The Cursed Blood
I was born where she met dad. Which was always weird as both seemed to detest loud music whenever I played it in my room).After my outburst that left my ears ringing and made me feel terribly sick to my stomach finally lost steam and concluded, both searched one another’s eyes sadly as if each were desperately hoping that one or the other had something brewing that would make things better. Unfortunately, other than (for what felt like the umpteenth time that horrible night) again assuring me that they loved me and that “someday I would understand.” (Which only made me feel worse) they didn’t seem to have the words.
It honestly felt like I was stuck in a nightmare I couldn’t wake up from as we drove along, me staring almost catatonically out the window at the familiar houses, parks, and streets I’d rode my bike on.
I felt awful but still felt absolutely abandoned so didn’t have it in me to apologize. So, we all sat hurting in silence, and I brooded like an idiot watching the rain drops run down the window like the world itself was crying along with me at what was coming.
One by one everywhere my family and I had shared memories and built a life together whipped by. All the while I desperately tried to etch them each into my mind, as I strongly suspected I wouldn’t see again for a very long time. I remember wondering what I had done wrong or what was wrong with me that all this had to happen as streetlights, signs, and trees became a depressing blur.
I despondently gave up trying to make sense of things about an hour later as Dad pulled onto the expressway. The miles rotted into a numbing ache as we drove on, the silence only ever interrupted by the squeak of the windshield wipers, the patter of rain drops on the windows, and my mother’s crying.
I’m not at all ashamed to admit I was confused, terribly morose, and more scared than I’d ever been up to that point. Even more so than when I’d dreaded the doctors’ visits that had jabs in them.
I was leaving everything behind. My mom and dad, my room, my comic books, my friend Billy. Old Mrs. Patterson from next door who liked to give me king sized candy bars when I mowed her lawn, the family cat Scancy, my goldfish Goldie. I know. Not exactly original. I was a kid, cut me some slack on pet naming, OK?
In short, everything I knew was about to drastically change. I was going to live with an old guy in the woods I’d never met before. Who had only ever sent me cards at birthdays, Halloween, and Christmas with cash tucked in them and my name spelled incorrectly. Don’t get me wrong, I loved the cash and found the name stuff kind of funny but none of that made me feel any better at the time.
I was angry and I hated it all.
But despite all that, there we were pulling off a long bumpy road onto an even longer bumpy road lined with tall, old looking trees, huge rocks, and lakes until we finally pulled up to a spiky black iron gate that was almost buried beneath foliage and trees.
The gate was mounted into a pair of pillars topped with stone gargoyles (with strange dark eyes that seem to follow you a little too closely) and a tiny, rusted yellow security box you have to push a tiny button to speak into. There was a staticky, fuzzy, tense conversation between my dad and whoever was at the other end, and a moment later the gates creaked and groaned open and we drove up another long gravel path to Craggmore Lodge—my new home, whether I liked it or not.
The main building of the lodge is a long, single story, dark stained timber structure with a green shingled roof and shutters. A large stone chimney sat at each end and a cozy looking lantern lit roofed porch ran its entire length and was comfortably appointed with tables and chairs.
There are two other buildings, all pretty much of the same type and style, and they were interconnected by tidy stone walkways. One was a tiny cozy looking guest house, and the other a large workshop of some kind that looked like an old barn with a pair of massive doors at the front. Old rusted tools, wagon wheels, a pitted tractor tire, and such was piled and leaning against its roughhewn age worn sides.
My grandfather stood in a checkered red and black flannel, worn jeans, and a frayed barn coat, and he was sipping at an enameled mug of steaming coffee. A huge, watery eyed, and shaggy grey dog lay at his booted feet and watched us approach from the main building’s porch. His scruffy floppy eared head sat between its paws, panting and sniffing curiously at our station wagon as it crunched up the unpaved drive.
Grandfather gave us a melancholy little wave as we piled out of the car. Dad looked extremely awkward and uncomfortable lugging out my bags from the hatchback as my mom took my hand and shakily walked me to my grandfather (they hadn’t spoken two words to one another in the years after a mysterious and awful fight not a soul will talk about). Manx, the dog, sat up as we approached. His great pink droolly tongue lolled from his toothy jaws as he studied us, head cocked to the side and tail wagging.
I normally didn’t like dogs due to our other neighbor Mrs. Fletcher’s pack of nasty yipping chihuahuas that she shrilly called her babies and let swarm and poop all over our yard. They would chew, gang up, and pee on anything they liked including, at times, me. For some reason though I took a shine to Manx right away. He sniffed the air curiously, stood, stretched with a low whine, and immediately took up a station