose you’re old enough to know.”
I held my breath, waiting to hear what she had to say.
“You know, my mother- your grandma died when your dad and I were very young. Things were somber for a whole year. Abby, was the oldest of us kids, and even though she was old enough to understand, she never really recovered. You see, grandma died of a heart attack. She was out in the garden when she passed, that’s where Papa, your great-grandad, found her.”
I thought back of my Aunt Abby. I never really had many memories with her. She was a rather quiet woman I saw maybe twice in my life.
“He never had the heart to tell us kids, and so, our dad was the one to break the news to us. We were devastated. Me and your dad cried for days, finding comfort in each other. Dad was completely heart broken, and Papa had completely withdrawn, spending most of the days in his room. Aunt Gemma and Uncle Ted were out of town with their kids that week. We had no one to really turn to, and so your dad and I would pretty much care for ourselves. But not Abby… you see… your Aunt Abby….”
My aunt let out a breath, uneasy.
“Aunt Abby didn’t believe that mom had passed away. She would spend hours alone in the night talking to mom and giggling to herself. It was really starting to creep us out. Papa and Dad grew increasingly concerned when she did this three nights in a row. The next day Dad tried to talk to her about it, and Papa would too, but she was stubborn as ever, denying their attempts. On that night…”
I heard my aunt’s voice change, she sounded distressed. Before I could ask her if she was okay, she continued.
“Abby was in her room, talking and giggling as usual. Me and your dad stood out the room, listening and wondering if we should do someting about it. Your dad wanted to yell at her, but both of her were too afraid to do anything about it. Then, Abby screamed. I can never forget it, it was as if she was being attacked. Dad ran up to the room, and we made way for him, too afraid to check in on her.”
“I remember the first thing I saw was the blood. It was smeared all over her dress, it was like she had been mauled by a bear. I smelt it too, and the smell kept me up for nights. Abby kept yelling over and over, “IT’S NOT HER! IT’S NOT MOMMY!”.”
There was a pause before my Aunt went on.
“She was just never the same since then. She was always more reserved than the other kids in the house, but after that she became a complete recluse. She barely spoke, and dad tried to get her to open up. She saw a therapist from time to time- a Dr. Shaw, or something like that. It never helped. She was also taken to a psychiatrist in the city, where she was prescribed medication. I don’t think it helped much. I always felt bad for her. I hope she’s doing better these days.”
The rest of the conversation was much lighter hearted. After that story, I had a lot more questions on my mind, but I didn’t feel comfortable asking any more.
My mother passed away last week at 61. As I’ve been making my way to the old house, I can’t help but think of my Aunt’s story. Something about the whole situation has made me realize that a huge part of me, my childhood and growing up in that house lacked any sort of an answer. I feel like there’s things I need to know, and more questions for me to ask.
I’m afraid of what I might find.