Sizniche
This profile is no longer in use
December 17th, 1682.
The damned boy is at it again.
He tells me that my memory is starting to go, that I’m beginning to go senile, that my mind is fading and I’m not thinking rationally anymore. Bah, who the hell does he think he is to tell me? I’m still in my prime, I’m still as sharp as I was 60 years ago when I came to this town. Hell, maybe sharper; I’ve learned quite a lot from these lands.
Damn the boy; I love him, I really do, but he just loves to push me. Preston, the only son of my only daughter, who died giving birth to him, lives with me on this farm here in Plymouth. He keeps telling me that I’ve started overlooking details that I once hadn’t, forgetting things that should have been simple to remember. Tonight at dinner, he accused me of no longer being fit to run the farm. The nerve of him, and only a week from Christmas! Still, he keeps insisting that my memory is going and I should start taking notes. “You learned how to write while most of this town can’t read, why not use it?” He told me. While I think he’s wrong, I’ve decided to do this just to put him at ease. I just wish the ink would stop drying up in the cold.
December 18th, 1682.
That boy has a lot of nerve to call me senile when he seems to barely be able to think straight himself. Preston rattled me awake in the night, insisting he saw a man walk by his window. I tried to tell him it was probably just a bear or some animal of the like, and it would walk away soon enough if unprovoked. He kept insisting, though, that it was a human figure.
I rose from my bed and slipped on my boots. I knew he was wrong. Our nearest neighbor is a two mile walk. Besides that, our nearest neighbor is the doctor. What reason does a doctor have to walk out our way in the middle of the night? However, like seemingly everything I do these days, I decided to investigate just to put him at ease.
Opening the door to our small house, I stepped out into the shin-deep snow. It was as cold as any other winter, so I wasn’t particularly startled by it, but it wasn’t exactly a pleasant sensation. I walked around to the face of the house with the window through which he would have been looking. Looking in the opposite direction of the house, I walked until I found some sort of discernible tracks in the snow, and, wouldn’t you know it, I was right; the tracks were big, round bear paw prints.
I came back into the house, telling him again that it was a bear. Preston didn’t believe me. He said my judgement couldn’t be trusted. Will this boy ever be satisfied? But, he’s the only family I have left; I hate to see him worry. So, I opened up my old trunk from when I first sailed to this town and pulled out my musket and ammo.
It isn’t the prettiest weapon in the world, but no man could say it wasn’t mine. The “musket”, using that term loosely, was handmade by yours truly. Every inch of the stock, every dent in the barrel, all the firing mechanisms were all made by me. It is the only one of its kind in the town. The ammunition, too, was handmade by me; while the rest of the town keeps insisting that I should start buying casted bullets, I still like to forge my own rounds; it’s strangely calming. I’m the only one in this town that still does.
I loaded that musket tonight after spending the day working the fields, just to put Preston at ease; even though he doesn’t trust me as much as he used to, even he knows full well that whenever that musket is loaded, this house is as safe as any English fort. I hope that boy doesn’t try to rouse my sleep again; it’s hard enough working the fields as is in my old age, but working the fields on only a couple of hours of sleep is a task of biblical porportions.
December 19th, 1682.
I swear, Preston is trying to trick me. He unfurls my bales, saying I forgot to bale them in the first place, he opens doors and windows randomly, saying I did it, and he had the nerve to even move my musket and say he never touched it. He thinks he’s clever, trying to make me think my memory is fading, but he forgets I pulled tricks just like he is doing before his mother was even born.
He gets more aggressive about it every day, saying I’m not “sound of mind”. He’s trying so desperately to convince me, it makes me wonder if he’s trying to take the land out from under me! Still, I love the boy, and it hurts to have him try and deceive me like this. I’ll have to talk with him about it later.
December 20th, 1682.
I now understand why Preston roused my sleep two nights ago, for tonight, I saw the figure two. It certainly was human, but I noticed something peculiar about his movement; he seemed to pull his feet up completely from the snow, taking incredibly precise steps as he went. Like the previous incident, I inspected in the direction of the figure, and found the same bear tracks. However, on closer inspection I noticed something I had missed before; a faint print within a print, in the packed snow the barely identifiable shape of a human boot.
Well, at least Preston was right about something for once. I loaded my musket tonight, just to be safe.
Other than that, nothing else particularly eventful happened today. Of course, I went to Sunday mass, and listened to the local gossip; apparently some poor girl went missing yesterday, and the family was looking everywhere for her. They even came to ask me if I had seen her. Of course, I hadn’t, so I politely told them such and returned to my home to spend the Sabbath catching up on some much needed sleep.
December 21st, 1682.
Today, I spent the entire day working the farm as usual. Nothing unusual happened, until I noticed two figures on the edge of my farm. My eyesight isn’t what it used to be, so I had to walk towards them to see who exactly it was. As it turns out, it was Preston and the town doctor watching me.
I asked the doctor why he swung out our way; the doctor is an old friend of mine, having been here almost as long as I have, but he rarely ever finds time to come by my farm anymore. Apparently, his days are filled with appointments and medical supply runs anymore, and he doesn’t have time for anything but medical calls. He knows full well that I know this, yet he claims he dropped by for “just a visit”. Just a visit, my ass; if Preston has anything to do with the doctor dropping by, I’ll tan that boy’s hide.
December 22nd, 1682.
The incident with the figure is getting worse. I didn’t see him this night, but I’ll be damned if I didn’t hear him. It was clear as day; I could hear him scratching at one my windows, probably trying desperately to open it up without waking me. He can try all he likes; none of the windows in my house are openable.
Still, there’s the very real possibility he might try and break through the window, or, God forbid, straight through my door. I loaded my musket tonight, just to be safe.
December 23rd, 1682.
Today, I woke to the sight of Preston and the doctor over my bed. Damn that boy, I knew he was up to something. The doctor said that he was here to help, and that he just needed to make sure I was in good mental condition before I was trusted to keep working the farm. I ought to have throttled that damned doctor; I’m only seventy-two, I’m not senile! Still, he refused to let me leave my bed until his check up was over, so I found myself with no choice but to comply.
The doctor started by asking me a few questions about recent events. I will admit, I did struggle recalling a few things, but any details I forgot were mundane; things no reasonable person could be expected to remember at the drop of the hat. After the questioning was over, however, he then started asking Preston about what I’ve been doing the past few weeks. This is when I finally knew for sure that the boy was trying to take the farm from me; he outright lied to the doctor! He said some nights I wasn’t even home, I was saying that I saw things that weren’t there, and he even had the gall to claim I was becoming more aggressive. The devious little bastard clearly wanted me to be detained so he could have the farm.
The doctor said he’d have to take a few days to think over what he’d just heard so he could give an accurate diagnosis. As soon as the doctor left, I told the little traitor that he better find somewhere else to stay; a friend, and neighbor, a tree, anywhere but my house. I don’t care if he’s family, no one tries to take my farm out from under me.
December 24th, 1682.
Tonight was alarmingly quiet. Preston never returned, Despite it being Christmas Eve; he must be upset over the whole incident. Still, the figure not showing tonight was a good sign... hopefully.
I loaded my musket tonight anyway, just in case. He might be trying to catch me off guard before he strikes.
December 25th, 1682.
Today, I got a break from my mundane working life to celebrate Christmas; I attended holiday mass, as any good Christian would on a holiday such as this. However, as I walked into the church, I was met with glares from every pew. I was uncomfortable, but I found my seat and participated in mass anyway for the sake of the lord. Preston missed it, of course; he’s been a bit rebellious lately.
I asked the doctor why the entire church glared at me. Apparently, the corpse of the missing girl was found with a gunshot would in her back. When they managed to dig the bullet out of her spine, the found that it was a hand-forged round. I told the doctor that that was absurd; everyone knows I would do nothing of the sort, and anyone could have made a hand-forged bullet to frame me. The doctor said that he knew that, and he was trying to tell everyone that, but he said that people couldn’t help but be suspicious. He told me that he would try and deal with it, but he made no promises. I decided it was best to go home and rest for the day.
December 26th, 1682.
The doctor came to my door again, said he finished determining the results of my medical check up. Apparently, I have senile dementia. I’m ashamed to say that I lost control of myself for a moment. I shouted, nay, screamed at the doctor, asking how he could do this to me; we are friends, how could he betray me like this? The doctor insisted he was just doing his job. “The entire town is worried about you, Bill; we’ve been hearing gunfire near your house, we’ve been finding bullets like the ones you make in corpses... the town is scared, Bill.”
“How could you sell me out, doc? I’ve known you for decades! How much did that little brat pay you to diagnose me?”
“...Do you mean Preston? How could you say that about him?”
“The little bastard has been trying to take the farm out from under me! You should know, you’re conspiring with him! Hell, I wouldn’t be surprised if he was staying with you!”
“Preston is dead, Bill!”
The words took me by surprise. I wanted to ask something, anything: what, why, how, any question just to know something. But I couldn’t form the words.
The doctor explained it to me; they found him, along with a few other corpses, with the same bullets in them that they found in the girl. He tells me he’s worried about me, and he asks me if I’m sure I didn’t do anything. Of course I’m sure; that musket hasn’t been fired all week!
For me, that was the final straw; I forced the doctor out of my house and slammed the door. What kind of insensitive bastard accuses someone of murder, and kinslaying, no less! Still, if someone else was using forged rounds, it meant there had to be a murderer on the loose in town, and I had to make sure they didn’t come after me. I loaded my musket tonight, just to be safe.
The damned boy is at it again.
He tells me that my memory is starting to go, that I’m beginning to go senile, that my mind is fading and I’m not thinking rationally anymore. Bah, who the hell does he think he is to tell me? I’m still in my prime, I’m still as sharp as I was 60 years ago when I came to this town. Hell, maybe sharper; I’ve learned quite a lot from these lands.
Damn the boy; I love him, I really do, but he just loves to push me. Preston, the only son of my only daughter, who died giving birth to him, lives with me on this farm here in Plymouth. He keeps telling me that I’ve started overlooking details that I once hadn’t, forgetting things that should have been simple to remember. Tonight at dinner, he accused me of no longer being fit to run the farm. The nerve of him, and only a week from Christmas! Still, he keeps insisting that my memory is going and I should start taking notes. “You learned how to write while most of this town can’t read, why not use it?” He told me. While I think he’s wrong, I’ve decided to do this just to put him at ease. I just wish the ink would stop drying up in the cold.
December 18th, 1682.
That boy has a lot of nerve to call me senile when he seems to barely be able to think straight himself. Preston rattled me awake in the night, insisting he saw a man walk by his window. I tried to tell him it was probably just a bear or some animal of the like, and it would walk away soon enough if unprovoked. He kept insisting, though, that it was a human figure.
I rose from my bed and slipped on my boots. I knew he was wrong. Our nearest neighbor is a two mile walk. Besides that, our nearest neighbor is the doctor. What reason does a doctor have to walk out our way in the middle of the night? However, like seemingly everything I do these days, I decided to investigate just to put him at ease.
Opening the door to our small house, I stepped out into the shin-deep snow. It was as cold as any other winter, so I wasn’t particularly startled by it, but it wasn’t exactly a pleasant sensation. I walked around to the face of the house with the window through which he would have been looking. Looking in the opposite direction of the house, I walked until I found some sort of discernible tracks in the snow, and, wouldn’t you know it, I was right; the tracks were big, round bear paw prints.
I came back into the house, telling him again that it was a bear. Preston didn’t believe me. He said my judgement couldn’t be trusted. Will this boy ever be satisfied? But, he’s the only family I have left; I hate to see him worry. So, I opened up my old trunk from when I first sailed to this town and pulled out my musket and ammo.
It isn’t the prettiest weapon in the world, but no man could say it wasn’t mine. The “musket”, using that term loosely, was handmade by yours truly. Every inch of the stock, every dent in the barrel, all the firing mechanisms were all made by me. It is the only one of its kind in the town. The ammunition, too, was handmade by me; while the rest of the town keeps insisting that I should start buying casted bullets, I still like to forge my own rounds; it’s strangely calming. I’m the only one in this town that still does.
I loaded that musket tonight after spending the day working the fields, just to put Preston at ease; even though he doesn’t trust me as much as he used to, even he knows full well that whenever that musket is loaded, this house is as safe as any English fort. I hope that boy doesn’t try to rouse my sleep again; it’s hard enough working the fields as is in my old age, but working the fields on only a couple of hours of sleep is a task of biblical porportions.
December 19th, 1682.
I swear, Preston is trying to trick me. He unfurls my bales, saying I forgot to bale them in the first place, he opens doors and windows randomly, saying I did it, and he had the nerve to even move my musket and say he never touched it. He thinks he’s clever, trying to make me think my memory is fading, but he forgets I pulled tricks just like he is doing before his mother was even born.
He gets more aggressive about it every day, saying I’m not “sound of mind”. He’s trying so desperately to convince me, it makes me wonder if he’s trying to take the land out from under me! Still, I love the boy, and it hurts to have him try and deceive me like this. I’ll have to talk with him about it later.
December 20th, 1682.
I now understand why Preston roused my sleep two nights ago, for tonight, I saw the figure two. It certainly was human, but I noticed something peculiar about his movement; he seemed to pull his feet up completely from the snow, taking incredibly precise steps as he went. Like the previous incident, I inspected in the direction of the figure, and found the same bear tracks. However, on closer inspection I noticed something I had missed before; a faint print within a print, in the packed snow the barely identifiable shape of a human boot.
Well, at least Preston was right about something for once. I loaded my musket tonight, just to be safe.
Other than that, nothing else particularly eventful happened today. Of course, I went to Sunday mass, and listened to the local gossip; apparently some poor girl went missing yesterday, and the family was looking everywhere for her. They even came to ask me if I had seen her. Of course, I hadn’t, so I politely told them such and returned to my home to spend the Sabbath catching up on some much needed sleep.
December 21st, 1682.
Today, I spent the entire day working the farm as usual. Nothing unusual happened, until I noticed two figures on the edge of my farm. My eyesight isn’t what it used to be, so I had to walk towards them to see who exactly it was. As it turns out, it was Preston and the town doctor watching me.
I asked the doctor why he swung out our way; the doctor is an old friend of mine, having been here almost as long as I have, but he rarely ever finds time to come by my farm anymore. Apparently, his days are filled with appointments and medical supply runs anymore, and he doesn’t have time for anything but medical calls. He knows full well that I know this, yet he claims he dropped by for “just a visit”. Just a visit, my ass; if Preston has anything to do with the doctor dropping by, I’ll tan that boy’s hide.
December 22nd, 1682.
The incident with the figure is getting worse. I didn’t see him this night, but I’ll be damned if I didn’t hear him. It was clear as day; I could hear him scratching at one my windows, probably trying desperately to open it up without waking me. He can try all he likes; none of the windows in my house are openable.
Still, there’s the very real possibility he might try and break through the window, or, God forbid, straight through my door. I loaded my musket tonight, just to be safe.
December 23rd, 1682.
Today, I woke to the sight of Preston and the doctor over my bed. Damn that boy, I knew he was up to something. The doctor said that he was here to help, and that he just needed to make sure I was in good mental condition before I was trusted to keep working the farm. I ought to have throttled that damned doctor; I’m only seventy-two, I’m not senile! Still, he refused to let me leave my bed until his check up was over, so I found myself with no choice but to comply.
The doctor started by asking me a few questions about recent events. I will admit, I did struggle recalling a few things, but any details I forgot were mundane; things no reasonable person could be expected to remember at the drop of the hat. After the questioning was over, however, he then started asking Preston about what I’ve been doing the past few weeks. This is when I finally knew for sure that the boy was trying to take the farm from me; he outright lied to the doctor! He said some nights I wasn’t even home, I was saying that I saw things that weren’t there, and he even had the gall to claim I was becoming more aggressive. The devious little bastard clearly wanted me to be detained so he could have the farm.
The doctor said he’d have to take a few days to think over what he’d just heard so he could give an accurate diagnosis. As soon as the doctor left, I told the little traitor that he better find somewhere else to stay; a friend, and neighbor, a tree, anywhere but my house. I don’t care if he’s family, no one tries to take my farm out from under me.
December 24th, 1682.
Tonight was alarmingly quiet. Preston never returned, Despite it being Christmas Eve; he must be upset over the whole incident. Still, the figure not showing tonight was a good sign... hopefully.
I loaded my musket tonight anyway, just in case. He might be trying to catch me off guard before he strikes.
December 25th, 1682.
Today, I got a break from my mundane working life to celebrate Christmas; I attended holiday mass, as any good Christian would on a holiday such as this. However, as I walked into the church, I was met with glares from every pew. I was uncomfortable, but I found my seat and participated in mass anyway for the sake of the lord. Preston missed it, of course; he’s been a bit rebellious lately.
I asked the doctor why the entire church glared at me. Apparently, the corpse of the missing girl was found with a gunshot would in her back. When they managed to dig the bullet out of her spine, the found that it was a hand-forged round. I told the doctor that that was absurd; everyone knows I would do nothing of the sort, and anyone could have made a hand-forged bullet to frame me. The doctor said that he knew that, and he was trying to tell everyone that, but he said that people couldn’t help but be suspicious. He told me that he would try and deal with it, but he made no promises. I decided it was best to go home and rest for the day.
December 26th, 1682.
The doctor came to my door again, said he finished determining the results of my medical check up. Apparently, I have senile dementia. I’m ashamed to say that I lost control of myself for a moment. I shouted, nay, screamed at the doctor, asking how he could do this to me; we are friends, how could he betray me like this? The doctor insisted he was just doing his job. “The entire town is worried about you, Bill; we’ve been hearing gunfire near your house, we’ve been finding bullets like the ones you make in corpses... the town is scared, Bill.”
“How could you sell me out, doc? I’ve known you for decades! How much did that little brat pay you to diagnose me?”
“...Do you mean Preston? How could you say that about him?”
“The little bastard has been trying to take the farm out from under me! You should know, you’re conspiring with him! Hell, I wouldn’t be surprised if he was staying with you!”
“Preston is dead, Bill!”
The words took me by surprise. I wanted to ask something, anything: what, why, how, any question just to know something. But I couldn’t form the words.
The doctor explained it to me; they found him, along with a few other corpses, with the same bullets in them that they found in the girl. He tells me he’s worried about me, and he asks me if I’m sure I didn’t do anything. Of course I’m sure; that musket hasn’t been fired all week!
For me, that was the final straw; I forced the doctor out of my house and slammed the door. What kind of insensitive bastard accuses someone of murder, and kinslaying, no less! Still, if someone else was using forged rounds, it meant there had to be a murderer on the loose in town, and I had to make sure they didn’t come after me. I loaded my musket tonight, just to be safe.
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