The Hope That Withers in the Winter

Madness.

They say is a family curse, passed down like a tarnished locket, generation after generation. Our madness wasn't the raving kind, though. No, ours was a slow burn, a creeping shadow that settled in until you couldn't tell where it ended and you began. My family was a mess of broken parts, each of us carrying our own private hell. And they're all gone now, each one claimed by something that wore madness like a mask.

Bullshit, I say.

Madness didn't take them. It was something else, something hungry.

I ran, ten years I ran, clear across the world, crossed oceans, continents, just trying to outpace that darkness. But when my legs gave out, when I couldn't run anymore, I drowned myself in things best left untouched, hoping they'd drag me under, away from it all.

But today, I stopped running. I'm here, standing in front of what's left of that little house. Overgrown, half-swallowed by the earth. You'd barely recognize it. But I do. I see it clear as the day I left. That beautiful house, once our home. We had parties there, played there, laughed there, cried there. It's mine. And just looking at it, my chest aches. I want to cry, to kiss those crumbling walls and whisper that it'll all be okay. But nothing is okay.

I took a deep breath and stepped forward. The gate, eaten by rust, barely hung on its hinges. I reached out and touched it, the way I had a thousand, maybe a million times before. Sometimes gently, sometimes in anger. It had always been there, and now it welcomed me back with a creaking sigh. I pushed it open and stepped into the overgrown garden.

"Jonas! Catch!"

A voice shouted from the left. I turned and there he was. Joseph, in his usual stance, wearing his blue shirt and shorts, mismatched socks, and that oversized biker helmet that hid his eyes. He was ready, the little handball made of journals and tape clutched in his hand.

He charged,

he charged,

and he threw the ball to me...





Brother's Keeper



Joseph, born five years after me, was the brother I'd always wanted. I envied those friends who had brothers to play with, share secrets with, do everything with. But when I finally had him, he was kind of a pain in the ass. Looking back, I think I was too harsh on him, didn't treat him the way an older brother should.

Joseph was wild, but his wildness was charming when he was little. We'd play together, inventing our own toys and games. Father refused to spend money on anything he considered "frivolous," so Joseph and I made our own fun. He'd steal... well, he'd steal tape and old newspapers from the attic. I was too scared, too afraid of Father, but Joseph didn't care. Now I understand, it wasn't bravery, but a desperate need to impress me, his older brother. That's his curse, the need for applause, a laugh, a slap on the back... he'd sell his soul for it.

Stolen glue, balled-up paper, we'd craft handballs, rock-hard, bouncy from some forgotten trick... Our joy, those endless playdays when school wasn't there to chain us. Until it soured.

But then I turned 15, and Joseph was 9, about to be 10. Something in me shifted, and I stopped caring about him. He'd ask me to play, and I'd tell him to find friends his own age or that I didn't have time. Every time, I'd watch his rosy cheeks and wide smile vanish, deflating like a balloon. I was a cruel teenager, an asshole. I didn't understand that Joseph didn't have any other friends. His only friend was me. Sometimes, I'd catch him alone in the garden, playing by himself, with the walls... with ghosts. I want to reach out to that little boy now, hold him tight, and tell him his older brother was a jerk, that he shouldn't have let me break his heart.

Joseph was the youngest, often forgotten. I think his wildness grew from that neglect, from us not caring enough. So he acted out more and more, trying to get our attention.

When he turned 14, things got worse. He barely came home, and when he did, he was drunk or high. He'd stumble in, and Mom would hide him, sneaking him into the house before Father saw. But it happened too often. Father caught him with a bottle of whiskey. He threw Joseph to the ground, screaming, "You fucking disgrace! You fucking loser!" slapping and punching him. No one dared intervene.

Back then, I was disgusted by Joseph. I didn't care what happened to him. I figured he'd grow out of it, maybe find a girl who'd change him. I was wrong. It only got worse. And the worst part was, he stopped coming home altogether.

One day, Joseph left the house happier than usual, a bright smile on his face. He looked clean, his cheeks rosy like the kid I used to play with. We were all happy that day. Even Father, who was a ruthless bastard back then, seemed relieved. He joked and danced with Mom. I pretended not to care, but I did. I was happy when my family was like that, when there were no screams or fights. That day, I felt more relief than I had in a long, long time.

Night fell, and Joseph didn't come home. My mother was frantic, pacing back and forth. We tried to reassure her, saying he always did this, that he'd be back. He just liked the drama, the attention. But they say a mother knows when her child is in danger. Mom couldn't stay still. We told her we'd wait a bit longer, maybe an hour, then call the police. It was 10 pm, and Joseph hadn't been seen since noon. Honestly, I wasn't worried at first. He'd pulled this stunt before. He'd disappear, and when we went looking, he'd act surprised, asking why we were worried. At least, he did when he wasn't drunk. He'd smile, knowing we cared enough to search for him. It was his twisted game.

But then 11 o'clock hit, and a knot formed in my stomach. I felt sick, rushing to the bathroom with diarrhea. Something was wrong, I knew it, but I didn't want to show my fear. 11:30, midnight... no sign of him. We called the police. Father and my older brother took the car to search with Mom. I was supposed to go, but I froze. I felt weak, useless. I just sat there and waited. Somehow, I fell asleep. I woke to the news. My father stood over me, his voice cold, "Your brother is dead." I didn't know how to react. I didn't even try. But I'd already made peace with the idea, that night. Maybe that's why I froze. Somehow, I knew he was gone. I don't know how, but I felt it.

I followed my father numbly. The police had found Joseph in the Green River, bound and gagged. They said a camera, perched on a rock, had recorded everything. It was a suicide, or so they claimed. I've never watched the video. I never dared to, not to this day. But I overheard them talking about it. They said Joseph appeared on camera, his hands cuffed, holding a piece of cloth. He stood there for a while, muttering a series of numbers. Then, with his hands still tied, he stuffed the cloth in his mouth and jumped into the river.

Joseph was just 15 when he died, alone, frozen, and drowned in the Green River, minutes from our house. Just five days before his birthday. His death marked the beginning of the Wintermoor family curse. From that moment on, nothing was the same. The so-called "madness" took root, growing and devouring us one by one.



◆◆◆



Our garden, or rather, the little yard, was something out of a fantasy film. I paused in the middle of the path Father had made from stones and pebbles we'd gathered at the beach. He'd created this beautiful, if slightly uneven, walkway, and he'd been so proud of it. Now, the stones were gone, replaced by dust beneath my feet, overgrown with thorns and yellow leaves.

I looked around. To the left, where the little table used to stand, where we held birthday parties, there was now emptiness. To the right... I stepped closer. It was still there, untouched. The wooden statue Father had started but never finished. The wood was darker now, perhaps from the rain, but it was the same statue. The big nose, the unfinished texture, the large hat. Looking at it, I wondered who Father had intended to carve. Who was this person? It almost looked like... a dwarf? Like from those Lord of the Rings movies? But it didn't really matter anymore. Seeing something familiar brought a flicker of warmth to my heart. I took a few more steps, finding myself at the base of the porch stairs. Once filled with flowers and Father's little wooden carvings, now they were crumbling. Only two steps remained, threatening to collapse if I dared put any weight on them. I stood there, taking in the sight of the door, the roof.

Then, I heard it. A soft, beautiful hum. The door creaked open, and I saw her. The same headscarf with its faded flower pattern, the worn red apron...

Mom.. Oh, Mom.. I missed you.




The Fragile Bloom



I loved Mom. I can admit that I loved her more than Father. Perhaps it was because she was so soft, so gentle. Mom was an outcast from her own family, abandoned for choosing Father as her husband, caught in the crossfire of some ancient feud. But Mama made that sacrifice willingly; she chose him over them.
Mom was the kind of woman who didn't look too far ahead. Though I know she was just like the rest of us, a human being with dreams and ambitions, she didn't chase them. She was simply grateful for what she had. Grateful for her husband, for our small house, grateful for us when we were born. She never complained, and even when she was sad or angry, she never showed it to us. Sometimes, she and Father would argue, their voices escalating to screams and shouts. I always took her side, though I was terrified of Father. I'd stand in front of him, shielding her. I was a child; I didn't understand that he was just like her, not some monster devoid of feeling. He was a broken man in his own way, but I couldn't see that then.

Mom was obsessed with plants and flowers. It was her passion that transformed our little yard into something magical, straight out of a fairy tale. She'd spend hours decorating, planting flowers, trees, and all sorts of greenery. At one point, the place was so overgrown we could barely walk through it. But she was happy doing it. It was her way of coping with the harshness of the world. After all, that garden was all she had.

Mom didn't have a job. She hadn't finished her studies at the university; her dream had been to become a biologist. But when she married and had children, all that went out the window. She decided to stay home, to take care of the house. Then, Father had a bad accident and could barely move, so she had to take care of him too. And just like that, she forgot about her studies and a career, whether willingly or not, I don't know. But for the most part, Mom was a happy woman.

When Joseph died, Mom took it harder than any of us. Or at least, that's what I believe. She stopped eating, stopped moving. Her plants started to wither, so we began taking care of them for her. It was normal for a mother to mourn her child, and Father understood that. They barely spoke for months. I think Mama blamed him somehow for Joseph's death. I could see it in the way she looked at him. And he probably knew it too.

During that time, our Aunt Mary started visiting us a lot. She was the only family member who kept in touch with Mom. She was Mom's older sister, and she'd come over to take care of her, to talk or try to talk to her. Aunt Mary became a fixture in our lives. She'd bring groceries, cook meals, and try to coax Mom back to the world of the living. She'd tell stories of their childhood, their shared dreams, their laughter. Sometimes, a flicker of life would return to Mom's eyes, a fleeting smile gracing her lips. But it never lasted. The darkness always crept back in.

I watched as Aunt Mary’s visits became less frequent, her own life pulling her in different directions. I understood, but a part of me couldn’t help but resent her for leaving Mom to drown in her sorrow. Still, I liked Aunt Mary. She was a small, steady candle in our darkest days. A good person. I genuinely hope she's found happiness wherever she may be.

After Aunt Mary left, the house grew even quieter, the garden more tangled and wild. Mom sank deeper into her grief, retreating into a world that none of us could reach, where the walls of her mind became her prison. Days turned into weeks, and we each tried to return to our lives. My sister and I went back to college, my eldest brother to his job, and Father to his. But Mom remained stuck, unable to move forward. Perhaps it was because she had nothing else to occupy her mind but thoughts of Joseph, of how he died, if he'd felt any pain, why he did it. I think she started blaming herself, too. I tried, God knows I tried, to break through the walls she'd built around herself, but I couldn't reach her.

One day, Mom went to sleep and simply didn’t wake up. She died wearing black, clutching the photograph of her youngest child, the baby she could never let go of. Mom was 54. She died of grief, of a broken heart.


◆◆◆


Mom didn't succumb to the so-called madness. She wasn't a Wintermoor, after all. But in a way, that madness killed her. Joseph's madness killed her.

I walked toward the ruined porch stairs, testing the second step. It crumbled under my weight, just as I'd expected. I jumped to the porch, nearly as fragile, but it held. The door's window was shattered, the house now a haven for spiders. The paint was peeling, the wood rotting. But I looked down, and the little "Bienvenue" mat was still there, faded from red to brown, the word barely visible. You wouldn't see it, but I could.

The door was open, or rather, broken. Some desperate souls had tried to force their way in when it was still standing. I pitied them. What would they find anyway? Nothing but ghosts and empty walls.

I pushed the heavy door, its hinges screeching as it swung open. I squeezed inside. Somehow, the interior was... intact. Better than I'd imagined. I'd expected collapsing walls, a caved-in roof. But it looked almost the same as it used to, though the walls were peeling and the place was filled with dust and cobwebs. It was still our beautiful little house.

I walked down the hallway, and I heard music. Loud... I knew this song... "Super Trouper" by ABBA. I followed the sound to the door on the left, my sister's room.




When the Music Died



As Wintermoors, we are cursed with this darkness, this madness that consumes us. But we also possess unique gifts. Joy, my sister, five years my senior, was a shining star. Among us, she was the most gifted in countless ways. Beautiful, with raven hair and blue eyes that sparkled like jewels. She inherited Mom's gentle heart and Father's creativity and intelligence.

Joy was a magician with a pencil. What she called doodling would turn into masterpieces that could have fetched hundreds of dollars. Academically, she excelled too, and it was no surprise when she was accepted into medical school to become a doctor. Our father was never prouder than the day she got her acceptance letter; I’d never seen him so happy. He was over the moon, practically dancing with joy.

But Joy wasn’t truly happy. She had chosen that path more for our father than for herself. It was his dream to have a child who made a name for themselves, and being a doctor was the pinnacle of that aspiration. So, when she earned the grades, he gently nudged her toward medicine. Joy wanted to make him happy, so she followed his wishes. They didn’t realize what Joy’s true dreams were, not even Mom. But I knew.

Joy dreamed of becoming a dancer. Not just any dancer, but a pioneer of her own style. She'd tell me all about it, how she'd create this new genre, this new form of dance she called "Wild Ballet." She'd go on and on about the details, the differences between her style and others. I'd sit there, listening, not understanding most of it, but I always listened. I knew this was her dream, and I was certain she'd achieve it. There was no other option; she had everything she needed to succeed.

And so she'd close her door, blast her favorite song, "Super trouper," and dance... and dance and dance until she couldn't anymore. Even when consumed by her medical studies, she never gave up. Her determination was unwavering, as if dancing was the one thing that kept her soul alive.

Father, despite his own expectations, never disturbed her. I’m sure the blaring music grated on his nerves at times, but he always respected her space. I’d sometimes catch him standing outside her door, a puzzled look on his face as he tried to understand what was happening on the other side. But he never knocked, never crossed that threshold. He left her to her world. In those moments, I admired him the most.

When Joseph died, Joy grieved like the rest of us, but she concealed much of her sorrow. She saw how Mom had crumbled, and she didn’t want to add to our burden. So she buried her pain, crying for a few days as we all did, but then she quickly collected herself. She became the one to tend to Mom’s plants and flowers, the one to cook for us. When Aunt Mary arrived, Joy was the one who assisted her, striving to pull our family from the abyss we had fallen into.

In doing so, Joy gave up the one thing that had once brought her true happiness : her dream. The music that had once thrummed from her room, that vibrant, pulsating beat, was abruptly silenced. I missed it deeply, missed her. Despite her best efforts to keep up appearances, she was far from okay. She threw herself into her medical studies, working long hours at the hospital as part of her training. I rarely saw her; she would often spend the night at the hospital, returning only to collapse from exhaustion. We barely spoke.

When Mom died, Joy finally broke. The storm she'd held back since Joseph's death burst forth. She wasn't herself anymore.

She spent days in bed, sleeping only to wake up screaming and crying. She refused to go back to the hospital or her studies. Father tried to convince her, but she'd claim she was sick, that she'd return when she was better. But she never got better. Her sadness and grief for Mom morphed into something else entirely. She became paranoid.

One night, we heard her screaming. When we rushed to her room, she told us she was dying, that she had some... disease. She used medical jargon, a scientific name I can't recall. Father took her to the hospital. They ran tests, but she was fine. They said there was nothing wrong with her, and she calmed down a bit.

The next week, she seemed to improve. She went back to her studies, catching up on what she'd missed. But a few days later, it started again. This time, she was convinced she was going blind. She saw things, black spots, and she was terrified we'd abandon her. She cried and cried until Father, once again, took her to the hospital. And the same thing happened. She was fine. There was nothing wrong with her.

This became her pattern. She'd be fine for a few days, only to spiral into another episode of paranoia, convinced she had a terminal illness, that she was going blind, losing her limbs, dying. It reached a point where Father tried to persuade her to see a psychiatrist, that medication could help. You'd think, being a doctor, she'd know better, but she refused to believe she was mentally ill. So Father, with a soft spot for his daughter, and not as harsh with her as he was with us boys, let it go.

But the situation escalated. Her cries and screams became unbearable. She'd wail about her impending death until she finally collapsed from exhaustion. Father, worn down by the constant turmoil, started to ignore her pleas.
One day, Joy fell silent. We hadn't heard a peep from her all day, so we assumed she was sleeping and didn't want to disturb her. Father knocked, but there was no answer. As the hours passed, his worry grew. He knocked and knocked until finally, he broke down the door, only to collapse on the floor, tears streaming down his face, his hands clutching his head.

Joy had somehow gotten hold of a scalpel, one of those surgical knives they use in the hospital. She was trying to remove something from her head. When Father found her, she was slumped in her office chair, drowning in her own blood, the knife protruding from her eye socket. They said she'd scraped and scraped until she reached her brain, and she'd kept going. She died from blood loss, unable to move because she'd severed the nerves in her head.

Joy was 27 years old when she died. She died having abandoned her dreams, everything she'd ever wanted. She died by a surgical knife. Sometimes I wonder, if she hadn’t bent so far to please our father, if she had followed her own path instead of the one dictated by expectations, would she still be alive today?



◆◆◆



I walked past Joy’s room, my footsteps echoing in the narrow hallway. Our house was small, the rooms cramped, with ours downstairs and our parents' room upstairs. As I moved through the house, I took in the familiar sights. The wooden stairs bore the scars of our childhood—scratches from when Joseph and I used to mark our growth. We had ruined the stairs, and I could still hear the echoes of Father’s angry voice, scolding us and calling us names.

Aside from those memories, the house seemed stripped bare. The paintings that once adorned the walls were gone, and Mom’s countless flowers and plants had vanished. The emptiness was palpable, a stark contrast to the vibrant life that once filled these rooms.

Then something caught my eye—a small doll, worn and yellowed with age. It lay just outside John’s old room.





A Heart in Exile




John was... different. The firstborn son, ten years older than me. You might've noticed by now that we were each born five years apart. Does it mean anything? Maybe, maybe not. No one really knows.

But back to John. He was the one who inherited most of Father's traits, both physically and in character. Unlike me, Joseph, and Joy, who all had Mom's dark hair and pale skin, John was Father's mirror image. Blonde hair, sharp features, and always in good shape, even though he never really exercised.

By the time I was walking and talking, becoming a real kid instead of a helpless baby, John was already in high school. Or rather, he was supposed to be finishing high school, a stage he never actually completed. John dropped out before reaching the finish line.

Now, John wasn't the "good" kid in the family, but he wasn't a rebel or a troublemaker either. He just... existed. He didn't care about school, never wanted to study. The more Father yelled and punished him, the more stubborn John became, until he eventually gave up altogether. I think part of it was his way of getting back at Father, and honestly, I can't entirely blame him.

Father was harshest with John, maybe because he was the oldest. He wouldn't leave him alone, constantly watching and checking on him. If John spent a little too long in the bathroom, Father would barge in. He'd burst into John's room without warning, just to look around before leaving. John never really reacted; he'd just take it, swallow it down.

To me, John seemed distant. We rarely spoke except during birthdays or special occasions, and even then, our conversations were minimal. He felt like a stranger, an enigmatic figure on the periphery of my world. But as I grew older, I began to see a reflection of my own struggles in him.

When John dropped out of high school, Father’s reaction was explosive. He went into a rage, leaving the house in a frenzy and not returning until the next day when his anger had subsided. Mother, on the other hand, tried to downplay the situation, reassuring John that it wasn’t the end of the world. She wanted to protect him from feeling like a failure. Father’s fear was deeper than just academic failure; it was a fear of losing control, of seeing his children stray from what he perceived as the right path. This fear, I believe, was rooted in his love for us, albeit expressed in a flawed manner. When Joy succeeded, it was as if she had redeemed us all in Father’s eyes. For a brief moment, he was the happiest man in the world.
After a few days, my parents decided John would join the military. There was no other option, or so they believed. When I say parents, I mostly mean Father. Mom just went along with it. She, too, wanted her son to amount to something, to make something of himself. And though she didn't like the idea, she didn't have much say in the matter.

To their surprise, John didn't argue. He didn't fight back, he simply accepted. And so, at the age of 19, John left home to join the military. At that time, I was 9 years old, barely understanding the world, still playing in the yard, oblivious to the complexities of life.

John served in the military for about eight or nine years, occasionally returning home for the holidays. We would celebrate and have dinner in the yard. Those were good times, and Father was, for a while, proud of John. He'd boast to his friends about his son being a man who protected the country, a real man.

But it all ended abruptly when Father received a call. His face contorted into an expression I'd never seen before, a mixture of sadness and fear. The next day, John returned with Father. His head was bowed, his face pale and gaunt, his eyes hollow. He didn't speak, didn't do anything. He just went straight to his room.

I was 16 at the time, starting to understand the world a bit better. I began to speculate about what had happened to him. Had he lost a friend? Was it that thing they called PTSD? I kept wondering until I overheard Father talking to Mother about it. John, on a mission overseas, had made a mistake. That's it—that’s what I gathered from the few words I overheard my father say. But I could sense that this "mistake" was something big, something dark and heavy that Father desperately wanted to keep hidden from us, from everyone. I doubt even Mother knew the full extent of it. Father closed the book on whatever had happened and expected us all to just move on, to continue living as we always had. And for the most part, we did. I was making my way through high school, Joy was deep into her medical studies and still found time to dance, and Joseph had just started middle school. Life seemed to go on.

But John—John was different. I’d sometimes find him standing on the stairs, just staring up with a cold, distant expression. Other times, I’d find him lying on the floor in his room with the door wide open. Father and Mother would tell us to leave him be, that he was ill and that this phase would pass. But it didn’t. It only got worse. John became… strange. We’d find him wearing Mother’s or Joy’s clothes, sometimes walking around the house like a soldier, screaming commands and chanting the national anthem. And then, there were those rare moments when he seemed to revert back to the John I remembered—the calm, bored guy—but now with a lingering sadness and something like guilt in his eyes.
Once, Joy and I were talking about his condition, and she confided in me that she suspected he might have Dissociative Identity Disorder. She didn’t want to bring it up with Father because, first, she believed that he knew and was trying to treat John secretly, as she had noticed his symptoms occasionally improving. And second, she knew how Father would react. She made me promise to keep this between us, to protect John in the only way we could. Joy’s words came true, and John slowly began to resemble the brother we once knew. Though still carrying that familiar weight of depression, he started to talk with us more often, eat and drink with the family, and sleep like a regular person. There were times when I’d catch him alone, muttering to himself or doing something odd, but for the most part, life seemed to return to a semblance of normalcy.

As the months passed, John found a job at a supermarket. It wasn’t much, but it was something, and it seemed to give him a sense of purpose. He even started contributing to the household bills and, eventually, managed to buy himself a car. For the first time in a long while, it felt like we were all moving forward, like maybe—just maybe—things would be okay again.

The next few years were a time of relative peace and happiness. Father received a promotion at work, John was doing well at his job, although he'd gained a bit of weight. Joy was progressing steadily in her medical studies, on track to become Dr. Wintermoor. And Joseph was moving through middle school without any major incidents.

When Joseph started his descent into alcohol and drugs, John silently stepped into the role of protector. He would assist Mom in shielding Joseph from Father's fury. John would sometimes hide Joseph in his car, driving around town aimlessly until Joseph sobered up. On those late-night drives, I glimpsed a side of John I'd never known. A tenderness lay beneath his usual stoicism, a compassion he must have inherited from Father. It was the same tough love Father showed us, but John's version was gentler, more subtle. Yet, even in those moments of kindness, there was a darkness in John’s eyes, a shadow that lingered just beneath the surface. It was as if he was carrying a burden far heavier than we could see, one that tainted every good deed with a sense of foreboding.

John was the first to act when Joseph disappeared. He was the one who drove with Father and Mother to search for him, leaving me and Joy to wait at home, consumed by worry and dread. It was John who took the lead, the one who entered the morgue to identify Joseph when they finally got the call.

I can only imagine the weight of that moment, the cold sterility of the morgue, the smell of antiseptic masking something far worse. John, always the quiet observer, now had to face a reality none of us were prepared for. I never asked him about what he saw, what he felt as he stood over Joseph’s lifeless body, the brother he had once protected. But I could see it in his eyes when he returned home—the same shadow, only darker, more oppressive.

John was the one who took Joseph's belongings from the police: his clothes, his wallet, and the camera that had recorded everything. The police, having ruled it a clear-cut case of suicide, saw no need to keep the camera as evidence and handed it over. John accepted it without a word. Father needed that video. It was like his last straw, a desperate hope to untangle the mess that had swallowed us whole. His usual stern face was twisted, pleading for some shred of reason. Even his strong voice wavered, showing the terrible weight of his need to understand. But when he finally watched it, I think the anger just melted away. It left him empty, a father haunted by his failure to protect his boy. Mom, though, she watched it for a different reason. She wasn't looking for answers, she was looking for Joseph. It was her last chance to hear his voice, to hold onto any piece of him left behind.But what she found wasn’t the comfort she’d hoped for. The video shattered her fragile hope, leaving her with nothing but the cold reality of loss. The Joseph in that video was not the son she remembered. And in that moment, I think a part of her broke, a part that would never heal.

Joy and I, we never saw that video. We didn't need to. The hushed whispers and the cruel words from heartless folks painted a picture more vivid than any footage could. They traded the gruesome details like gossip, oblivious—or maybe just uncaring—that they were talking about our little brother.

John gathered everything—the video, Joseph's clothes, the haunting reminders of his last moments—and locked them away in his car. He never mentioned them, never let anyone else near them. It was as if he was trying to bury the horror, to keep it hidden where it couldn't cut any deeper than it already had.

John turned into a shadow, barely stepping foot inside. He couldn't stand the heaviness that clung to the house after Joseph was gone. I'd find him in his car, alone, clutching Joseph's camera for hours. He was trying to understand, to make sense of why Joseph did what he did. One evening, I found him sitting on the edge of Green River's old stone bridge, just staring out. I joined him, and we sat in silence. Then, out of nowhere, he said, "I'm sorry for everything." He pulled me into a hug, repeating, "I'm sorry for all of it." I didn't understand what he meant then, but we both cried.

Maybe John saw the darkness coming for our family. Maybe he felt something, maybe he figured out those numbers in the video. I didn't ask. There was nothing to ask, really. I couldn't imagine any of it back then.

When Mom died, John vanished. He took his car, Joseph's belongings, and a single Ghost Orchid—one of Mom's favorite, rare, and beautiful flowers. Then, he disappeared. We never saw him again.

A few months later, he called Joy. He asked about us, about her, about me. But despite that connection, he never returned. Father, in his own way, tried to reach out, but John never answered his calls. It was as if he’d severed all ties with the past, except for Joy. She became our medium, the only link between John and the rest of the family, the fragile thread that kept us connected, even as he drifted further and further away. We later learned that John was in France. The details were sparse, but at least we knew he was alive. Father, however, remained deeply worried. He feared that John, who had always been troubled by that "mistake," might have stopped taking his medication. Father’s fears grew darker, mingling with his secret anxieties about John’s condition, anxieties he never shared with me, even as I grew older.

When Joy died, John finally returned home, but he was unrecognizable. The lean, strong figure we once knew had become heavier, his hair was gone, and his body and face were covered in bruises. He came back as a shadow of the man he once was, carrying with him the weight of all the losses and secrets that had haunted him.

I think Joy’s death broke John more than anything else—more than Joseph’s or Mom’s. After all, she was his little sister, the one who was there before me, before Joseph. They always seemed to share a strange connection, even when he was far away. I used to hope, really hope, that John had found someone—a girl who could give him a good life, that at least one person in this family might find some happiness. But my hopes were wrong. After seeing John again, it was clear that he hadn’t found peace. Instead, I think he left to grieve Mom, and perhaps to uncover whatever truth lay behind Joseph’s death. Maybe he ran away to break down and collapse far from us, where we couldn’t see. When Joy died, I believe John finally lost it completely. But he couldn’t hide anymore, so he came back.

After his return, John spent most of his time at the cemetery, sleeping beside Joy’s tomb, holding her old little doll in his hands. I think he blamed himself for her death in some way, just as I’ve always blamed myself for Joseph’s.

We lived like that for about three years after Joy's death—three years of emptiness and despair. John, by then, was a madman. He would talk to himself constantly, sometimes acting like a little girl, crying and yelling, and other times slipping into his soldier persona, shouting commands at the walls. I was somehow continuing my studies in architecture, though I was barely holding it together. Father, after Joy's death, had changed too. He had given up on everything. He didn’t care anymore—about John, about his meds, or about anything. He retired and spent most of his days carving wood, lost in his own world. He barely spoke, and he seemed indifferent to John’s deteriorating state.
It was then that I decided I had to do something. I tried talking Father into putting John in an asylum, thinking it was the only way to help him. But Father raged at me, refusing to even consider the idea. He thought it would be disgraceful for one of his sons to end up in a mental asylum, even when our family was already shattered. But after several attempts, I finally convinced him.

John was sent to a mental asylum in the city, but just a month later, he ended his life, jumping from one of the windows. I still can’t understand how they left a mentally ill man with the opportunity to leap from the fifth floor. They said he didn’t die immediately, but later, from internal bleeding.

John was 35 when he died. He passed away with his secrets, leaving this world as a madman. To this day, I believe John endured the most out of all of us. He fought the madness harder than any of us ever did. Despite everything, John was a strong man and a good brother in his own way. I hope that somewhere up there, he's finally at peace, taking a breath free from the weight he carried for so long.


◆◆◆



I picked up Joy’s little doll, now ugly and yellowed, almost unrecognizable. Why am I here, really? I think to myself, why did I come here? Maybe I just missed them, truly. I don't know. But there are still things I want to see.

So I moved, walking through the familiar space. Mine and Joseph’s room was just beside John’s, but I wasn’t ready to go there yet. Something else drew me in, pulling at my senses. I climbed the stairs, the smell of wood and the rhythmic hits of a hammer filling the air. The screeching of knives sharpening echoed softly. Upstairs was my parents’ room, but to the right, there was a small workshop, almost like a cave, that Father had built by hand. The sounds and scents were coming from there.





The Weight of Guilt




Father was a man of few words, and one of his rare utterances was, "You should be proud of being Wintermoors." I never truly understood what there was to be proud of. Father, like Mom, was an outcast from his own family. They didn't completely sever ties with him for marrying Mom, but they made their disdain clear. They showed him that he didn’t belong, and that hurt him deeply. Unlike Mom, who embraced her choice and held onto it without regret, Father seemed to carry regrets. I believe he blamed Mom for his situation and the way his family treated him.

Father’s family was a nest of vipers—my grandparents, my aunts and uncles, even their offspring. I hated them all, and I still do. I wish nothing but evil upon them, though I know that evil might come to them regardless of my wishes. After all, they are bound by the family’s curse, or at least I hope they are.

Unlike my father, who worked tirelessly for every penny he earned and struggled to put food on the table, his siblings lived in wealth and comfort. His sisters married into affluent families, and his brothers built their fortunes through dubious means. Father was the youngest, and while he longed for his family’s approval, he remained steadfast in his principles. He was a righteous and religious man who despised shady dealings and illicit business. He wanted to live honestly and provide for his children with clean money. I think that very commitment to righteousness is what kept him struggling, forever stuck in a life of hardship while his siblings thrived in their own ways.

His brothers would sometimes swoop in, not out of genuine concern for us or for him, but to show off. They flaunted their fancy cars, bragged about their luxurious vacations, and criticized everything from the house to Father’s car. They’d throw barbs at us, always with a hint of superiority. Father, in his naive hope for their approval, would listen to their taunts and criticisms. Each visit chipped away at him, reinforcing his sense of failure compared to his successful siblings. And with every crack in his pride, there was only one place he’d direct his frustration—at us and Mom.

Father’s beliefs were as strange as they were unshakable. I learned about some of them through Mom. She once confided that he insisted every child must have a name starting with "J" to ward off misfortune. He’d speak of dreams where he saw one of us in a white coat, a doctor—a prophecy that eventually came true, though not in the way he imagined. Father was… peculiar. Mom glimpsed that side of him, but to us, he was a different man entirely.
To us, he was a towering presence. A man of few words and fewer smiles. Discipline was his language, spoken through the crack of a belt or the grip of his hand. Except with Joy—never with her. It wasn’t hate that drove him; it was how he was made. Mom explained that his own father had shaped him that way, and the fear of us failing as he believed he had gnawed at him. But failure was never a word we associated with him. To us, he was the iron hand, the final word—a figure we feared as much as we revered.
Yet, for all his sternness, my mind clings to moments of warmth. The way he’d take us to the forest, let us lose ourselves in the whispering trees by the lake. Camping trips where the air was thick with woodsmoke and stories. He never let summer pass without a vacation, even if it meant scraping pennies together. We never went to bed hungry; we never went without. He would toil for days, sleepless, just to keep the cold from touching us.
Father never missed a birthday. Even when we forgot his, even when we never bought him anything, he never failed to bring us cake and presents, however modest they might have been. For all his flaws, for all the iron that ran through his veins, he tried to show his love in the only way he knew how.

There was another side to Father, a side I glimpsed only a few times—his best side. Inside him, there was a child who never fully lived his own childhood. Though this side was rarely visible, it would emerge during moments of joy, whether we were playing football or swimming at the beach. His eyes would soften, taking on a youthful, innocent look, much like Joseph’s when we used to play in the yard. To this day, my heart aches for that side of him, a side he hid behind his responsibilities and stern demeanor.It was a part of him that yearned to be carefree, a part he sacrificed to provide for us. That side of Father shone brightly, perhaps for the last time, when Joy received her acceptance letter from medical school. For that fleeting moment, Father’s joy was palpable. He leaped with happiness, sang, and danced with an enthusiasm that felt almost foreign to us.

When Joseph died, Father didn’t shed a tear, not even at the funeral. John told us that Father stayed alone with Joseph at the morgue after everyone had left. Perhaps he cried there, or perhaps he found some semblance of peace in that sterile place. But what followed was a relentless search for understanding. Father watched Joseph’s video over and over, seeking answers, trying to make sense of it all. He struggled with the overwhelming emptiness that came from seeing his son’s last moments, especially after all the sacrifices he had made for the family. He had worked tirelessly, given everything he had to provide for us, only to lose Joseph in such a tragic way.

I believe deep down, Father blamed himself for Joseph's death. Even though he was convinced his strict, sometimes harsh methods were necessary and for the right reasons, I think guilt gnawed at him. He carried the weight of what happened, wondering if things would have been different if he'd been a different kind of father.
And so, Father changed after Joseph's death. His sharp edges softened, his criticisms faded. He barely spoke about our futures, our lives. I think he believed he was damaging us, so he retreated, becoming a silent observer.

From then on, Father watched helplessly as the family he loved and sacrificed for crumbled further. He saw the darkness consume us, and he could do nothing to stop it. When Mom died, he lost his anchor, the one person who held his hand through this hellish life. I believe if it weren't for us, he would have ended it all. But he didn't. He held himself together, for us. When Joy died, it was the first time I saw Father truly break down. He didn’t just cry; he wailed, a guttural expression of grief that I had never imagined he was capable of. Joy's death seemed to be the final blow, the moment that shattered him completely. He became a hollow shell, retreating into his wood carving as if it was the only thing left that could anchor him to this world. He would carve all day, every day, barely eating, drinking, or sleeping. I tried to reach out, to be the last person he could talk to, but he was unreachable. Father wasn’t there anymore. I believed he blamed himself for everything, for the deaths of his children, for the burden he felt he had placed on us. When John took his life, Father didn't react at all—he just continued hammering away at his wood, as if trying to carve away the pain.

I couldn’t stay in that house any longer. It had become unbearable, a place filled with shadows of what once was. I asked Father if he wanted to come with me when I decided to leave, but he didn’t respond. I took that as a no and fled, running as far away as I could to Asia, seeking solace in studies that I never truly engaged with. I was running away, escaping from the ghost of what my family had become. There’s a gnawing guilt inside me now, a tormenting thought that maybe I should have tried harder to persuade him to come with me. How did he feel, alone in that house, surrounded by the echoes of his children’s laughter and pain? Did he cry in solitude? Did he eat alone at the table? What were his final moments like? These thoughts flare up, causing migraines that blur the line between regret and helplessness.

What happened, happened.

Father would be found dead in John’s room, lying on the ground with his shotgun in his hands.

Father was 60 years old when he died. He died broken, alone, with no one by his side. He died without achieving a single one of his dreams: the house on the beach, the new car, the simple pleasure of being treated in Joy's medical cabinet. Father died a broken man.



◆◆◆
Even after hearing about Father’s death, I couldn’t bring myself to return. I just kept running, unable to confront the reality of it all. It was my way of coping, much like John’s—the belief that if I ran far enough, everything would disappear on the other side, where I couldn’t see it. But running only made it harder. The guilt of leaving Father behind now eats away at me from the inside, much like it did to John when Joy died.

And so, here I am. After ten years, I’ve stopped running.

I’ve come back, Father.

There isn’t much left to do here, but I still haven’t gone to my room yet. This is the final part of my journey. As I enter the room—mine and Joseph’s—it’s empty, Just walls, the scratching of branches against the window, the dust, the spiders weaving their webs, and the scent of dampness clinging to the plaster.

This room, this place, means everything to me. It meant everything to Father.

Please, breathe life back into it.

Revive it. Breathe vitality into these walls. Marry, have children, let their laughter echo in the garden. Buy seeds, plant them, let the colors reclaim this little patch of earth. Turn up the music within these walls, dance until you’re breathless, and love fiercely. Love your family as they are, and be gentle with them. I leave it all in your hands.

If you’re reading this, it means the darkness, the madness, and the curse of the Wintermoors is real. It means that I, Jonas Wintermoor, have died at the age of 35 in the house of my family. I have died by suicide.

I’m sorry that I wasn’t strong like Father. I’m sorry that it came to this. Perhaps, if I am gone, this curse might finally release you. Maybe it ends with me.


Goodbye. May you find happiness where I could not.


All my love,
Your father, Jonas


◆◆◆


Ophelia stood in front of the old house, barely holding itself together, clutching the small notebook tightly in her hand, a single tear tracing a path down her cheek. She slipped it into her backpack and took a deep breath. With a firm push, she opened the rusty gate, which barely hung on its hinges, and stepped into the overgrown garden.