The kettle shrieks as the water inside boils away. I let it scream; the sound echoing through the stone walls of the family estate. It sounds old. Estate. It looks old too, and it is, for an American home. My great-great-grandfather built it in the 20s, after he made his fortune. He was, by all accounts, an arrogant bastard and wanted the neighbors to know he was better than them, so rather than build a normal mansion like Rockefeller or Carnegie, he built a castle.
It’s ridiculous really. Obnoxiously large, a bitch to clean, and a fortune on its own to keep warm. Of course, he never had to worry about that. In its prime, the Lake Family Estate had fifty people on staff. Maids, butlers, cooks, the family never had to do anything for themselves.
I don’t have any of that. The cooks left first, frustrated that the expensive meat my grandfather insisted they order went missing a little too regularly. The maids were next, though my father insisted it was because of feminism “poisoning their minds.” I’m pretty sure it was Great Uncle Roy.
My parents tried to keep up appearances, but without staff to maintain it, the house fell apart. It’s only a matter of time before the whole thing collapses. I would give anything to sell it off to the highest bidder and skip town. But I have a job to do.
I swipe the kettle from the stove and pour it over my tea bag, setting the egg time next to the stove for four minutes. The bergamot and black tea aroma steams into my nostrils, awakening my brain before I’ve taken my first sip. It took a long time for me to get used to this night shift lifestyle. I still don’t love it, but needs must and all that.
The egg timer lets out its obnoxious beeping, signifying my tea is ready. I toss the bag into the garbage, scoop a spoon full of sugar and a splash of milk, and take my first sip, ignoring the burning on my tongue and lips. Then, the scratching starts.
It’s exactly midnight. The waning moon shines through the trees, illuminating the garden behind the kitchen. What used to be a vast flower and vegetable garden that supplied the cooks with nearly everything they needed has withered to a single bed of tomatoes and herbs I can barely keep alive. Instead, I have my groceries delivered to the bottom of the driveway. That’s as far as anyone from town will dare to venture onto my property. I can’t blame them. I don’t even want to be here.
The scratching persists, making its way from the corner of the house toward the window above the sink. I don’t have to look up to know what, or should I say who, it is. Great Aunt Marla has always been the first to arrive at the house. The others like to wander the grounds after their nightly escape from the family cemetery, enjoying the temporary freedom from their graves. Marla is different. Even in death, she hates the outdoors.
I look up from my tea. “Hello Aunt Marla,” I say to the corpse, staring at me through the kitchen window.
A few years ago, I would have jumped at the sight. Now, I smile and wave. She can’t get it. She can tap at the glass and scratch the walls, but that’s it. My family isn’t like the zombies of a horror film, sprinting after the last surviving humans or tearing down their doors. They can open them, though. It takes all their strength to dig themselves out of their graves each night. But that doesn’t mean they aren’t dangerous.
That’s how my Uncle Roger died, according to my mother. He got too close one night. They found his body the next morning, ripped to shreds. So, I cannot sleep while they are roaming. It’s easier now than it used to be. The watchers used to have to roam the grounds, counting bodies and checking for trespassers. Technology has saved me here.
My first night as the family watcher was disastrous. As the only one left after my parents’ deaths, I was thrust into the responsibility with little more than a brief explanation as a child that I didn’t take seriously. I hadn’t been trained. Instead, I was thrown to the wolves.
Aunt Marla let herself into the house after I failed to lock the kitchen door. I had fallen asleep on the couch, not used to the late night. The scars she left on my chest and arms remain as a constant reminder. Then, Uncle Roger, the same who met his demise during a watch, made it halfway down the driveway before a deer distracted him and led him back to the house. They are immobile in the sun, but will pick right back up as soon as the sky darkens.
After that first night, I ordered tracking devices; the kind used on hunting dogs. With sensors placed strategically around the property, I know any time one of them tries to leave. As if on queue, my phone dings. Sensor number twelve has signaled on the east side of the property. I sigh, setting my half finished tea on the counter before grabbing my jacket and heading out the front door, locking it behind me.
Cousin Trevor rarely walks the perimeter. I assume he must have been following a rabbit to have wandered so far from the house. I lead him back to the house, letting him think he get get a taste of me, but keeping just far enough away to be out of reach of his sharp grasp. By the time we get back from the east side, the house is surrounded. My ancestors, from my great-great-grandfather who started this mess, to my parents, all wanting to get inside.
“I won’t be finishing that tea tonight,” I sigh. Instead, I walk around the property, checking for trapped relatives and counting down the minutes until sunrise. At least it isn’t the middle of winter. I pass the shed, where a large stock of gasoline and wood is kept. I think about the gasoline. About using it now.
I’m the last of my family. The last of the watchers. When I die, my family will dig themselves out of their graves one last time, but there will be no one to keep them from reaching town. I have no intention of letting that happen. I’ve been stocking up on gasoline for a while now. I want to make sure I have enough so that there is nothing left of us. No house, no bones, no chance of our curse spreading beyond the land.
A branch snaps behind me. Cousin Trevor has caught up. He reaches out to me, almost like he wants to hug me. I take two steps back. His arms grasp at the air and he stumbles. I can’t help but laugh. When he was alive he was a bully, using his football player strength to shove me in closets or hang me out a window while Great Aunt Marla or Great Uncle Glenn reach out for me from below. I find some justice in his struggle now that he’s one of them.
No, I won’t end this now. I want them to struggle a bit longer. I want them to suffer for putting me through this. For bringing me into this world when they knew this curse awaited me. For taking my freedom from me when I barely had time to experience it. Then, when I’ve had enough of it, I’ll burn this place to the ground and bring them all with me.
Alicia Coast 