The crying started as soon I entered the car. My anxiety spiked and I felt the drowning swell of doom. My father scowled at me as he adjusted the mirror in the car. My mother frowned, but remained mute. I slunk into the vibrating door, wishing I were it, and not a nine year old who was supposed to look forward to seeing her grandfather.

                       My two sisters never cried on this journey, but they stole peeks at me as we drew closer to our destination, anticipating the trauma that was about to unfold.

                       “Not again!” shouted my father. “What the hell is wrong with you, Lori? Now stop your bawling!”

                       This paternal reprimand heightened my anxiety. I knew I was supposed to be more mature. I was after all, the middle daughter and not the youngest, however I was unable to control the swirling funnel of fear that enveloped me. I was the vortex and there was nothing I could do to escape. I cast a glance at my mother hoping for an inkling of support, but she looked straight ahead, denying the emotional destruction in the back seat. I was alone and I knew it.

                       We approached the granite walls of the Canadian Shield. Their rigid presence on either side of the highway corralled us into a claustrophobic alley. I saw the familiar heart shape with the names, Deb & Jim, inscribed on the stony canvas. I pictured the two of them painting their names and laughing, as we sped past their cherished landmark. How could they be so happy in a place that only offered rock, decaying trees, and a dark river?

                       I hurriedly wiped my eyes as my father pulled into my grandfather’s driveway. I peered out the window feigning interest in a rusted lawnmower, hoping it would distract me from my inevitable fate. The car came to an abrupt stop though and my sisters scrambled out. I yanked on my bangs drawing them closer to my red and thickened eyelids. Of all the places in the world why did my grandfather have to live here? This place was one of the reasons I feared visiting him. It was dark and dangerous.

                       “Remember, girls,” said my father as he pointed at the river, “those whirlpools will suck you right down to the bottom. The current is strong here, so keep away from the bank.”

I stared at the raging river that threatened to swallow little children whole. Did everyone and everything in this isolated place have to be so angry? I quickened my pace, walking behind my mother, while my eyes remained transfixed on the enraged Black River. This liquid canal defied the entry of light. Once I even watched a thick, charcoal coloured snake skim across the surface. My grandfather’s words echoed relentlessly in my head:

                       “Little Danny Cullen never had a chance. That boy fell into the river and was sucked down, deep and far. His body didn’t resurface for two days, way down by Coopers Falls.

He’d been warned, you know.”

                       I shivered but within seconds the spinning whirlpools and slithering snakes quickly faded. We had arrived on the threshold of the tomb. My spine stiffened and I drew in my last breath of fresh air, as I faced my grandfather’s summer home. Summer sparked images of sunshine and warmth; home kindled a sense of comfort and belonging. None of those existed in a place that could only be described as some sort of crypt. As I tilted my head upwards and scanned the exterior walls, I realized that this dwelling looked like my grandfather. The reddish-brown paint on the exterior walls was cracked and peeling, as it clung to wooden slats that were rotting and soft. A contagious rusty fungus, that threatened to suffocate the entire house, grew on crumbling roof shingles. Even the spongy wooden steps bounced underfoot.

                       The door creaked as my father pushed it opened. He entered first and the rest of us followed like captive prisoners. My sisters trudged along next, then my mother, and finally me. I didn’t want to be at the beginning of the line, but being last meant I had to be fanatically vigilant.

                       “You’re going to walk right up my back!” scolded my mother.

                       I continued along in careful proximity wishing I could hold her hand, or at the very least, just touch some part of her for reassurance. All of us remained wide-eyed and mute, knowing we were inching closer towards him.

                       The entrance to the crypt was dark despite it being midday. It revealed a large living room with a multitude of strange and frightening artifacts. I’d never seen such items before, but they always held my attention and were never moved or changed.

                       A large replica of a beer bottle stood in a corner as we passed. It was dark brown and shoulder height. A thick layer of dust tried to coax me to swipe my finger through it. I never did or would though, because even the dust looked filthy.

                       A reckless assortment of menacing fish on plaques inhabited a wall. Some had sharp teeth, one was missing an eye, and another had whiskers. Their mouths were frozen open, allowing their silent screams to ricochet off the ceilings and walls.

                       Black and white photographs were plastered everywhere. I peered at men holding beer bottles and smoking cigarettes. They posed together like old friends, deliriously happy and alive, as dead fish hung on clips in their hands. I fixed my gaze on the last photograph, compulsively seeking out the one that unsettled me most. I stared at the tall and only man, the one who was both my grandfather and yet a young man. He was smiling, even friendly looking. That should have offered me comfort, but it didn’t.

                       A crude rack made from sticks and strung with wire was in the foreground. I winced at the sight of dozens of dead frogs, the largest I had ever seen, hanging upside down like sheets on a clothesline. The warm smile my grandfather offered seemed sickening now. I wondered how he could be so happy with such a slaughter? Worst yet, what was he going to do with those lifeless and pale amphibians?

                       As we trudged towards our final destination the curtain-less windows stared at the irritated river. If I had been offered a boat at that moment, I would have bolted aboard and risked losing my life in that swirling tributary. Escaping what awaited me would be worth the risk. I wondered if those frogs were the lucky ones after all? The familiar rattling cough of the crypt keeper sounded and I slammed into my mother once more. She pushed me back wordlessly, but with a harsh frown.

                       We entered another room now, the one that preceded the kitchen where my grandfather was encased. I had never been in a room that looked like night in the middle of day. There was no window, but through the blackness I could make out the shape of a bed that was lumpy and never made. I always felt unnerved walking through my grandfather’s bedroom in order to get to the kitchen. The murkiness of the space screamed at us to hurry along.

                       I braced myself as we approached our final destination. I closed my eyes tightly, like a fawn, believing that if I couldn’t see the threat it didn’t exist. My nasal passages, however, refused to permit such a delusion because they were in a full out Code Red, as we cut through a toxic layer of cigarette chemicals that hung in the air. A bare light bulb hung loosely from the ceiling. It illuminated a defiled yellow strip covered with the corpses of flies. A tiny window that would allow for the escape of a small child was located at the back of the kitchen. It disturbed me though, because it stared directly at a wall of rock, heightening my sense of being trapped in the tomb. Through the toxic haze I spotted the glowing ember of a cigarette, the one that remained permanently affixed to the long and bony fingers that I feared. Brownish, yellow stains were forever present on his right hand.

                       Like a group of tourists who repeatedly visit the same museum, we halted in front of the familiar human artifact. I stood stiffly behind my mother in an attempt to conceal my presence. Without moving my feet I tilted my head to catch glimpses of the skeletal figure before us. His clothes hung loosely on a bony frame and I could clearly see his collarbone. Suspenders were clipped to his waistband and he wore the same sleeveless undershirt, stained with reminders of previous meals. He sat beside a kitchen table with rusted metallic legs and an orange melamine top. An over-filled ashtray offered companionship to a chipped and stained coffee cup.

                       “Come and say hello to your grandfather, girls,” said the raspy voice accompanied by a deep wet cough.

                       My sisters stepped forward like soldiers drilled to march in perfect unison. I envied their togetherness and position at that moment. They were getting the dreaded greeting over with first and splitting the intensity of the contact. I watched as my youngest sister shut her eyes and covered her nose in anticipation of a face plant with the repugnant soiled shirt.

                       My mother reached behind and drew me near for the first time now. I felt my small hand inside hers and the warmth of the security it offered. I gulped down the reassurance like a mad dog offered water in the hot day sun. I knew my turn was near, so I squeezed my mother’s hand harder hoping that our bond would not be severed.

                       “Now someone is missing,” sputtered the raspy voice between fits of hacking. “Where’s Lori?”

                       My mother pried my fingers from her hand and pushed me forward. I halted, traumatized by the abrupt detachment, but continued cautiously as my father’s warning eyes bore into me. My sisters parted quickly and everyone watched as I approached the one I feared most: the tomb dweller, my grandfather. His liver spotted arms were outstretched and I inched quietly closer. I held my breath while locked in his embrace.

                       “Don’t cry, don’t cry,” I said to myself. “Think of that lawnmower … think of anything.”

                       The embrace ended and I raced back to stand with my sisters, relieved that the worst was over. I felt the tenderness of my sister’s hand as she reached out to clasp mine. The sharp clog in my throat softened then, but a headache percolated in my temples. I knew that within a short time the visit would conclude. We would leave behind the tomb and its dweller. We would leave behind the angry river, the granite cliffs, and the decaying trees. We would leave them all behind, at least that is, until the next time.