Total pages in book: 88
Estimated words: 83281 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 416(@200wpm)___ 333(@250wpm)___ 278(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 83281 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 416(@200wpm)___ 333(@250wpm)___ 278(@300wpm)
My earliest recollections begin in elementary school—my first-grade teacher asking each of us to introduce ourselves to the class and say our names. That was the first time my words got stuck—I literally couldn’t get my name out.
The teacher got angry with me and sent me to the principal’s office where I cried miserably—and silently—as I waited to get punished. I got a lecture about obeying the teacher and not being rude to my classmates—as though I had chosen to be unable to speak in front of a crowd of strangers like that!
Oh yes—that I remembered. But the grey-haired woman humming in the kitchen hadn’t existed in my mind or my memory until the little man had said her name.
My Mom had never mentioned her mother either. She talked about my father and how much she missed him—he had died not long after I was born. But we didn’t have any other relatives that I knew of—at least, she had never mentioned any to me.
I wondered now why she hadn’t said anything about my Grandmother. It would have been nice to know I had someone, somewhere after Mom had died. Maybe they had a falling out? I didn’t know and it seemed the only way to find anything out was to open the envelope.
But still, I hesitated. The thick, creamy paper seemed to make my fingertips tingle. Was that some kind of static electricity thing? I didn’t know but I did know that handling the envelope gave me a strange feeling—a feeling of inevitability. I somehow knew that once I opened it, events would be set in motion and there would be no going back…
The next minute, I snapped out of it.
“What are you thinking?” I muttered to myself. “You’re being silly—just open it! Who knows, maybe she left you a million dollars or something amazing like that!”
Sebastian mewed his rusty “Mmmrow,” as if in agreement and I smiled down at him.
“You’re right, Sebastian—whatever’s inside the envelope might be the answer to all our problems.”
Or it might be a whole new set of problems entirely. But I chose not to think about that. Without further ado, I ripped it open.
The paper inside was just as thick and creamy as the envelope and the initials EJP were embossed on the top right corner. Very elegant. There was only a single sheet of paper inside and it was short and to the point.
“I, Elvira Jocelyn Pruitt, being of sound mind and body do bequeath my house, Morris, to my granddaughter, Sarah Jocelyn Massey with the sole condition that she shall live in said house, (Morris) and not try to sell him or tear him down or change him in any way. He must be kept intact and passed on to the next generation of our bloodline. If he is treated well, he will take care of his owner, which will be my granddaughter, if she agrees to these terms.”
It was signed with the same spidery handwriting,
Elvira Jocelyn Pruitt
I stared at the will for a long time, reading and re-reading it—also noting that my Grandmother and I shared the same middle name. Had I been named after her? But that definitely wasn’t the strangest thing about the document in my hand.
“This is so weird,” I said aloud to Sebastian. She named her house.”
And apparently the house—Morris—was now mine, if I agreed to abide by her rules.
Well, who was I to say no to a free house? The market being what it was, I could work my ass off for years and never get enough for a down-payment on a house of my own—which was one reason selling Mom’s house to pay her medical bills had hurt so much. I grew up in that house and it had been completely paid off—it was hard to see it go.
Well maybe you grew up in this one too—at least a little, whispered a voice in my head. The snapshot memory of the grey-haired lady making brownies in the sunny, old-fashioned kitchen jumped into my mind again. I wondered if that kitchen was in Morris, my grandma’s house? And now my house, it turned out.
But where was it, exactly? I flipped the paper over and didn’t see any kind of directions on how to get to my late Grandmother’s place. Then I looked at the envelope again and frowned. The address simply read,
#1 Crooked Lane,
Hidden Hollow, MA.
Well, that wasn’t much to go on—there wasn’t even a zip code—but I supposed I could Google it.
But when I typed the address into my phone, nothing popped up. I couldn’t find a single town or county named Hidden Hollow anywhere in Massachusetts or anywhere in the US for that matter.
My heart sank. What good did it do me to have inherited a free house if I couldn’t find out where it was? I wished I could have made myself talk, so I could have asked the little delivery guy some questions. He’d said something about “seeing me around the Hollow” so presumably he knew where it was.