I am eighteen. I don’t want to die.
I know from where you’re sitting, you’ll feel differently. You wish me dead, but you’ll understand why I have to do what I do once I tell you my story.
It all began the summer I was 15 and I was told Cousin Grant would be visiting us at the plantation. Until that day, I had never heard of Cousin Grant and in hindsight I realize nobody was excited about his arrival except Mother who smiled while speaking of him. There were no servants rushing around in preparation, no gatherings or parties being planned for his ten-day stay. It was obvious he wasn’t welcome and strange that I had never heard of him.
Our butler was to pick him from the station early morning. No welcoming party for Cousin Grant, no sir. My family wasn’t a warm one but the frost that chilled the air for Cousin Grant was unusual even for them. I would soon learn why.
The night before his arrival, my father called me into his study. This wasn’t an unusual occurrence; I had been inside his study countless times. Even before the time he ordered me to see him in his study for the first time, I used to sneak in. I knocked politely, ever the obedient son. “Enter”, he said.
“You called for me Father?” I asked.
“Yes.” saying that he poured us both a glass of whiskey. I gulped nervously. I could sense this wasn’t to be a normal meeting about my duties at the plantation.
“Cousin Grant will be visiting us for a week,” he began, displeasure evident in his words. “I do not want you to exchange words with him beyond pleasantries.” Father’s hard tone did not invite any argument, so I presented none. Surprised, but thinking this was it, I started to rise, however, it seemed alcohol had loosened my father’s tongue.” Sit down Son, this might take a while,” he wanted an audience and I seemed handy.
“Grant is your mother’s sister’s son. You don’t know this because she married below, and she was disowned. Your mother and her were always close so I allowed them to exchange letters. I didn’t see any harm in it”, said Father.
“As years passed her sister started to lose her health and she asked you mother to take care of her son. Naturally, I forbade her to bring the boy home. I couldn’t have you raised with a miner’s son now could I boy!”, he laughed. “But I never shirk my duties. Never. So I sent him to a boarding school in the East and paid for his education. And that was that. I expected him to study something useful and come work at the plantation,” his voice started rising at this point. “But the damned boy didn’t have a grateful bone in his body. Such pride in a miner’s bastard.”, he scoffed. “He used my money to study the occult. Hah! Said his mother was possessed and he wanted to cure her. Never heard anything more ridiculous come out that boy’s mouth!” Father was practically screaming by then.
Soon after his words become more slurry, he had almost finished a bottle as he kept pouring more whiskey into his glass and I left. He warned me to stay away from Cousin Grant once more when I was at near the door. Honestly, I never intended to heed my father’s words once I heard about Cousin’s studies about the occult. The idea of discussing these things were much too appealing for me. I lived in an old plantation house in New Orleans. Haunted houses and ghost-sightings were common place in this town, even if the wealthy chose to play ignorant.
There were countless stories to tell about the house I lived in too. The way the air in the house was cooler than outside. How in one of the rooms in the unused part of the house there were blood stains on the walls and they would reappear no matter how many times you wiped it away. My nanny used to say the servants would hear faint sounds of a lullaby when I was a baby, long after everyone had slept.
But that’s not what I’m here to tell you about. Coming back to Cousin Grant. After Father told me about the nature of Cousin’s studies, I suspected he was visiting us because of the haunting rumours surrounding the plantation house. Nothing strange had ever happened to me that I could speak to him about, so I decided to make up a story and speak to him about it while he’d be here.
But I never got the chance to do that. Cousin Grant never came to visit.
The Veiled Scribe 