Nightfall initiation: Chapter One, commencing at 7:00 PM
Jinxed Journey: A Tale of a Frigid December 13
So, we finally pulled up stakes and moved to a blasted new locale.
When the old man told me we'd be relocating a few moons back, I wasn't sure what to feel. Misery? Fear? Anticipation? I presumed I'd have to sort through the emotions and figure it out. Sitting now in my room post-move, I'm still clueless. I can't say I love this place, but I'm yet to find a valid reason for abhorring it. Regardless, the fact that the old man never bothered explaining why we were moving in the first place just pisses me off. All he ever bleats about is bills and work. It's like living with a lousy, broken record. He only shared the destination the night prior - a place called "Thurton Quay" on the edge of a wee village in some faux-provincial paradise. Apparently, it was the only option available, or so he mumbled, avoiding further explanation like a plague. We left the next morn.
Packing nomadic essentials was unnecessary; the old man said essentials were waiting for us. What awaited was a couple of beds, a dingy telly, a lounge chair, and a few trinkets - just enough to cater to the bare minimum. Our sole concern was ensuring my notebook, a smattering of pop's fags, a kettle, and a few utensils weren't left behind. A hodgepodge of clothing that we didn't bother to sort or fold found its way into the vehicle, along with a murdered Ford that decided to die in a godforsaken forest. Still, I remained indifferent.
The drive was primarily uneventful - long stretches of dull highways punctuated by tricky, winding country lanes. Pop seemed to be an experienced driver, but I began to question our route when none of the road signs signaled "Thurton Quay" or even hinted at a beach. At one point, I conked out - something I rarely do unless it's my choice. I awoke to find us tunneling through a dense, muddy forest, chasing an elusive track left by others before us. The radio emitted static, and our vehicle groaned with each labored stroke along the damp earth.
Pop's demeanor altered dramatically through the drive. At first, he was languid, oblivious, steering with a single hand and a fag burning between his lips. But as we ventured into the heart of the forest, his disposition shifted. He became tense and still, eyes glued to the dark pines. There appeared to be some macabre, robotic compulsion driving him forward, as if the woods themselves were now his grave as much as our refuge. Suddenly, with as little warning as a snake bite, the forest thinned out, offering a path to an open clearing. With renewed vigor, Pop floored the accelerator, barreling through the underbrush and within minutes, we were marooned in a desolate field.
The old heap finally gave up the ghost, refusing to move any further in this Godforsaken quagmire. Pop parked it, and we stepped out into the suffocating stench of rotten carcasses and foul sewage. We left the dying vehicle under the watchful eyes of the ominous black storm cloud that had appeared without warning. The air was thick with sweat, and I swear I could taste the decay - not that I even wanted anything else; it tasted like pond scum with a hint of sulfur. We waited it out, taking in the dramatic smells, until the storm passed and the heat returned.
We left the car to cool, its sunken eyes now glassy and vacant, a relic of our disastrous voyage. Not long after the storm cleared, we noticed a road leading towards the village of Thurton Quay and took our chance, praying it would lead us to salvation. As we approached the village, my gut told me this whole situation was a mistake. Something about Thurton Quay felt rotten, sickening, and wrong. The village was bleak, its quaint, cobbled streets drenched in rain and desolation.
The villagers seemed either indifferent or hostile, flashing daggers with every glance. We made our way to the only inn that appeared welcoming, parking outside and stepping into the dimly lit tavern. The air inside was a mixture of old ale and the smell of burnt hops, but it felt like a reprieve from the stench outside. We ordered drinks and spent a while catching our breath, trying to sort out our next move. The old man’s demeanor was troubled, eyes glazed over as he stared at the remnants of his drink.
After some time, a creepy, wizened old man approached our table, introducing himself as the proprietor of the inn. He had an unsettling aura about him, but his speech was lucid, and he seemed somewhat knowledgeable about the village’s troubled past. Turns out, Thurton Quay was plagued by an unspeakable horror, a foul curse that had been unleashed centuries ago and still haunted the village to this day. At first, I — along with the old man — dismissed his talk as hogwash, but the more we delved into the history of Thurton Quay, the more we began to question our decision to move here.
We learned that on Friday, December 13, in the year 1692, a coven of witches gathered in the woods on the outskirts of the village, engaging in dark rituals and spells. They intended to bring doom and destruction upon the villagers, invoking curses and plagues upon the innocent. But as the moon waned and the coven's twisted incantations reached their apex, something went terribly wrong. A rogue coven member, crazed by power, sought to betray her fellow witches and steal their dark magic for herself. In a fit of rage, she attacked the supreme witch, tearing her heart from her chest and stealing the coveted artifact known as the Black Stone.
The ensuing chaos left the village reeling, and the line between light and darkness began to blur. For centuries Thurton Quay has been a hotbed of violence, witch hunts, and misery, plagued by an unbreakable curse. The remnants of the original coven still dwell in the depths of the forest, hell-bent on vengeance against the villagers who drove them away. It's said that their ghostly forms can still be seen wandering the woods, their eyes glowing like embers in the night, searching for victims to drag into the shadows.
Terrified, the old man pleaded with the innkeeper for a monastery or church where he might seek sanctuary against the impending evil. Our only option appeared to be the tall, foreboding spire on the hill, a sinister monument that loomed over the village like an omnipresent sentinel. However, as we prepared to make our way to the spire, we were confronted by a group of villagers, who warned us in no uncertain terms to stay away from the spire and the curse it held.
The villagers spoke of a mysterious figure known as the Jinxed Witch, a deranged sorceress who had taken up residence within the spire. With her dark powers, she claimed the souls of all who entered, consuming their very essence to fuel her twisted plans. The villagers entreated us to abandon our search, reiterating that the curse was too powerful, the price of surviving within its grasp far too great.
Weighing our options, the old man and I considered our fates. The curse hung over us like a shadow, and the more we learned about Thurton Quay, the more I began to understand why the old man had refused to share our destination. His silence was one of fear, the weight of long-held secrets finally coming to light. We decided to take our chances, venturing deep into the forest to find the spire.
I can't say what we found, nor can I say I'm entirely certain I survived the ordeal. All I can share are the whispers that still linger in my mind, collected fragments of memories that refuse to coalesce into a coherent narrative. I can only hope I managed to break the curse, that we'll be able to start anew in a place free of shadows and darkness.
But only time will tell the truth of what transpired.
[1] Thurton Autojumble & Classic Car Show - link[2] Thurton Village Hall - link
- I can't help but wonder about the changes that our new lifestyle in Thurton Quay might bring, considering its home-and-garden scene seems to be rooted in the vivid past and shrouded in mystery.
- As I explored the ramshackle inn, I discovered a brochure for the Thurton Autojumble & Classic Car Show and the Thurton Village Hall. Perhaps these events will serve as a breath of fresh air, a chance for our home-and-garden lifestyle to flourish in this peculiar and ominous place.
