SOPHIA
Bethgelert, Wales, 2015
I beat my record running from the tree back home by a full three minutes. I didn’t stop to check if the creepy man was following me because I’ve seen enough movies to know that when people get chased, looking over their shoulder slows them down and then they get caught and killed. So I kept running and never looked back. I assumed that a man of his age wouldn’t chase a teenage girl a mile across the village, but I didn’t want to be too careful.
Upon arriving in my yard, I lent over the gate and finally took a full breath in, allowing my lungs to suck in as much oxygen as they could take, but then a wave of dizziness made me stumble sideways. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d run that far, or that fast.
Once composed, I made my way to the front door, but before I could open it, my dad yanked it open, huffing and puffing like he was the one who ran over a mile in a personal best time.
‘Oh. Good. You’re back,’ he said.
‘Something wrong, Dad?’
‘Yes, the electricity's gone out at Rosemore Cottage, and I have people arriving in the morning.’
‘And that’s my problem because …’
‘Don’t get smart with me young lady. You’re the one who seems to have a knack for fixing things. I need you over there to sort it out right now. If I need to call in a professional, then I need to know ASAP. Lord knows I can’t afford to, so I’m hoping you’ll be able to sort it.’
I let out an extra-long sigh, making sure he knew exactly how pissed off I was, but to be perfectly honest, I liked fixing things almost as much as I enjoyed drawing. My sigh was merely a show of my stroppy teenage persona. I already knew what the issue was. Dodgy wiring. Thanks to my Dad refusing to hire an actual electrician, he relied on handouts from people in the village who liked to lend a hand, or who owed him a favour. It didn't matter if they weren’t qualified. He hadn’t had much luck lately, and I knew the farm was struggling to sustain itself. I wasn’t sure what he had planned, but usually everything worked out okay in the end, especially for Dad. He knew a lot of people.
‘I’ve just come from there,’ I said with a whine.
‘Then go back!’
I didn’t mind going back to the cottage, but the idea of running into the old guy again was enough to set my teeth on edge. I hoped he wasn’t hanging around. I was about to ask my dad why his creepy friend would be hanging out by the tree,wanting to deliver a message, but before I could, he shoved the bag of tools at me and slammed the door in my face.
‘This is classed as child labour!’ I shouted at the closed door.
No answer.
I hiked the bag over my shoulder and began my trip back across the fields towards Rosemore Cottage. My dad owned it, but rented it out to holiday makers, something he loathed to do because he hated the idea of outsiders infiltrating our community. But we needed the money.
He was in the process of selling it because it had become a drain on resources. The fact was that our family was broke, or at least in the process of breaking.
The curse continued …
Although, if my dad used his brain and projected blame onto himself instead of a ninety-year-old curse, he’d see that it was his own fault. But Dad didn’t like to blame himself. It was always someone else’s fault. My mother’s. Mine. Whoever.
I cut across the path, deciding to take a shortcut instead. I placed a foot precariously on top of the wire fence and then leapt over, landing in the mud on the other side with a thud. My left foot slipped, but I managed to regain balance before navigating the muddy field and finding a track down towards a small river.
A few minutes later, I hopped over a low wall into the local graveyard, then weaved in between the gravestones that rose up out of the ground in zig-zag patterns. There were no discernible lines, but I knew exactly where I was going, having used this cut-through on numerous occasions. I used to hang out in the graveyard a lot with my friends, back when we bothered to see one another outside of school. It was the number one place to hang out and drink. We never made a mess or dishonoured the dead by spray-painting the stones or anything like that. I knew better. Besides, the whole Hammel family line was buried here, including John Hammel. His grave was a sacred place in many ways, yet also somewhere that was often neglected due to the sad memories it held.
The Hammel family had lived and died in the village for over a hundred and fifty years. Not only that, but my little brother was also buried here, having lost his life at five years of age. I’d been six at the time and now have very few memories of him, apart from the fact he used to make me laugh a lot and we'd put on crazy, made-up skits and dances in the living room for our parents.
His name was Tommy.
We didn’t talk about him anymore. My dad, as usual, blamed the curse, but I knew better. It was a sudden illness that took him. One day he was fine, then the next he was in hospital fighting for his life, and the day after that he was gone. Mum couldn’t handle it and, five years later, she walked outon us. Just up and left in the middle of the night. We hadn’t heard from her since. It was one of those things that no one talked about. She managed to escape from here, away from the village, away from the horrible memories of losing Tommy so suddenly. It was never her dream in life to live here indefinitely. She wanted to move away, but convincing my dad to leave the village he was born and raised in was an impossible task. She gave up trying and decided to leave. I wished she’d taken me with her, but I hoped that wherever she was, she was happy. Maybe I’d find her, see her again one day. As soon as I turned eighteen, I’d be leaving this village too.
I said a quick hi to Tommy’s grave as I passed, kissing my fingers and touching his headstone, then arrived at the far end of the graveyard where there was another wall which I hopped over. After that, it was a short trek across a field and I arrived at the cottage.
Dad always kept a spare key hidden behind a loose brick in the garage wall, so I took it and unlocked the door. The fuse board was upstairs, of all places, so I switched on the torch function on my phone and used it to climb the wooden stairs to the top floor.
It was only when I reached the top that I remembered the creepy old guy who’d been at the tree earlier. I scurried to the nearest window and peered out, scanning the gloomy yard below. It was too dark to see the tree, but I knew where it was,out there in the distance, ominously towering over the village. I made the decision to get home as quickly as possible.
I continued to the fuse board on the wall in the weird dead-end hallway at the top of the stairs. Bending down, I flipped open the small door and shone the beam inside. It looked fine. All the switches were in the right position. All good there.
Sighing, I dumped the bag of tools on the floor, then rummaged around until I found a screwdriver that fit. I held the phone in one hand and began fiddling with the various screws, ensuring they were all tight and in the right places, locking the wires in place.
