Author's note: I hope that people will enjoy this story, as I hope to write more like it someday. The idea for... Show full author's note »
The BeginningDecember 3, 1894
I am gravely sorry for the demise of your father. I have looked at his will, and found that he did not bequeath 20 acres of land to anyone. The land is where he died. The land only appears on one map I have found. I have enclosed the map, which is from 1750. The area is titled Solitude. No one has occupied or trespassed the land except your father.
Sir Walter Wilkinson
When Mot received the letter in his mailbox,
Dear Sir Walter Wilkinson,
There is no reason to apologize. I have a few questions. When did my father receive the property titled Solitude? I was not aware that he owned it. Where is this property located? I would like to visit and perhaps sell it. Can you send another copy of the map? The last one I lost. Lastly, why has no one inhabited the property?
Mot O' Brien
Thunder rolled. Soon, rain poured down. Mot started preparing a loaf of bread for dinner. As he put it in the oven, he heard a knock on the front door. He opened the cheaply made wooden door, and a man, who was seven feet tall, dripping wet, stared Mot in the eye. Finally, Mot spoke.
"How may I help you, sir?"
"Don't go. Solitude has a curse. Don't go. I warn you now."
Before Mot had finished speaking, the man walked away. The tall man got in a carriage, snapped a whip, and the horses took off. Mot went back inside the house and smelled the bread. He took his bread out of the oven and wrote in his journal while eating the oven fresh bread. When Mot finished writing in his journal, he retreated to his bedroom, and read a book. When he finished reading, his vision changed. He was standing on a tiny patch of grass. He walked toward the only thing in sight, a graveyard. As he approached, a cold wind swept through the area. A leaf containing a word flew towards his face. He snatched it out of the air and read the words "Solitude, 1800." When Mot arrived at the graveyard, he bent down and read one of the gravestones inscribed "Jonathan Blunt 1700-1781 ‘A blessing in our lives.' R.I.P." The ground erupted at Mot's feet. A withered, gray hand grabbed his ankle, pulling the rest of his body out of the ground. It stared at Mot. It said "The land has a curse. Those who come never leave. Don't come. I warn you." As the body stood up, the man was almost seven feet tall. The body disintegrated, along with Solitude. When Mot's vision returned, he was still standing in the graveyard. This time, the words on Jonathan's gravestone were not visible. A dead body lay at the grave, but it was not Jonathan. It was Mot's father. The body looked as if it had just died. His father's fingernails were slightly longer than normal, but that was the only difference. When Mot bent down to touch his father's face, his hand started evaporating. He quickly pulled it away. After a second or two, his hand reappeared. As Mot cried one of his tears fell on his father's face. His father sat up when the tear touched his face. He looked around and saw Mot. He sounded scared as he said:
"Son, no, you should not have come! He did horrible things! Curse! Beware!"
His father rattled on like this for several minutes, talking about a curse. When Mot asked him what curse, his father laid back down, closed his eyes, and did not breathe. When Mot cried, another tear fell on his father's face. Once again, his father sat up, looked at Mot, and told him he should not have come. When Mot asked his father a question, his father would lay back down and die. Eventually, Mot figured out the pattern. As he cried, he was careful not to let his tears fall on his father. Soon, the vision deteriorated. The man who had appeared at his doorway hours before stood next to him when his vision returned. He said:
"Earlier, I warned you not to come. When I arrived here, I got visions so bad they drove me insane. I killed myself. I am aware that you still wish to visit. Beware of the curse!"
"Who are you?" asked Mot.
The man looked at Mot and did not answer. Instead, he slowly turned to dust. When the dust blew into Mot's face, he woke up, breathing hard. He was not in the graveyard, he was in his house, safe. Mot lay there, breathing, for a few minutes. Just as he was about to get up, he saw a face in his bedroom window. Mot stared at the window until he gathered the nerve to stand. He looked away to make sure he would not step on something, and when he looked back, the face was gone. Only then did Mot realize that not many people could look in his bedroom window, as it was six and a half feet from the ground. He got up and walked out of his room, grabbed his shotgun, and quietly walked out on his porch. The area was quiet enough that he could hear his heartbeat. He cocked his gun, and searched the area for the person that had looked into his window. There was a movement in a bush, and he fired, but it turned out to just be a rabbit. After a while he calmed down, thinking that he was being crazy. He went back into his house and took the bullets out of his shotgun. He looked at his clock, and, realizing that it was almost dawn, made breakfast. He ate on his front porch. He took his spoon and set a bite of his oatmeal to cool. He let the steam rise and warm his face; it was cold outside. He took his bite, and a man walked up to him. It was same man who had come the previous day and appeared in his dream. He was carrying a letter. He handed it to Mot and said:
"I have read this note. You plan to go to Solitude. Do not. I warn you, stay here!"
Then the man walked off, leaving Mot with an open envelope. He pulled out the letter and read it.
It was from Sir Walter Wilkinson.
Solitude is _________. I hope that you have success selling it. Your father acquired the land in 1874. Why no one has entered the property is a mystery to me. I would also like to tell you that the police that entered the land to retrieve the body of your father have not returned. Sincerely,
Sir Walter Wilkinson
Mot crumpled the note after he read, seeing that it was useless; the piece of paper containing Solitude's location had been cut out. Mot decided to go to the courthouse and look at the deed to the property. He went outside and got in his carriage. He snapped the whip and steered the carriage out to the road. It was an hour-long ride to the courthouse; he lived out in the country. About halfway to the courthouse, his horses stopped obeying him. They stopped and grazed in the field next to the road. No matter how many times he whipped them, they did not obey. Then he noticed something, standing behind him. It was the man who had given him the letter. He asked the man what happened, but the man walked up to Mot's horse and rode off. Mot bit back the urge to cry. He walked up to his horse that was left and tried to get on it. When Mot touched the horse, it sped off in the direction that the man had gone. He walked back to the road and walked towards the courthouse. He was going to get the courthouse if it took all day. He walked for a while, the sun beating down on him. He wiped the sweat off his brow. He stopped; his throat was burning. He had not brung water with him; he had expected to ride in his carriage. He looked at his watch. The courthouse would close in an hour. He had barely made it halfway in two hours. He would not make it in time, so he headed back the way he came. He walked for a half of an hour and stopped at an inn. He asked for a room. The desk worker gave him the keys to a room on the fourth floor. Mot climbed the tall, menacing staircase. He had walked all day and did not want to have to climb the stairs. He ascended them slowly; he had just stopped sweating. When he arrived on the fourth floor, he realized that his room was down another long hallway. He sighed. All he had wanted was rest. He walked down the hallway, ignoring the people staring at him as he walked by. When he got to his room he realized that he did not have sheets on his bed. He considered going back down to the front desk to ask for some, but he was too tired.