The crush of gravel beneath my wheels silenced as the car
eased to a stop. I killed the engine as the ramshackle farmhouse loomed above
me through the leaf patterns dappling my windshield. Broken windows passed
silent judgment on me. The years had been no kinder to the old place than they
had been to my Grandma Mirela. There was no telling which was more withered,
her body or her mind.
With a great reluctance, I opened the door. The scent of
fresh mown hay and dust overwhelmed me as my stylish boots crunched on the
driveway. I was transported back to muggy summer days spent on this farm so
many years ago. The decades hadn’t smoothed over the sense of horror those hot
summer nights invoked. My pulse raced with some forgotten fear I had spent all
these years denying. The thunder of my door closing bounced off the thick trees
as I shoved the memories trying to surface. The slam briefly silenced the
cicadas chirping in the trees. A soft breeze carried the distant murmur of
Kickapoo Creek, down the hill behind the old barn. I could hear the calls of
birds singing in the trees of Jubilee State Park, over three thousand acres of
mostly undeveloped forests that butted up against my grandparents land. I could
just see the glint off the silvery motor homes down in the meadow, but I shoved
it aside. That was a worry for another day.
With a weary sigh, I pushed away from the Ford Escape,
approaching the house that haunted nightmares that fled as soon as I woke,
leaving a dread I had thus far refused to acknowledge. I pooled my courage and
trudged up the steps to my family’s old homestead. The years peeled away with
each step, and I regressed to my eight year old self, all scabbed knees and
buck teeth. Gramma El would be in the kitchen in her old apron that smelled
like brown sugar and nutmeg. My cousin Pesha would be sitting at the table
pouting as he snapped beans, while his older brother Luca scaled and gutted the
fish they had caught in Willow Pond that morning. But Gramma El now lived in a
retirement community in town, and her apron had been hanging so long it only
smelled like dust. Luca was in Florida with his perfect wife and two point five
kids. He hadn’t stepped foot into Illinois in over a decade, and probably
didn’t intend to, either. Pesha was in Chicago last I’d heard, chasing dreams
when he was sober enough to remember them. What had happened to us? We’d been
so close all those years ago.
No, there was no one else to deal with this old place, so
the duty fell to me, as usual. Some rich woman had made an offer that was so
generous I couldn’t say no. The taxes alone had eaten a giant hole in my bank
account. If I didn’t sell the place soon, I would be forced to live on the
streets with my eight year old daughter Madison. Being a single mom was tough,
but doing it while caring for my ailing grandmother was next to impossible. And
that was without the added strain of maintaining this relic. I just hoped it
didn’t take longer than the week I’d taken off work to get everything packed
up.
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