The death curse
Updated: Nov 24, 2021
Tonight it should only take 19 seconds. Cyanide capsules I purchased off the dark web. I've been saving them for a rainy day.
It should be relatively easy; I watched a few YouTube videos about how spies used them back in the wars. I'm nervous though, I always am. What if I don't get it.
What if tonight is the night I don't die?
I suppose I should pause here, for a moment, and explain to you why I'm asking that question. Maybe if I can make sense to someone, to anyone, about what is happening to me… it can start to make sense to me as well.
It didn't start with me. According to my father, the curse was bestowed upon our great grandfather in the 1700s by a witch visiting from St. Ives.
As a child, I naturally assumed that this was an old wife's tale that he spun me to keep me in check. I told myself that the reason Mom would escort dad down to the basement every night was simply because of some bizarre sleep disease. I was grasping for a rational explanation.
But I would sometimes hear the screams. Like he was being tortured. I told myself for years it was all in my head that I was just hearing things and making mountains out of molehills.
Then one day, my mother got ill, and I saw firsthand what my father was going through every night. And it changed my life forever.
I was thirteen, and it was a humid day in August. When I came into the house from playing baseball, Mum asked me to fetch her some cold water.
Then Dad ordered me to his cellar. I knew it had to be important because he had explicitly told me never to go down there.
He took me by the hand and guided me down a set of musty wooden steps. The kind that creaks every time you step on them. It was dark, and my mind started playing tricks on what lies ahead in the darkness.
But my imagination paled in comparison to reality. Dad flicked on the lights and revealed something terrifying. Bloody surgical instruments layout on a table along with a hacksaw and a couple of different guns. There was rope, poison capsules, even a makeshift guillotine in the corner. Every tool you could imagine that could inflict harm on someone was there, and then a few that I didn't understand what purpose they might have.
He didn't explain it or even try to. He just walked over to the table and grabbed the hacksaw, and with one quick motion, he impaled it into his chest.
"Dad!!" I screamed as I ran to his side, and he placed my hands on the handle.
"Keep cutting until you hit the main artery," he ordered.
I sobbed in confusion but did exactly as I was told. Blood gushed out of his chest and onto the floor like a fire hydrant bursting at the seams. His blood spilled over my arms in my haste to obey him.
Then I saw his eyes widen, his breath grew short, and I watched as he toppled over. The blade hit the floor with a clang, and then silence flooded in. I stood there, out of breath and frozen in fear, trying to comprehend what I had just done.
I sat on that cold concrete floor with hopes of waking up, but it never happened. I never went upstairs to find mom. I couldn't. I was terrified of what would happen, terrified of the consequences of my actions. I sat down there, with my eyes glued to the corpse of my father. And somewhere between the hours, I finally fell asleep. I think it was right before daybreak when I felt a warm hand touch my shoulder. Almost instantly, I awoke, and as I looked up with puffy eyes, I came face to face with my father standing before me.
I stared in horror as the memories of the previous night flooded into my mind. It was him, except his wounds were no longer visible. It was like it never happened. I turned my eyes toward the floor and saw the bloodied corpse still lying on the cold concrete. As I observed it, I realized it didn't share any of my father's features. It was just there, an empty shell.
"Help me bury it," said Dad, as if he was merely asking me to take out the trash. I was hesitant as I tried to comprehend what had just happened. My mind ran wild, trying to find a logical explanation, but I couldn't.
"I'll explain later, I promise. Please," Dad said as he walked over and picked up the leg of his former self, motioning me to pick up the other. I obeyed, and together we dragged the cold corpse out to the backyard.
We buried it in the garden, outback, just before the sun finally rose. And within a matter of minutes, we were sitting in the kitchen. The light buzzed above us as I sat anxiously awaiting an explanation for what the hell I just saw.
"I'm not normal," He said as he grasped his cup, the steam from the freshly brewed coffee puffed out of it like a coal train. I sat in confusion, not by what he said but by how calmly he said it. This wasn't very interesting to him. It was clear.
"What do you mean? Who was that we buried? What the hell was that?" I asked anxiously. By then, my patience ran short, and I just needed answers. "Language!" he said, "But I suppose you finally do need to know everything. Especially if I don't succeed one day,"
"You know the old curse story? The one I used to tell you?" He asked. I nodded.
He continued, "Well, it's more real than you think. Son, your great grandfather, was a twisted man. He killed people, scammed them out of their homes, their lives. And for that, he was allegedly bestowed a curse by a witch. I know, it sounds crazy but hell, after tonight, what is? The curse says you must die by midnight, or else you meet your permanent demise, and with that comes the deaths of many."
"Funny, right?" He chuckled, "You die to keep living, except as long as you die, you live. Your body never grows old. It purges itself every time you die. My grandfather did this for 218 years until he finally realized he couldn't go on like that. And that's when our unfortunate bloodline comes into play. Because one night he didn't die, the clock struck 12, he turned to dust, and many, many people died. From that moment on, everything was passed down to my father. And as the years went by, he couldn't do it anymore, and when he died, the town was massacred by something scientists couldn't even explain. But I knew what it was because by then, it was already passed to me, and someday, son, it will be passed onto you."
I sat in that kitchen chair, frozen in fear by what I'd just heard. Had I'd not just witnessed what I had, I would've thought this was all a joke. But he continued.
"Your mother helps me because I can't kill myself. I just can't. So, thank you, son, you helped me live another day." He put his hand on my shoulder in some form of reassurance, but I couldn't shake the words he said.
Someday it will go to me.
And one day, it did go to me, many years later.
I'm not going to lie and say the witch herself came down, or I felt the curse be bestowed onto me because none of that happened. Mum and I just watched as the clock struck 12, and dad took his final breath. As his body died, his skin soon turned black, like charcoal. Mom and I stared in horror as we realized what would happen next.
Moments later, the ash itself rose from the bed where my father once laid. It flew around the room like a tornado. It passed out into the hall, out the window, but eventually, some of it clung to my mother. I tried to stop it, tried to swat it away, tried to save the last person I had left, but I couldn't. I was forced to watch as it swarmed her. I was forced to watch as it took her away from me. Somewhere in my hopeless attempts to save her, I was thrown back. And when I came to, she was gone. A pile of ash was all that remained. The air was still as I heard the faint sound of car alarms outside, and from that moment on, I knew everything was on me.
Seven people died that night. All consumed by the ash, all killed within seconds, all dead due to my father's actions. I knew I had to do this. I knew I couldn't let innocents die.
So that night, I found myself sitting on my bed, loading a gun, awaiting my demise. I tried to do it without hesitation, but it's hard not to have second thoughts when you have a gun in your mouth, but eventually, I did it. I pulled the trigger. I didn't hear the gun go off or feel anything at all. I just awoke in my bed. The featureless corpse of my once self, lied on the floor, in a puddle of my blood. That was the first death of many.
And since then, this has become a routine, like brushing your teeth or showering. Only, if I didn't die, I would, well, die, along with a multitude of innocent lives around me.
I guess that brings us back around to why I'm making this post. It's not easy doing this, but I'm at the end of my rope.
I need your help.