The Inheritance

Texas, 1848

I was born in 1823 on a little ranch out west. When I was but a young man, I remember seeing an older gentleman at the saloon in town. He seemed out of place. I could not put my finger on what was so different about him. I had not seen him in town before. I was a native to the area; born and raised in the Texas heat. I had worked the land all my life with hands so caked in dirt and mud that I was nearly a piece of the land itself, so I recognized the strangers when they came into our little southern town.

I would never forget that night; it completely changed my life forever.

I sat down at the bar, “Just a whiskey, Sam.”

“Sure thing. How’s your pa doin’ Jon?” The bartender, Samuel, poured me a drink, sliding the glass into my hand.

“Doin’ better, but I’ve had to pick up some extra work ‘round the ranch to give him time to recover.” I took a swig of the whiskey. I looked over at the older man, curious. I always enjoyed hearing about how new folks found their way out here. “So, what parts do you come from?”

“Someone in your family is ill?” the man ignored my question. He had a strange accent, almost sounded like an Englishman. He must have traveled far to get here. He continued talking. “I am sorry to hear that. It’s difficult when your folks fall ill.”

“It can be.” I took another drink.

“How about I help you out?” He offered, rustling around in his pocket. “I’ve been holding on to this. Perhaps it will help you just as it has helped me.”

He slid across the table a small black moleskin book. The front was worn, and the pages looked old. I looked at the man, confused. “How'll a little book help me? I can’t even read.”

“It will help. I need to get going. Good night, gentlemen.” He laid some bills on the counter for his drink, collected his hat and coat, and walked out of the saloon.

I chuckled, picking up the book. “That was strange. Wonder what’s even in this.”

I thumbed through the pages, and a small banknote fluttered out of the pages. I flipped it over and nearly fell over when I saw the amount written on it. I couldn’t read, but I knew numbers. $20,000. I stared at the note, mouth agape, my hands shaking.

“You alright, Jon?” Samuel came over, concerned.

“That-that man…he uh, gave me this book, and there’s a banknote here tucked in the pages.” I gulped.

Samuel glanced at the note, his eyes bulging. “Well I’ll be, it's a miracle. Best not to let anyone know ‘about that bit of money. Use it to help your pa.”

I stood up quickly. “I should return it. This is an enormous, impossible amount…”

Samuel grabbed my arm with an iron grip. “You will not. It’d be plain stupid to not keep that. Besides, that amount…there’s no way he left that there by accident. People don’t carry around that kind of money in their pockets without a purpose. It’s a godsend.”

“Maybe…” I felt uneasy. I couldn’t even grasp the amount of money I was holding in my hand at that moment.

“You have a chance to make life better. Keep it.” Samuel said.

“Okay, but I can’t use all of it myself.” I took another drink, not believing what was happening. “You said you needed a new roof on your place? Consider it done.”

Samuel smiled a big toothy smile, “I have a feelin’ our town is about to be a whole lot better.”

I thought I was the luckiest man in the world. My pa finally got the medicine and care he needed. We sold the ranch and moved into one of those big white houses in the countryside. I even found a missus and had five children, all of which also had many children. Life was good for a while.

But then things got strange. Very, very strange.

I always assumed that I had simply aged well. Everyone constantly told me how young I looked. I never got gray hairs or wrinkles around my mouth and eyes. Something wasn’t right. My wife looked frail and old by 64, ready to knock on death’s door. I was still young and strong. She kicked me out of the house, accusing me and saying I had sold my soul to the devil. I was also half-convinced that I had because my body wasn’t aging.

I packed up what little I had and left. It completely broke my heart, being shunned from my family and having to leave the love of my life. I lived in seclusion for the next 30 years. I should have already died by then, but my body was still strong and healthy. I couldn’t figure out what was wrong with me. I even tried to kill myself. I hung myself three times, attempted to shoot myself six times, and even attempted drowning myself which overall was an unpleasant experience. Each time I would wake up from having passed out, but I never died. And my body always healed within a few days.

Then one day while I was combing through my books because I had finally learned to read after having so much free time over the years. I came across the small black moleskin book that man had given me so long ago. I had never read it. I tried in the past, but I wasn’t very good at reading for a long time. I suppose I had forgotten about it by the time I had learned. It didn’t seem like a very important book.

Opening it up to the first page, I discovered it was a diary, but not just that gentleman’s diary. Each section was written by a different man and it dated back to the 1400s. Reading through each entry, I was shocked to find each man documenting experiences very similar to my own. One of the men, Thomas Wright, wrote:

'I am now coming up on 200 years old, but I still appear as if I am 30. I am living in hell each day. I cannot be close with anyone in my life because they are all like flowers. They bloom and grow into beautiful people, but they all pass on eventually when winter comes and leave me behind to face this cold world alone.'

Flipping through, I found the last entry by the man I had met at the bar.

'I figured out the secret by reading about the experiences of those before me and how to break free from this wretched curse. It’s because of the book. It requires a sacrifice of something that you treasure the most. But the book requires an heir. Someone must take on the burden. I have to make my sacrifice so I can finally rest.'

I couldn’t figure out what he meant until I remembered the banknote, the $20,000 he had given to me long ago. That was his sacrifice to the book when he handed it off to me, the next victim. So, the sacrifice must need to be made to whoever this next “heir” would be.

I needed to find the next heir.

Texas, 1958

I slid into a seat at the diner, glancing through the menu. A waitress came up to the table, popping her gum loudly and obnoxiously. “What can I get for ya?”

“A chocolate milkshake and fries,” I replied.

“That all?” she asked, still smacking her gum.

“Yes ma’am,” I said politely.

She rolled her eyes. “Alright. Be out in a minute.”

I tapped my fingers on the table, looking around the diner. The kids were getting out of school around this time of day. They started to gather around the tables to chat, drink sodas, and listen to the music playing on the jukebox in the corner.

I stopped inside busy local hangouts regularly, trying to find someone to pass the book off to. It was not an easy task. The person had to willingly and purposefully take the book from you. I had tried to pass it off forcefully or to leave it lying somewhere for someone to find by accident. It never worked.

This time, I spotted a young boy who sat at the breakfast bar alone. I took my chance. It was always easier to approach kids because they trusted everyone too easily.

After a moment of silence, I looked at him. “Hey, kid. I noticed you’re looking a little down.”

He shrugged, ignoring me.

“You aren’t hanging out with the other kids?”

“They aren’t my friends. They don’t want me around.” He ground out harshly.

I nodded, not knowing what to say to that. “Well, can I buy you a milkshake?” He didn’t respond. I called the waitress over. “A vanilla milkshake for him, ma’am.”

“Strawberry,” He corrected. “I like strawberry.”

She nodded and hurried off to fill the order.

I continued trying to speak with him. “I came over here because you reminded me of myself when I was your age. I was going through some difficult times at your age. My dad was sick, and I ran his farm by myself and took care of my family.”

I always ran through the same story. It built trust with kids to get them talking.

“Yeah. My dad’s sick too. Cancer got him.” The boy kept his gaze on the table as if he couldn’t process what he was saying.

My heart sank. I suddenly knew I wouldn’t be able to go through with it again. I was too soft-hearted. “I’m so sorry for that.”

Our milkshakes showed up, and we drank them in silence. When he finished his drink, he wiped his mouth and looked at me. “Thank you, mister. For the shake and for talking to me.”

He left the diner. I paid the bill and wished the waitress a good evening.

Maybe next time.