I shouldn’t be writing this down, but I have no one left to tell and not much time to tell it. What feels like a lifetime ago, I unexpectedly inherited 12 million dollars and a horrible curse.
This was back when I was 20. I was home the summer after junior year to work at my uncle’s restaurant. Back then it was possible to work your way through college. My uncle’s idea of “special treatment” for family was calling me in any time they were short staffed or someone didn’t bother to show up for a shift. And it wasn’t like I could lie and say I was busy. He’d just call his brother, my dad. It was good money though, and I needed it.
I biked to and from work at odd hours. It was a small town, so everyone waved when we passed each other. I’d see her watching me from her wraparound porch at the end of the street both to and from the restaurant no matter what time of day or night. I’d always raise my hand and give her a little smile, but never got a response, just a blank stare. Mrs. Miller was old by then. I’m not sure what she was like before. Although I grew up on that street and was out most nights playing basketball with the other neighborhood kids, I don’t remember ever seeing her on that porch. I mentioned this once to my parents to see if they noticed her out there too. They never had. Our next door neighbor told my family she might have had dementia. It’s sad, I don’t think she had anyone to help her.
Then local dogs started sniffing around her house on walks. The mailman found her body. Once the letters piled up in her box to the point of falling out and her unpaid bills couldn’t be crammed in any tighter, he knocked on her door. It was the smell that made him call the police. Steve from the homeowner’s association went in after them on the welfare check. He may have been the closest person to her, just by requesting dues and asking that she take care of her yard. She didn’t have any next of kin. Steve was also the only one to see the body, at least what was left of it. They had to do a DNA confirmation to make sure it was her. The remains went straight to cremation.
On the dusty, cluttered dining room table, they found a stack of documents bound in old leather. It was worn but clean and looked like it had recently been polished. It may have been the last thing she touched. I only know all this because it was given to me once everything had settled. Her will had only one name, mine, and included assets totaling an unbelievable 12 million dollars.
I remember sitting in her lawyer’s office shocked silent and trying not to grin like a serial killer after signing his papers as my mind whirred with ideas of what I could do with all that money. There was only one condition in her will to respect, and that was that I read some letter she’s left me. Like any young kid, I wanted everything life had to offer, and someone just handed me a golden ticket. I raced home to tell my parents. My mom cried and called it a gift from God. My dad demanded that I give it all back, there must be a mistake and it wasn’t mine. But my family was struggling, so eventually the gift won. I grew up knowing that my parents would never retire unless I could help them out, and they were in danger of losing the house. I paid off their mortgage that same week.
But there was a strange feeling passing Mrs. Miller’s home each day in my brand new dream car. I know it’s distasteful to say an old woman’s death made the best day of your life. So I felt guilty each time I passed that familiar overgrown yard and now empty rocking chair. I got a sense of darkness from the place. It was like the clouds hung heavier over it. Even the trees bent as if weighed down. It was legally my home now, but I wanted nothing to do with it. Even without the crushing feeling I got any time I went too close, an old lady’s decaying body had lain on that rotting wood floor for weeks. The thought pulled at my mind the more I tried avoiding it.
One night, I remembered the letter she’d left for me with the will. I’d completely forgotten in my excitement. I grabbed my backpack where the will and letter had ended up when I dashed out of that lawyer’s office. The envelope was wax sealed. Inside, the paper was thick but crisp. The handwriting was shaky cursive that I struggled to make out. It read:
I’ll start by offering my sincerest apologies. I know little more of you than you knew of me. But I beg you to honor an old woman’s dying wish. Find the wooden jewelry box with the red velvet lining. You must understand what I have truly given you.
That note consumed my every thought until finally, I couldn’t delay any longer. I resolved to just grab the box, renovate and sell the house, then put it out of my mind. Every impulse screamed at me to turn back with each step up those crumbling stairs, but I forced myself forward. The moment my hand closed around the rusted doorknob a shudder passed through me from how cold it felt. I shrugged it off, embarrassed at how dramatic I was being. After everything Mrs. Miller had left to me, the least I could do was fix her house up and pass it on to some nice family.
There was no light inside. Her power had been shut off for so long, and even in the early afternoon, no sunlight passed through the filthy windows and curtains. I steeled myself and raised my flashlight. Just a clutter of old furniture, musty books, dusty trinkets and…sticky carpet that pulled at my shoes as I cautiously walked in. I shuddered and tried not to think of what that might be.
In the entire downstairs, there was no sign of the box she had left for me. I’d hoped it would be easier and that I wouldn’t have to go upstairs. The body had been in the master bedroom where’s she’d died, hopefully peaceful and in her sleep. I forced down my revulsion and ignored the prickling of my skin and marched resolutely up the carpeted steps of her too-narrow staircase, past wall portraits that I could almost brush with my shoulders. It was like the walls got closer the further up I went. Of course, I may have been imagining things.
My foot hit the top landing with a wet squelch and an agonized scream. I jumped back and almost fell down the entire staircase. The only thing that kept me from bolting forever was the fear that fossilized me in place where I landed. The flashlight clutched like a lifeline in my hand cut through the darkness just enough for me to make out the eyes of a particularly large rat trying to scramble away with its now crushed hind legs. It’s oil black eyes shone in the darkness, swirling with terror.
I wonder sometimes what would have happened if I’d turned back then. If I’d had the house demolished and moved to the other side of the world. But of course, instead I told myself it was just an animal, and if that if I checked the upstairs now, I’d never have to come back. So I continued, opening each door and being careful to watch my steps. The rest of the rooms were more of the same, and none contained the box I was sent to find. I stalled and wondered if there was an attic I could check instead of opening the last door. But the only thing I could think of worse than going into Mrs. Miller’s bedroom was standing in that claustrophobic hallway with a crippled rat dying somewhere in the shadows any longer than I had to. I was kicking myself for not bringing someone with me as I pushed the heavy door open.
The smell is hard to forget. Even the burn of bleach couldn’t fully cover the stench of human decay. The cleaners were professionals, but I doubt most deaths were this hard to erase. Mr. Stevens had said she had been partially liquid. The heat of summer and stagnant air had only intensified the nauseating smell on the humid air drowning my lungs. My only saving grace was that an ornate wooden jewelry box’s polished cherry wood gleamed on the dresser as my flashlight beamed on it. I grabbed it and fled without a backwards glance.
Only when I was home did I think to check for a red velvet lining. I unlatched the lid with shaking fingers and found the red lining as well as another letter. This one looked old. It had been folded and refolded until the creases softened to fibers. But the writing was shaper and clearer than the last.
I’m afraid I’ve given you a great fortune and a terrible fate. If there’s a way to be rid of it, heaven knows I’ve tried. May your luck be better than mine.
I crumpled the stupid note in my hand, furious the old woman had forced me through her decrepit death trap of a house just for a scrap of superstition. I tried to rip it up, but just got papercuts, so I flung it in the fireplace instead and lit a nice blaze. When I checked later though, the paper wasn’t even singed. I dunked it in the sink and tried to bleed the ink away, but droplets beaded up and rolled off the page. In my dad’s home office, the shredder jammed as soon as the edge of the letter touched the blades. With each attempt, I grew more and more frantic and my suspicion that the curse was true rose. The last thing I tried was to bury the box with the note locked inside it in the yard of Mrs. Miller’s, now my, house. Relief was immediate, and I didn’t see the box until a few days later when I tripped over it on my front doorstep. I kept the box in the end, shoved it as far as I could to the back of my closet under piles of clothes and blankets. At least that way I didn’t have to see it.
Life was good for a while after. I gave generously to charities, deciding that at least some good should come from this, and hopefully earn myself some good karma. I set up funds for my parent’s retirement. They’d never have to work another day if they didn’t want to. I helped my uncle’s restaurant get out of debt. I spend the last month of my summer traveling the world. And I bought the most beautiful engagement ring money could buy.
Back to college for my senior year, I thrived in the knowledge of my financial security. The only classes I took were the ones I was genuinely interested in. My roommate struggled with money though, just as I had before. I heard his worry-filled phone calls home and watched him wilt under the pressure of his full course load and two jobs. So I secretly set up a scholarship fund just for him that conveniently paid for all his costs. I thought maybe this was the answer, giving the money away could keep me safe from whatever Mrs. Miller had thought was tied to it. That was until I came back from class early one day to see my roommate hanging from the ceiling. Even worse, he’d still been alive. Staring into his bulging eyes, I witnessed the last second of life before he went limp. It had been too late to save him from his own hands. My mental breakdown followed swiftly after. I dropped out and moved home, still haunted by his discolored, distorted face in my dreams.
I fell into a type of religious fervor after that. My devout mother was surprised but ultimately pleased that her prodigal son returned to church with her. I prayed with desperation, I tithed an entire million dollars, I attended every service and event at the church I hadn’t set foot in since my childhood. Then I got the news that the church fire. A freak accident with a votive candle. The pastor’s family and the entire practicing choir had been inside. No survivors, nothing left but ashes to bury. The box hidden deep in my closet burned in the back of my mind. Whatever doubts I had before were gone now.
The first thing I did after the mass funeral was break up with my girlfriend. We’d been high school sweethearts and were talking about getting married as soon as she got her degree, one year after me. She was and still is the love of my life. That’s why I had to do anything I could to save her from this thing that follows me and takes everything I care about. I could never answer when she asked why. She didn’t believe my half-hearted excuses; she knew me too well. I saved voicemails that are just the sound of her crying into my answering machine. Maybe I’m just ripping my own heart out over and over again, but I’ve replayed them countless times. It’s sweet melancholy to know that at one point I was loved. I’ve ended every casual fling over the years the second things could have become more. I still have that engagement ring I bought for her too.
Whether or not it stopped the nightmare that had become my life, I wanted that house gone. I hired landscapers to redo the yard, exterminators for the rats, and the best renovation company I could find to completely overhaul the Miller house. Any time they asked me for my opinion on tile or paint color, I told them to do what they thought best. I refused to go near it. My only demand was that they completely gut the master bedroom. The drywall, the ceiling, I even made them replace the beams of the walls, which took some incredible feats of engineering. I begged them every time they wanted to quit. Accidents were frequent and severe. In they end, the contractors stayed. They charged me an arm and a leg, which was also what a team member happened to have lost, but left me with a beautiful new-looking building.
Plenty of families came to the open house, my realtor gave countless tours, but offer after offer got retracted. I lowered the asking price each time until the entire home was worth less than the repairs I’d put in. No takers. I couldn’t have paid someone to live there. When a squatter was found dead, crushed by a fallen chandelier, the house started to get a reputation around town, and so did I. By then I was a recluse, speaking to no one and fighting with my family as I tried to pull away. I sped out of our driveway with just one suitcase and that damn box as my mother screamed for me to wait. I moved to an apartment two towns away, one that was basically failing and had as few residents as possible.
I can’t even count the years I wallowed there. It didn’t matter though. Eventually my family and friends stopped reaching out, and I told myself it was for the best. You can’t shut people out forever though. Solitary confinement is torture. People go crazy from it. Family is much harder to break away from than anyone else. Maybe if I was stronger, I could have. The guilt still eats at me from the inside. I’d check up on them, drive by their home as night fell just to see if the lights were on or to possibly glimpse my parents through a window. I’d get the local paper and scan for obituaries, hoping not to find them.
When my uncle died, I wasn’t even surprised. The paper said he’d slipped on the floor of his restaurant and cracked his head. I wish I’d never given him that money he needed to keep it. I wish I’d left sooner. My mom tried to reach out to invite me to the funeral. She must not have known if I’d even get the message, but I never changed my number out of some lingering hope that one day I’d break the curse and come back, that maybe I could un-break my family’s hearts.
The last time she called, it was to tell me she and my dad both had lung cancer. Turns out the house I paid off had asbestos we’d never known about. It was terminal by the time they found out. I went home to spend whatever time they had left as a family. My dad died within a month of me returning. My mom just a week after. I confessed everything to my mom, comatose in her hospice bed. I’ll never know whether she heard me. She never woke up. The last stage of grief isn’t acceptance, it’s just numbness.
After burying my parents. I moved into the Miller house. I could feel that it wanted me, and it had been waiting. I had no one left and nowhere to go. I tried to fight the curse with priests, witches, exorcists, and paranormal investigators. I even tried a fortune teller who took one glimpse at me and tossed me out on the street. Nothing lifted the darkness I could feel closing in on me every day.
Over these long years I’ve lain in bed most nights and wondered why she chose me. Was mine the only name she remembered in the end with her addled brain? Then I found her diary. Last week on a sleepless night, I felt compelled to open the jewelry box and read the letter again. This time as I lifted the lid, I noticed how strangely shallow the box was inside, the velvet bottom came up easily and I saw the worn notebook that lay there.
In it, Mrs. Miller detailed her life with the family curse. Through countless generations, tragedy followed the Miller heirs. Each time, the wealth passed on has grown and each time, the curse has grown stronger. Mrs. Miller herself lost all her children before she passed. But even as her mind and body started to disintegrate, the curse kept her alive. The only way to escape is to pass it on.
And so I’m choosing my heir at random. The thought of picking someone out to receive grief even worse than I’ve had, it’s too cruel to think of. I’ve taken every name in the US Whitepages, sorted them alphabetically, and generated a random number. It can’t be my fault that way. It’s a 1 in 330 million chance. It’s someone’s unlucky lottery win.
It will be my time soon. I feel it. The weight grows heavier every moment, and I wake in the night gasping for air. The doctors say it’s sleep apnea, but I know the truth. I refused treatment. Their machines can’t stop what is coming for me. It feels crazy to say, but out of everything, the waiting is the worst part.
I’ve finished the will. I’ve written the name. And if you’re reading this, I sincerely hope it isn’t yours.