Ever since I was a child and had first moved into the bustling town of Sepulcher, I had an interest in the workings of the Smith family. Why were they so elusive and quiet? Why is practically every citizen of Sepulcher a distant relative of the wealthiest family in the area? What causes every eldest child of the Smith bloodline to die at the age of fifty? What even causes that crescent burn that seems to always follow the eldest child? No records, newspapers, folklore, or urban legends seemed to answer my questions, and as my interest in solving their mystery grew, the Smith family began to develop an interest in me.
I was seventeen years old when I moved into the Smith estate in the fall of 1951. I had known that because my family were not locals to their town and I shared no relatives with them, Arthur wished for me to bring a bit of diversity to the bloodline. The reason for my union with Jacob was of no concern to my parents, for they were always interested in marrying me into great wealth, especially since the luck of the Smith family was strongest with the first born. But their greed began to show when they requested a larger dowry for my hand than Arthur was willing to give. For four years, this dispute lasted, with my parents’ demands rising annually. There was only a settlement when Arthur’s patience was strained too much, when my parents had gone too far.
The last time I saw them was on New Year’s Eve. I did not know that he came to visit us, nor did I know that he had requested that I leave to meet Jacob at midnight. I only remember my parents acting strange as the clock continued to tick, each stroke marking an event that none of us could have predicted. Laughs became hollow, and the food became bland. When I went to bed early, before the beginning of the new year, my mother’s face was drenched in tears, and my father was fidgeting nervously.
That morning, when I woke, I was the only one in the house. Nothing seemed to be stolen, and nothing seemed to be moved. My parent’s belongings were left untouched, so I knew that they did not plan to leave. The food from our celebration was left exposed on the table, but neither one of my parents were messy or forgetful. Their morning routines, from making fresh coffee to placing any mail on the living room table, were completely abandoned. The clocks weren’t even working properly, as each hand, from the hour to the very second, was pointing skyward.
When I was dressed and ready for the day, I heard a car horn from the front of the house. I open the door and saw, standing behind his own black 1951 Muntz Jet , Arthur J. Smith. He was placing two suitcases, which I discovered later were filled with the belongings given to us by him, in the trunk of his car, which had the rear door facing me open. When he noticed me, he waved his hand, revealing a black crescent scar on his dominant left palm, and his face contorted into into a thin, cold smile.
I am fortunate to have never seen him smile ever again.
I was seventeen years old when I moved into the Smith estate in the fall of 1951. I had known that because my family were not locals to their town and I shared no relatives with them, Arthur wished for me to bring a bit of diversity to the bloodline. The reason for my union with Jacob was of no concern to my parents, for they were always interested in marrying me into great wealth, especially since the luck of the Smith family was strongest with the first born. But their greed began to show when they requested a larger dowry for my hand than Arthur was willing to give. For four years, this dispute lasted, with my parents’ demands rising annually. There was only a settlement when Arthur’s patience was strained too much, when my parents had gone too far.
The last time I saw them was on New Year’s Eve. I did not know that he came to visit us, nor did I know that he had requested that I leave to meet Jacob at midnight. I only remember my parents acting strange as the clock continued to tick, each stroke marking an event that none of us could have predicted. Laughs became hollow, and the food became bland. When I went to bed early, before the beginning of the new year, my mother’s face was drenched in tears, and my father was fidgeting nervously.
That morning, when I woke, I was the only one in the house. Nothing seemed to be stolen, and nothing seemed to be moved. My parent’s belongings were left untouched, so I knew that they did not plan to leave. The food from our celebration was left exposed on the table, but neither one of my parents were messy or forgetful. Their morning routines, from making fresh coffee to placing any mail on the living room table, were completely abandoned. The clocks weren’t even working properly, as each hand, from the hour to the very second, was pointing skyward.
When I was dressed and ready for the day, I heard a car horn from the front of the house. I open the door and saw, standing behind his own black 1951 Muntz Jet , Arthur J. Smith. He was placing two suitcases, which I discovered later were filled with the belongings given to us by him, in the trunk of his car, which had the rear door facing me open. When he noticed me, he waved his hand, revealing a black crescent scar on his dominant left palm, and his face contorted into into a thin, cold smile.
I am fortunate to have never seen him smile ever again.