Inheritance
All righty then! It’s July and time for the adventure to return to its regular schedule. This new one seems to be a mix between Alice in Wonderland and the Dresden Files. Let’s see where it takes us.
Inheritance
He looks like a toad, short, squat and rather large lipped with a squishy face. You don’t usually have such a reaction to people but the poor man at your door seems to embody his ugliness like he’s proud of it.
“Do I have your name right?” he whistles through his teeth.
“Y-e-s,” you draw the word out. No one visits you, not way out here where it takes a four-wheel drive vehicle almost two hours to reach your door.
Toad man definitely came equipped. The truck sitting behind him pops as it cools. Its hood sits almost even with the top of his head.
“You are the recipient of James Levi’s estate,” he pulls out a large roll of paper from his satchel and stuffs it in your face. “Sign pages three, eleven, sixteen and twenty two.”
“What?”
He just stares at you, still holding the papers.
“I don’t know a James Levi,” you say.
“He states in his will the estate must go to another hermit. Namely, you. You are the only other hermit.” The way he says this last bit makes it sound like you’re the only other hermit ever. Odd man.
Being a hermit, you don’t exactly care for confrontation. You sigh and start signing. When you’re done, he stuffs the entire stack of papers back into his bag and hands over a single page. On it you find an address.
“Enjoy,” toad man spins on his heel and climbs back into his truck, using a stepladder he pulls from the floorboard to reach the seat.
You read the address in your hand.
Yuck. That’s farther out there than your small cabin. Too far to make it to today. Tomorrow morning it is.
***
Even leaving before dawn, you reach James Levi’s estate well after noon. Whoever this man was, he really didn’t want any visitors. You suspected as much, so you loaded up your four-wheeler into the bed of your truck the night before.
Now you’re truck sits alone, left on the road ten miles back, because the road narrowed so much you couldn’t fit the Chevy through the trees.
You cut the engine to the four-wheeler and simply sit on it for a bit. You’re in the middle of nowhere, literally surrounded by forest and mountains with barely a trail leading to the place, and before you rises a flipping castle.
How in all that’s Holy did James Levi build such a beast?
Gate-check.
Moat-check.
Turrets-check.
Full on medieval castle.
You shake your head and dismount the four-wheeler. On your back you carry a backpack with basic supplies for the night since you’re so far out from even your own cabin.
A tiny footbridge crosses the moat and gives access to the gate.
You’re suspicious by nature, so you kneel down and check under the bridge. Nothing seems out of the ordinary. Nothing happens when you cross, your heels making soft thuds on the wooden planks, but when you reach the far side, the bridge gives a shudder.
You step onto solid ground and immediately, the bridge breaks in two and lifts into the air like a toll bridge, cutting you off from the other side.
“Hello?” you holler.
Your voice echoes and dies but no one responds.
Someone’s out there, though, you’ve got that itch against the back of your neck like a spider’s climbing your skin. You shiver and approach the gate. A small intercom graces the right side. You press the red button and it gives off a buzzzzzz.
Moments pass, then, “Go away,” crackles out of the speaker.
“Um, can’t,” you respond. “The bridge is up.”
“Dumb bridge. All right, come in.”
There’s another buzz and the gate rattles upward.
Flipping medieval castle. When it’s high enough, you duck under and step into the courtyard beyond.
“Careful of the pansies,” the speaker pops. “They’ll eat you alive.”
“What?” you ask.
The speaker doesn’t respond.
You scan the courtyard and find pansies, tulips, geraniums, and a variety of other flowers you don’t recognize scattered around the yard.
“Perhaps we should skirt the outside of the yard,” says a voice behind you.
You spin but there’s no one there. You spin in a full circle and still don’t see anyone.
“Can we please stop that, it’s making me dizzy.”
You freeze. Then, with two fingers, you pinch the strap of you pack and slide it from your shoulders.
It’s a simple thing. Green with only two outside pockets and a main zipper that follows the full front of the pack.
“Much better.”
The zipper’s closed but as these words come from your most trusted pack, it unzips and rezips without the need of the zipper car.
Take it in stride, you try to calm your racing heart.
“Skirt the outside?” you ask.
“No pansies,” zip, zip.
So do you…
A. Follow the pack’s advice?
Or
B. Run Away Screaming?
Blessings and see you Thursday,
Jennifer
