--XIII--

Vincent's dad was sitting in the living room when we arrived home. The house looked like it had just been overturned by a tornado. And I thought Lindsay's house was cluttered.

Vincent paused before reaching the doorstep, clearing his throat as he did.

I turned to him. "Aren't you coming in?"

He shoved his hands inside his jacket pockets and just stood there looking annoyed. "Depends. Are you inviting me in?" he mumbled mostly to himself.

With a shrug, I said, "Suit yourself," and left him outside.

When I checked for Dad, he was fast asleep in his room.

"The doctors said your dad is just suffering from mild shock," Mr. Sinclair explained. "Just give him time to rest and he would be up and running in no time."

"Thank you." I gave him a smile. "Would you like to stay for dinner? I can cook."

Undecidedly, Mr. Sinclair turned to Vincent as if waiting for his answer. Vincent just tilted his head towards the Cruiser.

"Can't," Vincent shouted from the driveway. "Vlad's waiting at home. He's going to... cry if we don't get there before dark. Right, Archie—I mean... Dad?"

"It's okay." Unexpectedly, I felt a bit disappointed. "You don't have to make up some lame excuse."

I thanked Mr. Sinclair before they urgently left.

As I was tidying up the living room, Dad's laptop caught my attention. The word processor was still open. The cursor blinked on the blank page. I thought he had been up late every night writing his new novel but for some reason he wasn't making any progress.

If he wasn't writing, what had he been up to these last few weeks?

Suddenly the room became very quiet—eerily quiet.

A disturbing creaking sound came from the kitchen.

I heard heavy breathing just over my shoulder; panting almost. Every breath sounded like fingernails grating against a chalkboard. I froze and shut my eyes close, afraid to look over my shoulder. Afraid that someone was behind me.

My own breathing hacked in my throat painfully, my breaths fogging with the sudden chill in the air.

Oh God. Oh God. Oh God.

Something ice-cold touched my nape. It felt like... fingers.

Mustering all my courage, I sucked in a deep breath and looked behind me. There was no one there. In fact, I was all alone in the darkness of the living room. There was nothing there but shadows playing on what small sliver of dim light passed through the gap between the curtains. And the icy whiff of withered roses.

My heart almost skipped out of my chest when I saw a word being typed on the computer when I didn't remember touching anything. It was as if the keys were being pushed by invisible fingers.

In horror, I read the word on the screen. "Open..."

I held my breath, cold sweat trickling from my forehead. With trembling hands, I reached out to push the backspace button. But before I could even put my finger on the keyboard, the keys started typing by themselves again.

Open. Open. Open. Open. Open.

All the lights in the whole house suddenly flickered on and off. Then, they went out altogether.

I choked back a whimper. I was freaking out.

The computer screen which was the only source of light in the whole house. I could not breathe, much less scream in terror.

While I was reaching into my pockets for my inhaler, the lights in the kitchen turned on. A shrill static noise filled the air as if beckoning to me, just like the weird sounds I heard while spying on the Thomases' front yard.

It was hard to concentrate with all the horrible blood-curdling noises. It was like screws were being drilled on the back of my head. I managed to hobble toward the source of the sound, groping onto furniture to keep my balance.

At last, I reached the kitchen, panting. Cautiously, I peered from side of the door. To my relief, no one was there.

Nothing seemed amiss. Except that a cupboard was open. It was the same cupboard door that opened by itself when we first moved here; the same one that slammed shut when I didn't even remember opening it.

All of a sudden, it swung in and out with an eerie rhythmic groan that made my nape tingle.

Creak! Creak! Creak!

I covered my ears and closed my eyes.

"Stop... Stop. Stop!"

The cupboard door stopped moving.

I opened my eyes just as it opened invitingly. For some reason, it drew me with a compelling force.

Open.

As if I had been put into some sort of trance, I dropped my hands. I couldn't resist taking a look. With my breathing still ragged, I inched toward the cupboard and reached warily for the handle. I peeked through my right eye to see what was inside. I was cautious, ready to sprint like a lunatic just in case something (or someone) tried to snatch my hand (or my face).

It was dark inside the cupboard so I couldn't really see. Maybe a rat opened it—a huge mutant rat with rabies and saber tooth fangs that could turn invisible and type on a computer.

Hopefully, I scared it away. Hopefully.

There was no rat though. Just a pile of old utensils, years and years of grime and a gentle breeze coming from the inside.

I stopped. A breeze? Impossible.

I found myself feverishly taking out the old grimy aluminum baking pans, muffin tins, a rusty can opener and many others I didn't recognize from the cupboard. Each clanked as it hit the floor.

There was something inside. I was sure of it.

Once I emptied the space, I reached for the backside of the cupboard, feeling the wood with my hands until I discovered an indentation. It was about a foot square. There were hinges on top of it and three embossed images—a book and a chain on the sides, and a sickle at the top middle—arranged in a triangle.

Without even thinking, I traced the sickle with my fingers. With a soft click, the wooden flap swung in, revealing an ancient-looking safety box. Inside was an old silver chain necklace with the most brilliant teardrop-shaped diamond pendant I had ever seen in my life. Strangely, it reminded me of the eyes of the mysterious young boy I saw in front of the Thomases' last night. Along with the necklace was a leather-bound book. It had the same symbols as the secret box; a book, a chain and a sickle.

I didn't know what came over me. I don't usually take stuff that doesn't belong to me but I pocketed the necklace almost mechanically.

I flipped the old yellowing pages of the book gently so it wouldn't crumble in my trembling hands. My thoughts raced when I found out that it was an antique diary of some sort. What was peculiar about it was that the diary didn't belong to only one person. There were several logs under different names dating from the fifteen hundreds.

Whoever or whatever typed those words on Dad's laptop wanted me to find these. For what reason, I still had no idea.

I started to read the first entry. The first paragraph was written in an unfamiliar language, perhaps in Latin, so I didn't really pay attention and skipped to the more comprehensible part.

Alessandra Clandestine (? – 1589)

I have remained for plentiful blessed days in this world of the Living. Notwithstanding the jubilation that this existence has bestowed upon me, I possibly will not circumvent the sheer trepidation towards Death. In not less than a single fortnight, my sole daughter Liliana shall turn eight.

All that I was erudite about, I have imparted to her. Including the curse put upon us. Death will come and no one but I was culpable.

I stopped reading before my head exploded with the big words and the calligraphic writing. But in one way or another, I could not shake off the feeling that I was somehow connected to Alessandra Clandestine, whoever she was.

I knew I was supposed to find this diary.

Turning the page, I read another log from a person named Liliana Stidolf: Alessandra's daughter whom she mentioned in her journal. It dated from 1581 to 1619. She lived for only thirty eight years.

Liliana Stidolf wrote about a certain curse that would fall upon her once her daughter Elizabeth turned eight. But unlike Alessandra Clandestine's acceptance, Liliana expressed her anger and suffering. Apparently she knew that she was going to die and she wasn't happy about it.

The next was Elizabeth Goodliffe. Liliana's daughter, I supposed. Like the first two, she wrote about her impending death once her daughter turned eight.

"That's weird."

When I continued to skim the pages, I noticed the similarity. All the entries basically said the same thing about a curse—death of the mother on the eighth birthday of the daughter.

I scanned the next few pages. The cycle continued for generations. There were eight more entries made by Alessandra's great, great, great... great, great— I lost track.

"What a coincidence," I murmured, flipping the pages.

I lost my mother too, when I was eight.

I was about to lose interest when suddenly, I saw a very familiar handwriting. The very last account was made by a certain Lisanna Rayne.

With trembling fingers, I traced her written words on the yellowing parchment. Mist suddenly formed around my eyes.

I would know that handwriting from anywhere.

"Oh God. Mom," I blurted, clasping a hand on my mouth. Despite the anticipation, I tried my very best to stay calm. "Lisanna Rayne, nineteen-sixty-two to two thousand and one."

A tear rolled on my cheek as I read her words.

Aramis is about to turn eight this December. Usually, her birthday coincides with the first week of snow fall.

I know I wouldn't live long enough to see it.

I wanted to be with her all throughout her childhood years, her womanhood; everything. I want to see her graduate, be there when she falls in love or if she breaks her heart. She would probably get married someday and have children of her own, all of them with eyes like the autumn sky just like hers.

I would give anything to be by her side when those things happen.

But I accepted my fate a long time ago. I am ready and I am not afraid to face Death. I will not die in vain knowing that Aramis will not suffer the same fate as mine. As was promised, the curse shall end with the thirteenth generation. Thus, it will end with me. And Aramis will not have to fear every single passing day like I used to.

She will grow up and grow old. She will be able to hold her children and teach them about life. She will be what she wants to be. Most importantly, she will be happy.

Death will not win.

Before Mom died, she told me not to cry about her ever and I never did.

"Always smile whenever you think of me," she used to say, tweaking the fringe of brown wavy hair that covered my face. "Be happy, Aramis. Be happy."

I did not cry in Mom's wake and even during her burial. It was the last promise I could keep for her.

All those years I never shed a single tear for her, only cheerful memories and love and smiles and laughter. But I hadn't realized I was crying until I caught teardrops on the back of my hand.

"I broke my promise Mom," I croaked.

I sat there for a while, staring at Mom's last words. Like what happened to Alessandra Clandestine and ten others, Mom died on the night of my eighth birthday. Like everyone in our lineage, she died due to a curse. Hers was the shortest entry, perhaps because she was so sure that the curse had been lifted. Mom was so sure that I would be safe and that was all that mattered to her.

If so, then why would just about anyone I knew expected me to die?

My train of thought was interrupted when I heard the door of Dad's room open. Immediately, I hid the diary under my shirt, wiped my eyes on my sleeves and closed the cupboard.

When he walked by, Dad fixed his angry stare at me then at the cooking tools on the floor.

He looked wasted. His murky brown eyes were bloodshot with dark purplish rings around them. He might need a lawn mower to take care of his now bushy beard.

"There—there was a rat. A really big rat so..." I stuttered, keeping the diary tucked inside my shirt.

His gaze suddenly turned blank. After that, he automatically walked back to his room.

Dad hated dirt. He was obsessive-compulsive. He despised creases on his ironed clothes. All his books were arranged alphabetically according to genre and writer.

His sudden transformation into a slob scared me more than his laptop typing by itself.