The Curse

I was born on a small cabbage farm just outside of Racine, Wisconsin on April 14, 1900. The lone son of two God-fearing German immigrants, I was raised on hard work, religious reverence, and teetotalism.My parents first moved to the United States in August of 1898 with the hopes of building a better future. Unfortunately, they quickly found that the American Dream was little more than that, a dream. After the farm failed my father blamed himself, saying he just didn’t have the agricultural acumen necessary to make American soil work. I on the other hand always thought there was something else at play. Something that was a little more abstract and maybe even a tad bit fantastical.

I was five years old when I first heard of the Kramer family curse. Coming from a devoutly Catholic household, I didn’t usually put much stock in things like curses and hexes. But when it came to this one, I was a full-blown believer. Ever since the reign of King Frederick the Great, Kramers alike have reported all kinds of mysterious misfortune: bewitched brothers, possessed parents, accursed aunts, you name it. So, naturally when the farm went belly up seemingly out of nowhere I blamed the curse.Despite this belief, I had never actually seen any direct evidence of the curse myself. I had heard plenty of stories and even read a few firsthand accounts, but outside of that, I had never actually seen any physical proof. Heck, not even my father had. But that all changed on Christmas Eve 1911.

Mother and I were sitting by the fire reading Als der Nikolaus kam when I first heard it.

“Papa!” I yelled, spilling out onto the snow-covered lawn.

Ever since my father started his new job down at the wax factory he had been working later and longer hours, making homecomings like these that much more special.

“Mein sohn,” an unfamiliar voice cracked from somewhere out in the shadows.

I stopped dead in my tracks.

“Who’s there?” I called out.

The voice was dry and ancient, like it belonged to a century’s old corpse.

“Da ich bin,” it moaned. “Papa.”

A bright beam of moonlight peaked through the adjacent tree line, illuminating a small sliver of ground before me.

“Show yourself,” I demanded, unconvinced.

I thought I could make out the silhouette of a man over by the barn, but couldn’t be sure. Sometimes the eyes see what they want to on these deep dark wintery nights.

“I’m warning y—,” I yelled.

But before I could even finish my thought a half-slumped figure stumbled into view.

“Wh-wh-who are you?” I trembled.

It might have been draped in my father’s red plaid jacket, denim dungarees, tweed flat cap, and pale white skin, but it wasn’t him.

“Dein vater,” it croaked.

It couldn’t be. My father was full of life and vigor meanwhile this thing looked freshly exhumed.

“Liar!” I barked.

It took another step forward, further exposing its falsified figure.

“N-n-no,” I stammered, taking a few steps back.

Its eyes were bloodshot and dull, its face scraggly and twisted, and its stature stooped and stunted.

“Komm her,” it groaned.

And to top it all off a sickly-sweet stench wafted from it.

“Don’t come any closer!” I pleaded. “I’m warning you!”

But it just kept coming, slowly shuffling towards me on its long shaky legs.

Step.

(hiccup)

Step.

(hiccup)

Step.

(hiccup)

Step.

(hiccup)

Step.

(hiccup)

Step.

(hiccup)

By the time I finally opened my eyes the thing was gone. All that remained was a fresh trail of crusted footprints in the snow.

“Good lord,” I sighed, taking a deep breath.

If it wasn’t for the tracks I probably would have never believed my eyes. I probably would have just chalked it up to my budding imagination or the excitement of the holidays. But there they were, as clear as day, staring up at me from the snow.

“Hello!?” I called out, trying to regain my bearings.

The footsteps snaked all across the front yard.

“Is anyone there?” I called out again.

My mind was still whirling from the shock of it all. I mean, it’s not every day that you come face to face with the ghoulish rendition of your father.

“Helloooo!”

But before I even had the chance to listen for a reply I saw it.

“Mother!” I screamed, racing back towards the house.The last few footprints led right up to our front stoop, meaning only one thing.

By the time I finally got inside though my fears were quickly laid to rest. My mother was all alone, safe and sound, and sweeping snowy footprints off the floor.

“Are you okay?” I asked through breathless heaves.

She obviously wasn’t, but I also knew she would never admit it.

“Yes,” she sniffled. “I’m fine”

I had only seen her cry twice in my entire life and both times had been out of disappointment.

“What’s wrong?” I asked.

She just stared down at the snowy floorboards below.

“Mother!” I begged.

It took her a moment, but she finally snapped out of her discouraged daze.

“Your father is just under the weather,” she quivered.

Her lie was as obvious as her tears.“You have nothing to worry about.”

But an oddly familiar pair of moans stemming from her bedroom told me everything I needed to know.

“Now go upstairs and get to bed,” she ordered before I even had the chance to speak. And being the obedient son that I was, I did just that.

I spent the next four hours staring blankly at my ceiling. I figured there was no use in even trying to sleep knowing what was below me. But as scary as that thing might have been, perhaps the most distressing part of all was the fact that my mother was trying to cover for it. I mean, she had seen it, right? How could she even begin to believe that thing was my father?

My questions were finally answered around three a.m. though.

“Schatz?” I heard my mother’s muffled voice ask through the floorboards.

Even with the thick wood separating us, I could still make out her concern.

“Schatz!?” She asked again, her concern turning to panic.

By the time I finally mustered up the courage to leave my room though he was gone, long gone. His limbs were stiff and yellow, his mouth gnarled and stained, and his shirt was soaked in a mess of blood-tinged vomit. Doctor Morris said that he most likely died from something called “esophageal varices”, but I wasn’t buying it. Whatever happened to my father that night wasn’t adding up and I had a sneaking suspicion it had everything to do with the Kramer family curse.

Three months later my mother followed suit. Only this time Doctor Morris attributed her death to “aspiration induced asphyxia”. Aka, she passed out and choked on her own vomit. But once again, I wasn’t buying it. She had spent the last few weeks of her life a shell of her former self and was in no way shape or form the woman I once loved.

Following her death, I was forced to move in with my father’s cousin, Albert, and his wife, Wilhelmine, up north in Sheboygan. Unfortunately for me though, life with them was no fairytale. Albert was violent and abusive and Wilhelmine was demanding and cruel. In fact, one of their favorite games to play, when they weren’t passed out in a puddle of their own piss of course, was who could beat on me the hardest. But thankfully this living arrangement didn’t last long.

I came home from school one day to find Wilhelmine dead on the floor with a massive hole in her chest. A bloodied ice pick was sitting nearby and Albert was aimlessly shuffling around the house whispering something about “nachzehrers”. Sheriff Seeley said that he had most likely suffered an especially violent bout of “DTs” and was “seeing pink elephants” when he killed poor ole Wilhelmine. But once again, I knew better.

From here I was shipped south to live with my second cousin, Fritz, in Chicago. Having never met him before, I had no idea what to expect, but quickly found that he was surprisingly decent. An artsy Bohemian, he clothed me, fed me, and even took a vested interest in me, which I always thought was rare for someone his age. And for the first time in months things were actually starting to look up. But then just like clockwork the curse came knocking and everything changed.

“Cousin!” Fritz yelled as he threw open my bedroom door.

It was a random Tuesday evening and I had just managed to fall asleep.

“How are you?” He asked with a hiccup.

I was stuck somewhere between a nightmare and a daydream, but could still manage to recognize his sickly-sweet stench.

“You like living here, don’t you?” He quickly followed up with.

I rubbed the sleep from my eyes and nodded.

“Good,” he sighed. “I like having you here too.”

I smiled and was just about to lay back down when he joined me on my bed.

“You’re thankful?” He asked with a slur.

This was not the first time he had done this, but something felt different all of a sudden.

“Right?” He asked again.Something felt off.

“I guess,” I finally muttered.A sick smile spread wide across his face.

“Do you want to thank me?”

I felt a knot start to form in the pit of my stomach. I didn’t know Fritz super well, but even so, I could tell this wasn’t him. His face was too flushed, his eyes were too red, and there was no life in his smile.

“I think I am owed it,” the thing chuckled.But before I could even think up an answer, I felt an icy hand grip the inside of my thigh.

I awoke the next morning soaked in sweat. Fritz was gone, but his sickly-sweet stench remained. Whatever happened the night prior had surely left its mark on me. I spent the next five hours in bed, struggling to do much of anything. My brain was blurry, my bones were heavy, and my entire body was saturated in a thick emptiness. By the time I finally did manage to get out of bed though it was nearly dinner. But despite not having eaten in nearly 24 hours, all I could seem to focus on was the paralyzing emptiness.

Fast forward a few weeks and I was practically a zombie. I couldn’t eat, I couldn’t sleep, hell, I could hardly even take a piss. The emptiness ran that deep. But right as I was about to give up all hope, I got an idea.

Growing up in Wisconsin, I was no stranger to alcohol. Even though my parents didn’t drink, I was no fool to its effects. I knew just how debilitating it could be, but also how uplifting it could be. So, needless to say I knew exactly what I was doing when I swiped a bottle of rotgut and popped it open.

Now I don’t know if it was the burn, the bite, the taste, the smell, or the heavenly warmth it wrapped me in, but the second it hit my lips I knew. I knew my parents weren’t possessed, Albert wasn’t haunted, and Fritz wasn’t bedeviled. I knew there was no family spell, no household hex, and no Kramer curse. There was only booze and shitty genes.

So, take it from me, a seventh-generation alcoholic, no matter how hard life might get and how enticing the warm touch of liquor might sound, stay away, because a life spent at the bottom of a bottle is the worst curse of all.

Credit: Fred Kramer

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