Chapter 8: The Woman Who Started the Curse
For several seconds, nobody reacted.
Not because we didn't understand.
Because we did.
And the human mind has a strange way of protecting itself from impossible truths.
It creates a small wall.
A tiny barrier between reality and madness.
But that wall was already cracking.
My family had spent decades hiding secrets.
Children had been separated.
Names had been erased.
People had disappeared.
And now Clara was telling me the person who started everything...
Was still alive.
I looked at her.
"That doesn't make sense."
Clara nodded slowly.
"I know."
"No."
I shook my head.
"Not just that. Everything you've said."
I pointed toward the house.
"My mother believed some story. My sister was raised believing she was chosen. My grandmother supposedly started this."
My voice became louder.
"But now you're saying someone before her created all of this?"
Clara looked at me sadly.
"Yes."
"Who?"
She didn't answer immediately.
That scared me.
Because everyone in this family had a habit of delaying the truth.
Always one more secret.
One more hidden piece.
One more reason I should have known less.
Finally, Clara spoke.
"Her name was Eleanor Whitmore."
The name meant nothing to me.
But it meant something to my father.
His face changed.
"That's impossible."
Clara looked at him.
"You knew about her."
My father shook his head.
"No."
"Daniel."
"No."
His voice became desperate.
"She died over a century ago."
Clara nodded.
"That is what the family records say."
The words chilled me.
"What does that mean?"
Clara looked at me.
"It means your family has always been very good at rewriting history."
The backyard suddenly felt smaller.
Like the walls of the house were moving closer.
I looked at my father.
"How much do you know?"
He didn't answer.
I laughed bitterly.
"Of course."
I looked away.
"Another secret."
My father stepped forward.
"I swear I didn't know about everything."
I looked at him.
"You keep saying that."
His face fell.
"Because it's true."
"Then tell me what you do know."
He looked at Clara.
Then back at me.
"I know the family has always had stories."
"Stories?"
"About the first daughter."
I waited.
My father continued.
"Every generation had one woman who controlled the family."
"Controlled?"
He nodded.
"She decided marriages. Inheritances. Where people lived. What children were taught."
I looked at Lily.
"And if someone disagreed?"
Nobody answered.
They didn't need to.
I already knew.
My daughter had almost become the answer to that question.
Clara walked closer.
"Your grandmother didn't wake up one day and become cruel."
She looked toward the dark garden.
"She was taught."
My mother whispered:
"By Eleanor."
Clara looked at her.
"Yes."
Everyone turned.
My mother's expression changed.
"You knew?"
Clara nodded.
"Your mother told me before she disappeared."
My mother looked confused.
"She told you?"
"Yes."
"When?"
Clara's eyes became distant.
"The night she tried to convince me to leave."
A cold silence followed.
My father frowned.
"Wait."
He looked at Clara.
"You said Evelyn helped your mother."
Clara nodded.
"She did."
My mother started crying.
"I was scared."
Clara looked at her.
"You were."
The answer surprised me.
Because Clara didn't sound angry.
She sounded sad.
"You were seventeen. You were trapped in a house where obedience was the only way to survive."
My mother covered her face.
"But I still failed you."
Clara didn't respond.
And somehow that silence hurt more than anger.
Then Rebecca spoke.
Quietly.
"Why didn't you come for me?"
Everyone looked at her.
Clara froze.
The question wasn't angry.
It was wounded.
A child asking why her mother never appeared.
Clara's eyes filled with tears.
"I tried."
Rebecca shook her head.
"No."
She wiped her face.
"You didn't know where I was."
Clara nodded.
"That's true."
"Then how can you say you tried?"
Clara reached into her pocket.
She pulled out a stack of old letters.
"I wrote you every year."
Rebecca stared.
"What?"
"Every birthday."
Clara's voice broke.
"Every Christmas."
She held the letters tightly.
"I sent them to the address I was given."
My mother looked away.
Everyone noticed.
I noticed.
Rebecca noticed.
"Mom..."
My mother closed her eyes.
"No."
Rebecca stood.
"You knew?"
My mother's silence answered.
Rebecca's face collapsed.
"You knew she was alive?"
My mother whispered:
"I was told she was dangerous."
A painful laugh escaped Rebecca.
"So you believed that?"
My mother cried.
"I believed everything they told me."
Rebecca shook her head.
"No."
She looked at her.
"You believed what was easier."
Nobody spoke.
Because that was the truth.
Fear was easier than admitting you were wrong.
A lie was easier than facing what you had done.
Then my phone rang.
Everyone froze.
The screen showed an unknown number.
I didn't answer.
It stopped.
Then immediately rang again.
My father looked worried.
"Don't."
But I answered.
No one spoke.
Only silence.
Then an elderly woman's voice came through.
A voice I had never heard.
But somehow...
Everyone around me recognized it.
My mother dropped to her knees.
"No..."
The voice spoke calmly.
"Hello, Evelyn."
My mother covered her mouth.
The phone trembled in my hand.
"Who is this?"
A pause.
Then:
"You know who."
Clara stepped forward.
Her face became pale.
"Mother..."
My heart stopped.
Mother?
No.
Impossible.
The voice continued.
"I see you've all gathered."
My grip tightened around the phone.
"Who are you?"
The woman laughed softly.
"Aren't you curious?"
I said nothing.
She continued.
"I am the woman your family blamed."
A pause.
"The woman they feared."
Another pause.
"The woman who built the rules."
The backyard went silent.
My voice lowered.
"Eleanor."
The woman smiled through the phone.
"Good."
I felt a chill.
"At least someone remembers my name."
My father stepped forward.
"You're dead."
Eleanor laughed.
"Everyone keeps saying that."
The same words Clara had used earlier.
The same terrifying answer.
The woman continued:
"Bring the child to me."
My entire body went cold.
I looked down at Lily.
"No."
The voice became softer.
"Then the cycle continues."
I felt rage rise.
"What cycle?"
A pause.
Then Eleanor answered:
"The cycle where every first daughter must prove she belongs."
I looked at Clara.
At Rebecca.
At my mother.
Then back at the phone.
"And what happens if I refuse?"
The voice became quiet.
Almost a whisper.
"Then you will learn why your grandmother was so afraid."
The call ended.
Nobody moved.
Then my father said the words I never wanted to hear.
"We have to leave."
I looked at him.
"Where?"
He looked at Clara.
"Somewhere she can't find us."
Clara shook her head.
"It's too late."
Everyone turned.
"What?"
Clara looked at the house.
At the family that had been built on lies.
"She already knows where we are."
Then the old wooden gate behind us slowly opened.
Nobody touched it.
Nobody stood there.
But hanging from the gate...
was a small object.
A hospital bracelet.
A newborn bracelet.
My name was written on it.
And beneath my name...
was another name.
A name that had been crossed out.
May you like
LILY.
End of Chapter 8
