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Walking into the vastly treed area for the first time in eight years fills my heart with joy, regret, hate, and a plethora of other intense emotions. Returning to the small farm I grew up on, for the first time since I was fifteen, is bitter sweet. In some ways, I’ve missed the place. Things like the fresh air, scent of wild flowers, the peace and quiet. In other ways, I completely loathe this place. Most of my memories here aren’t good ones, but instead painful ones, ones that over the last eight years, I’ve worked my very hardest to forget or push aside so that I can live a relatively normal life. In truth, I never thought I'd return here. Ever. I never even thought I'd return to the state of Montana in general. Yeah, that’s how bad it is.
As the trees part and give way to the old farmhouse my great grandpa built on the family homestead over one hundred fifty years ago, a pang of distress hits me square in the chest as a flashback takes over my mind. The last time I was in the house, the last time I was anywhere near this worn farmhouse at all, was the day my mother attempted to kill me.
The memory of that day isn't the only bad one that I have, not by a long shot. My grandma passed away in her sleep here when I was seven. My brother and his friend went missing when they were nine while playing ball hockey in the backyard, I was only eight at the time. To top it off, my father died of a heart attack here four years later when I was barely twelve. That’s just family, I could go on and on sharing the numerous tragedies of Sunnybrooke, Montana, but I won’t bore you.
Some would say that the tragedies that have occurred around here are just plain, rotten luck. Others would say that there's something seriously wrong with this place, something peculiar about it. Me? If I’m being honest, I'm not too entirely sure what I think, the entirety of my childhood feels like it was some sort of dream. Well, it did for the last eight years up until I arrived here today as a twenty-three-year-old adult.
Today, big surprise, I return here because of another dreadful event. I debated even coming back here at all, not wanting to have to experience the flood of old memories, but I eventually jumped in my car and made the eleven-hour drive to Sunnybrooke.
The reason I return began when yesterday I received a phone call from my great aunt regarding my mother’s demise. She wasn't living here when it happened, but her last will and testament stated the house, the entire homestead in fact, would go all to me, her only remaining child upon her death. I don't want the house or the farm, so I've come to assess what needs renovated to get my money’s worth out of it when I sell it. I want this property out of my family’s life once and for all.
I walk up the steps towards the front door and pull the key out from under the ragged, ancient welcome mat which has been severely aged by time and weather, before slipping it into the rusty lock and twisting. The antique, wooden door squeals as it slowly moves open.
I remain standing in the doorway for a moment while I take in how unchanged the interior appears. No one has been here in eight years. After my mother attempted to kill me, she pleaded guilty, was diagnosed with schizophrenia and deemed mentally unstable. She was then placed in a 24-hour care facility and my great aunt became my legal guardian. Whatever caused her to snap all those years ago, messed her up badly, to the point where the caring mother I knew my entire life, was completely gone. Before the day she tried to kill me, she was generally a normal mom. I don't recall her doing anything out of the ordinary or anything, just normal mom stuff. Could it have been my brother’s disappearance and my father's death that sent her over the edge? Genetics? I’ve heard that some bloodlines are more prone to mental illness. I have no idea what the cause was and doubt I ever will.
The first thing I notice about the living room is the dark red stain on the grey shag carpet from my blood. No one ever cleaned it up. I recall the feeling of the bullet hitting my chest after my mom fired one of dad’s old hunting rifles. The pain was both splitting and agonizing. I drop my overnight bag onto the porch floor and find myself grimacing. This place is the last place I want to be, but if I want to have enough money to finally attend college or get my own place, I must push through this.
I walk up to a picture frame on the stone fireplace, now covered in dust. Wiping the dust off the glass, a picture of my smiling older brother Daniel becomes better visible. I forgot how much he looked like me, even more so now that I am grown up and no longer a child. I can't just leave all these keepsakes here, no matter how painful they are. I remove the back of the frame and carefully pull out the photo of my brother Daniel. I do the same for the three other photos on the mantel. One of myself, my first-grade photo; one of my grandparents on my mom's side; and one of my mom, dad, brother, and myself before our lives turned for the worst. We looked so happy, so normal. Now, I’m the only one left.
I place each photo into the sketchbook in my overnight bag, so they won't get bent. I then realize that I should've brought a couple storage containers along with me, but, then again, I wasn't planning on bringing anything from this house back home to Seattle with me.
A loud banging thump from upstairs causes me to jump and my heart to race. I didn't see my aunt’s car in the driveway, and she's the only other person with a key. My first thought is that an animal must've gotten in somehow, maybe there’s a broken window or something. The house has been empty for several years, so it's entirely possible.
I ascend the stairs to the upper level and glance around, finding nothing out of the ordinary, that is until I get to my mom’s room and push open the door. On the far wall above her dresser, written in red paint is a strange symbol consisting of lines and circles. Vandalism. Great. This doesn't explain the thump though, and I must assume that maybe it was a bird flying into the outside of the house or something, even though it sounded much louder than a mere bird.
I walk up to inspect the symbol painted on the wall. I notice that there's no footprints on the dusty hardwood leading up to it, so it must be old. It probably happened shortly after my mom tried to murder me. The incident rocked the area and small town near our farm, in fact, all our family drama made quite it’s rounds around here, not that it was the only drama because it wasn’t, but that’s only another reason that I never wanted to come back to this dreadful place—the small-town rumor mill is not uplifting by any means.
A knock on the front door excites me, and I begin racing to greet my aunt. My great aunt Beatrice took me in and legally adopted me after the incident with my mom, she was the only blood related family I had left that I had any sort of contact with, and she would never let me be put into the foster system.
I love my aunt, but as soon as I turned eighteen, I moved out of her home and into an apartment with my friend Jane who was attending college. I got a job at a gas station pumping gas. It was all I really had qualification for straight out of high school with no work experience.
Aunt Betty opens the door before I can reach it and shouts, “I'm here!” in her usual joyous tone.
A grin instantly arranges itself upon my face, and I wrap my arms around her tightly. It's been nearly a year since I last saw her. Her home in Savanna, Georgia is not a quick drive to Jane and I’s apartment in Seattle, Washington and neither my aunt nor I have the money to visit one another as often as we'd like to.
“Aunt Betty!” I cry. “It's been so long!”
She chuckles and rubs my back. “Yes, it has, love. How was your flight?”
“I actually drove here overnight. You nearly beat me here,” I explain, knowing I'm about to get scolded by her.
“You drove eleven hours through the night, in the dark, and all by yourself, May?” she asks dubiously.
I cower a little, but then brush it off. “Yes, Aunt Betty, if I would've waited until morning to come, I wouldn't have slept, and I couldn't afford the plane ticket anyway, it was cheaper to drive.”
Her expression softens. “You know, if you need money, you can always ask me for it.”
I look at her with disdain. “You know you can't afford to give me anything, and I have this house now.”
She shrugs. “If you needed it, I'd find a way.” She looks over the house quickly and swallows harshly. “It looks the same as it did the last time I was here. A little more dust maybe is all.”
I nod. I can't help but agree, it's almost eerie how unchanged everything is.
“There's also graffiti in mom's room,” I tell her with annoyance. “But the door was locked when I got here and there's no footprints in the dust, so I'm thinking it's been there for a while.”
Aunt Betty doesn't at all seem surprised. Her smile falters a bit as her gaze falls on the blood stain on the carpet. I’m positive that she's glimpsing back into the past, just as I had.
“Are you sure you want to stay here? We can get a hotel if you'd rather. I know this place is...dreadful. I know how much you loathe it,” she mutters under her breath, as if partially lost in thought.
“It's too expensive. It's fine. This is more convenient and it's cheaper,” I assure her. “I have many good memories here, too.” I attempt to lighten the mood but my voice cracks.
She looks at me with pity.
I turn away, not wanting to see it. I don't want people to pity me, that's one of the main reasons that I moved away from here in the first place and vowed to never come back.
“May, your mother loved you, you know. She was just ill, very ill. You know, I think that...if you don't go to the funeral, one day you'll look back and regret that decision.”
I know my mother loved me, but that doesn't make me want to attend her funeral. The woman tried to kill me for heaven sakes. She shot me and then laughed. If it hadn’t been for the mail man that day, who knows, maybe she would’ve shot me again and actually killed me.
“Go for you, not for her,” she attempts to persuade me, a hopeful glint in her aged eyes. Since last time I saw her, I see how much life has wilted her. The wrinkles below her eyes have doubled in number and her skin has taken on that thin, saggy texture that old people get.
“I’m sorry. I just can't,” I tell her harshly. “For all I know, she killed Daniel,” I don't mean to say this, but it slips out.
Aunt Betty sighs deeply and rests a hand on my shoulder. “Is that what this is about? You think she killed Daniel?”
“I... I don't know,” I ramble quickly. “She was crazy and who knows how long she was crazy for. Maybe she was really good at hiding it.” I nervously brush a loose lock of my long brown hair behind my ear.
She seems to debate this, her thin, pink lips pursed together.
“Don't tell me that you haven't thought the same thing.” I push her carefully, crossing my arms. I'm sure everyone has thought it.
Aunt Betty’s features don't relax, instead they become more intense as her brows furrow and her wrinkles show more intensely. “I have, but I don't think she had anything to do with it. After she attempted to hurt you, after she snapped out of it and realized what she’d done, she was incredibly hurt and regretful. When Daniel and his friend Kai disappeared, she was scared and worried.” She walks over to the stain on the carpet and stands over it, her short grey curls wrapping around her neck. Did she have that much grey the last time I saw her? I follow her.
“You’ve had a rough life, dear. I don't blame you for being bitter or assuming the worst. Your grandmother, your dad, your brother, and now your mom, and that’s just since you were born. There’s quite a long history of tragedy around here, especially within your dad’s family it appears. All that pain and loss and you're only twenty-three years old. It isn’t fair.”
“Why don't I help you haul in your bag,” I mutter, interrupting her before she continues. I don’t want to start crying right now. No, I want to get this place ready to put on the market.
Her expression of hurt changes to a small smile, the wrinkles on either side of her eyes become more pronounced. “I have it right here.” She glances to floor beside the door where a black handbag sits.
“That’s it?” I wonder. Here I brought a suitcase large enough to fit my entire wardrobe.
Her smile widens. “Yes, dear, I pack lightly. I had eight brothers and a sister, so my mom—your great grandma—always made sure we could fit everyone's things on trips. The habit stuck I guess.”
I wonder what it would be like to have so many siblings, probably quite chaotic, but you'd never be lonely. I never met my grandma on my mom’s side and none of her siblings either besides aunty Betty. Aunt Betty was the youngest of the bunch, and she’s outlived her siblings by a long stretch. She swears up and down that it’s because of all the green tea she drinks, but I’m not sure I believe that.
“Well, I guess we should see if the washing machine has been stolen. We can't sleep on dusty bedding tonight!” she sings enthusiastically and clasps her hands together. “Let's get to it, shall we? I hope you brought your duster and your work ethic!”