BURDEN OF AN ANCIENT OATH by Joshua Brown (early reader books TXT) 📕

nerves regardless of whatever she was here for. Being in New York City, it was easy enough to think this was a strange encounter with the daughter of some rich tycoon who managed to get involved in some shady business.

Raised prim and proper, showing no emotion, and tucking whatever fears she held deep inside.

“I use it in the loosest sense, of course. I’m not much one to believe in witchcraft or spooks. But I can see that’s what you’re thinking, right?” she asked, a soft smile tugging at the corners of her lips.

“You’re not wrong,” I said.

“Reality is often stranger than fiction,” she said. “That’s what they say, right? I think I’ve found myself in the prime example of it.”

“Right. Go on?”

She shook her head. “I believe it’s best for you to read the letters to get an understanding of what I mean. Saying it out loud will sound almost silly without context.”

I did as she instructed.

Every letter was handwritten in astonishing calligraphy—not just simple cursive, with every stroke ending in a flourish. The writing’s beauty didn’t carry over in the words’ contents, nor did it match the poor spelling.

She sat in silence while I read, only a faint whistle from her breathing and puffing on the thin cigarette, letting me know she was still around.

The handwritten letters gave very little in the way of help and understanding. They spoke of a different time, centuries before when the land was overrun by ghastly creatures and demonic entities. In the same line, it would cut to the modern-day and how vile the world had become.

Where the penmanship was stylistic and splendid, the literacy was lacking tremendously. The writer continued in rambles and rants about old gods, Cthulu, Odin, Ra, and more, and how eternal fire would soon consume this world.

All of which somehow led back to Marilyn Crossley.

Apart from sparse details of her involvement, with more accusatory claims and bold expressions about her existence, there was little in the way of how she’d bring the end times.

“Looks like you’ve found yourself a secret admirer,” I leaned back in my chair. Her patience was remarkable, forcing the nib of her cigarette down in the ashtray.

“Indeed.”

“This isn’t anything new, Miss Crossley. Perhaps it’s just some kids having fun, trying to scare the new residents. It wouldn’t be the first time that someone’s sent threatening letters out in New York with nothing coming of it but movie deals and press releases,” I tried stilling her fears.

“Yes, The Watcher, correct? That was my first thought too. A little bit of ribbing because we were new in town. I also considered that maybe these letters weren’t for me, that they were intended for the previous owners—who left in a hurry, I might add. But you see, Mr. Mercer… Jack, I don’t believe that’s the case. I have more,” she stuck her hand into her purse, pulling out a stack of ten more letters and setting them down on the table. “The letters you read are the most out-there of the lot—the most recent, too. You see, they started off far more straightforward. Almost jovial in nature with a cheery tone. Nothing involving long-dead religions and lost gods, and far less blasphemy and cursing.”

She paused for a moment, lighting another cigarette.

I spent some time inspecting her hands. The light yellow shade that splotched on her index and middle finger led me to believe this chainsmoking was a new venture—no doubt from the nerves that came with the letters.

“But all of that changed one day,” smoke escaped her mouth with every word. “The jovial nature turned to this sullen, grim heresy. He spoke of cats and dogs and vile things that my children would want to do with them. My husband, God bless his soul, has rarely been home lately with work. He barely listens to my pleas of anguish, brushing these letters off as if they’re nothing. That’s why I don’t think them just schoolyard pranks, Jack.”

“Do you have any idea what this person could want with you or your family? The house, maybe? Trying to scare you out of it?” I asked, eyeing the box of Lucky Strikes on my desk. I’d have another myself if I wasn’t trying to quit.

“Maybe? The house was on sale for a damn good price when we took it. That’s why I thought these letters might have been addressed to the previous owners who had the common sense to run away before any of the threats got serious.”

“And you’ve spoken to them? The previous owners that is.”

“I have,” she sighed. “They left because the husband found work out of town. They don’t care much about the money. They wanted to get rid of the land without a hassle rather than deal with banks and real estate agencies.”

“And this only started when you moved into your new house then?”

“Yes, that’s why I thought it might have been related to the previous owners.”

An obvious question with an obvious answer, but there was no smugness in her response. She didn’t try and belittle or berate me for my foolish inquisition. A simple test of a person’s character, and thus far, she proved to be stronger than most.

“Do you have any idea what the end goal to all of this might be?” I shuffled with the box of Lucky Strikes.

“No, but I can’t imagine it being anything pleasant. You’ve seen the worst of them. You can almost picture the blood-curdling screams from the madman who penned these letters.”

“Blood-curdling? More like a toddler throwing his toys out of the crib, I’d say. Whoever’s doing this can’t be sound of mind, and they obviously think your family is essential for something. I guess I’m going to have to be the man who figures out what.”

“So, you’ll take my case?” she asked, near jumping out of