We weren’t cursed. We were warned.
It was the year 2000 but I remember it like it was yesterday. We lived in the sticks. Since there wasn’t much to do out there, we would have family bonfires every Saturday night. Grandma and grandpa lived next door on the same parcel of land as we did and my cousin’s bunch was straight across the road. These mini parties usually weren’t very exciting. We’d roast marshmallows and grill burgers and hot dogs while grandma would have some country music blaring from a little radio. Very simple.
In fact, I can only distinctly remember one of these bonfires.
It started off just like any other. The lightning bugs were out. The smell of burnt meat and sweets wafted through the slightly chilly spring air. Suddenly, my cousin pointed to the sky. A never-before-seen rainbow-colored constellation flickered through the clear country wilderness. Even the passing of a lumber truck was relatively exciting news in these parts so naturally, we were all intoxicated by this light show. It danced through the stars in a very inviting manner, begging to be captured. Mom ran inside and grabbed a disposable camera, returning in plenty of time to postmark this performance for a lifetime. We were just rural folk who merely thought this was some beautiful cosmic aberration. Eventually, it faded into the endless void and we got back to our tradition. The only other notable occurrence was my cousin burning the tip of his finger on the flame.
If only we knew what was about to happen.
Bedtime came without incident, as did the following morning. On Sundays, we’d go into town for errands and maybe a treat; a trip to McDonald’s or a matinee movie. This particular trip, mom wanted to develop the snapshot of that pretty phenomenon at the one hour photo booth at Wal-Mart. Just as we pulled into the parking lot, my mother began to loudly complain about a sudden migraine. It was so severe, she had my dad drive us back home so she could rest. This wasn’t too freaky. My mom suffered from chronic pain. We hadn’t been back five minutes before my aunt Tara began busting down the door, hysterical.
“I don’t know what’s wrong with Tanner!”
“What happened?” my father asked.
“Something happened to his skin!”
“Relax, Tara. He just reached his marshmallow in a bit too far. Throw some aloe on it and he’ll be ok.”
“It’s all over him!”
Dad wasn’t usually in charge of compassion but mom was down for the count so we all went over to see my cousin. Aunt Tara was a bit of a hypochondriac so we weren’t expecting anything worse than one tiny cracking blotch on a single digit. If only that had been the case. When we opened the door to his room, we all grimaced. Tara shrieked. It had only gotten worse since she fetched us.
“I don’t feel too good,” Tanner groaned, every inch of him covered in bloated lesions. Even mumbling that short sentence caused a swamp of canker sores in his mouth to rupture and splatter all over the furry white floor. This grisly sight caused my father to reflexively vomit. The black puke undulated and gurgled before it diminished itself into nothing.
“I’ll call an ambulance!”
The medical motorcart thought we were pulling a prank. They couldn’t see the open sore that used to be my cousin nor the midnight milk dad was projectile-launching every few minutes. Boy, were they pissed they had to come out all that way for nothing. Tara pleaded this was no joke. I felt an itch on my forearm. I pulled back my sleeve and found a giant barnacle-like buildup festering on my arm. I could see it growing. I screamed. Again, they weren’t amused.
Grandpa’s Pontiac was still in the drive but nobody answered our frantic knocks. The itching was now spreading to my chest. Tanner and Tara had stayed back at their home. I had seen my cousin leak out gallons of crimson. Conventional wisdom said he should have gone into shock long ago. Dad and I ran back to our house, the growths bursting through my soles making it a painful trek. Inside my mother was on the couch, twice the age she had been only an hour ago, her boneless arm dangling off the side like putty.
Fearful our conditions would soon be terminal, we were relieved, or possibly more terrified, when night came without a single fatality. The symptoms refused to let up. By now, the cursed calcium collections on my body were unsightly and unbearably scratchy. Fed up and scared, I grabbed the biggest and sharpest steak knife we had in the kitchen and tried to do self-surgery. The blade cracked on one of the titanium tumors like it was a toothpick. Before long, everyone had passed out from exhaustion. I slept until I heard a knock on the door.
“I believe you have something you shouldn’t have,” answered an impeccably-dressed man on the other side. I knew immediately what he wanted.
“Here you go, sir,” I forked over the Polaroid that mom had tossed on the living room coffee table right before she collapsed hours ago.
“Thank you, son.”
When everyone woke up, we were miraculously cured. Not that anyone else but me remembers our mysterious maladies. For the past quarter-century, I’ve made sure to firmly close the curtains no matter where I lay my head for the night. What’s going on above me is none of my business.