Being the sole granddaughter of my grandmother, I received her estate when she passed away last week. I was given a significant quantity of money, a large country Victorian home, and everything within. As a result of the family curse that has been handed down through four generations to the next female in the family, I am left with my six brothers and more than twenty male cousins hating me for only reserving minor items while I received the rest. However, I know the truth, and in all honesty, they got the better deal.
My grandmother expressed her regret that I had to be her only granddaughter on her deathbed. She also expressed concern that the curse is affecting not only the women in our family but also our ability to reproduce, as fewer and fewer granddaughters are being born in the family. If I am unable to have even one daughter or granddaughter, then everyone in our family will perish. She wishes she hadn’t left me with this curse to contend with, but regrettably, she was fortunate enough to not be able to have a daughter to inherit it; rather, it was some kind of miracle that one of her eleven boys gave her at least one girl.
You might be wondering what this curse is. Most people probably believe that it would be the house I inherited because it seems like the most logical option, am I right? Well, no, and I apologize for making these incidents seem so ridiculous by claiming that it is a resident of that residence.
It’s a painting that, believe it or not, my great-great-grandmother was given when she was a little girl.
Since I haven’t yet gotten the diaries that are given to each caregiver, I don’t know the entire tale, but I have already seen it several times. Several years ago, when I was with my grandmother, I saw a large painting that covered the majority of the wall.
You’ll have to take my word for it that this wall is large and that the painting is as well, since I’m not sure I can locate enough masking tape to measure it.
What is depicted in this artwork is a woman watering a garden while wearing a pre-Victorian era gown. The garden is a typical old-fashioned garden with a little cottage in the backyard. She appears to be at least in her early 20s, if not younger. She was concentrating on her task, and she had long, curling red hair and brilliant green eyes. A white fence with rows of women and gentlemen watching her garden flourish was in the background.
So something wasn’t right with them. Keep in mind that this painting was likely painted in the 1800s; hence, why were some of the men and ladies wearing more contemporary attire at the time? I don’t think it was appropriate for women to wear pants during that period, but there were a few.
Additionally, the men’s faces appeared to be in pain, causing them to fake a grin in order to maintain their good looks. There was also a little girl in a nightgown who was carrying a candle and standing out like a sore thumb. This picture is strange, and it gave me the creeps.
“Don’t let her see you’re unhappy with her work.” My grandmother told me,
“What?” I asked her to turn my head so I could gaze at my grandmother for a moment.
Grandma adds, “She hates it when someone looks at her work with disdain, so in order for her to like you, you must always look at her with a smile on your face, no matter what. It is the only way to win her favor.”
I turned my head back to the artwork out of confusion to see the woman now looking down at me. Her rage-filled eyes used to be fixed on her flowers, as I clearly recall, but now they are glaring at me. Her fake grin also seemed forced, and she just sat there staring as if she was waiting to see what I would do next.
“Anna, smile!” Grandma snapped at me.
I forced a grin on my lips and even flashed a few teeth for good measure without breaking the woman’s stare, which made her eyes soften and her smile brighten once more. I saw her look return to the flowers just in front of me as I overheard a woman singing in the distance.
“Mary, Mary, quite contrary
How does your garden grow?
With sivler bells, and cockle shells
And pretty maids all in a row.”
Grandma mercifully grabbed my hand and murmured, “Thank you for the song, Mary,” before dragging me out of the room and slamming the door tightly. I was stunned into silence but persisted in forcing a grin on my face, even though I was free.
Mary was the subject of my first of many visits because grandma wanted to make sure I was prepared to care for her when the time came. When it comes to her, there are rules. Grandma or not, I must always enter alone, with no friends and certainly no guys present. She despises males. You must constantly give her your full attention when you are with her. Never let her think you don’t like her, and if she sings for you, always say thank you. If you violate even one of these guidelines, Mary will emerge from the picture and take you away for her collection, leaving you there for good.
I did once see Mary emerge from her picture, and it was a terrible sight. Grandma, who had other errands to run while I was in my early teens, was unable to accompany me but had faith that I could handle Mary’s daily visit on my own because I had been abiding by the regulations exactly. But when a new maid entered the room when I was there that day to help with housework, Mary didn’t like that, she issued the woman a verbal warning to leave.
The poor maid shrieked when she heard Mary speak, and as soon as her emerald eyes met hers, Mary crawled out of the painting on all fours. She was skinny, displaying nothing but bones, and her clothing was all ragged. Her green eyes no longer appeared human, and her red hair was all shrunken up as if someone had set a torch to it. She resembled something from a person’s worst nightmare.
The maid was taken to the picture by Mary by her hair while she kicked and screamed. The words “Quite contrary,” “QUITE contrary,” and “quite contrary” began to be chanted by dozens of voices, both young and elderly, terrified and in pain. But this time, the chanting started to shriek, “DON’T THINK, DON’T FEEL, LOOK AWAY, LOOK AWAY, LOOK AWAY, LOOK AWAY, LOOK AWAY, LOOK AWAY, LOOK AWAY, LOOK AWAY!” over and over again.
My head began to pound, and I had to hide my eyes and bite my tongue to keep from screaming. But as quickly as it started, it all ended. I gradually opened my eyes and covered my ears to find Mary back in her painting. Sure enough, the maid was hiding behind the picket fence, and the other characters were all looking at Mary while forcing a grin. Mary was looking at me again, waiting to see my answer. I had to compose myself and put a smile on my lips before saying to Mary, “Thank you for the song,” and I swiftly took my leave and left the room behind me.
My grandmother rocked me in her old rocking chair throughout the whole night as she held me and tried to console me while I sobbed, but she pleaded with me in a quiet voice to refrain from speaking. “I can’t let you go.” She did love me and didn’t want me to be taken away, but she was also selfish and wanted to pass away in her old age and not see what would happen if she was the last one; thus, I know she said this because she wanted me to take care of that when she died, and she got her wish.
That will be how I live from here on. Visit her frequently and keep pleasing her to prevent her from stealing another unfortunate soul for her collection. She can always hear and see what I am doing in that house, despite the fact that I may not be in the room, as I have been warned. Until I pass away, I won’t feel secure, and even then, I doubt it unless, by some miracle, I have a daughter or granddaughter.