Page 7 of A Curse On Black Lake
Monsters don’t just live under the bed.
Chapter three
Eliana
AfterIfinishmuckingout the stalls and harvesting the lavender, I head inside to cool off, and Grams is nowhere to be found. The Spirits are muttering, and I try not to listen while I look for her.
“Grams!” I call.
Nothing.
That’s odd. Usually she’s in the kitchen making lunch or heating something up.
Our store is at the front of the house, so I go look where she’s usually working on healing poultices, or tonics.
When I open the door, I find her lying on the floor behind the counter.
“Grams!” I yell, and I drop next to her, checking her pulse first.
Her eyes flutter open, and she smiles sadly at me. “I don’t remember how I got down here,” she mumbles.
“Do you want—”
“If you suggest that again. I’ll slap you silly, girl,” she snaps.
She hates it when I suggest the hospital. She says she really will go to an early grave if she steps foot in there. I don’t blame her. Deep down, I know they can’t do anything for her.
“You know this is nothing a modern doctor can explain. It doesn’t matter. I’m probably dehydrated, that’s all,” she says.
I help her up, trying to keep myself from bursting into tears. I’ll cry later. After she’s on her feet, we head back into the back of the house. She sits in her favorite chair, and I get her a glass of water.
She drinks half of it and leans back in her chair. “Quit looking at me like that, flower. We knew this was coming. I’m sorry you had to find me like that.”
I don’t respond because I can’t speak. I’m losing her, and it’s killing me, and I don’t know what I’m going to do when she’s gone. It’s hard to watch someone you love lose themselves. Be that their freedom or their mind. Luckily, her mind isn’t slipping, but it could.
She’s eighty-nine years old. She’s in pain, and she’s tired. I think anyone would be too. She had to bury her husband and figure out how to be a single mother at a young age. Then she had to bury her children and raise me. She never complained once.
It doesn’t matter if I know the day is coming.
“I’m going to make you some food,” I rasp, not knowing what else to do.
I feel helpless in the face of the reality. So I bury myself in the chores and work that needs to be done.
Evening comes faster than it should. Grams and I sit in the living room before bed. It’s been our routine for as long as Ican remember. She’s reading an old book, and I’m half asleep in my chair with my sketchbook laying open. I’ve been drawing the outline of the face I’ve seen in my dream, hoping that maybe the Spirits might give me a hint as to who he is. Have I met him? Does he know who I am? I don’t spend a lot of time around people in town. Maybe he’s not from Black Lake. Then again, I don’t know of many people who come here voluntarily.
“What are you thinking about over there, flower?”
“Hm?” I ask her sleepily.“You seem deep in thought.”
“Nope, I’m falling asleep,” I mutter.
“Are you ready to talk about your dream?” she asks.
A shot of anxiety wakes me up, and I shift in my seat, going back to drawing the outline of the cowboy’s chin.
“I’m going to take that as a yes,” she mutters and turns the page to her book.
I sigh and roll my eyes. This is her way of getting me to talk when I don’t want to. But she usually pulls it out of me. When I was younger, it was how she got me to tell her what the Spirits were saying instead of keeping it all inside.
