The Heritage

Sam is interviewing a homeless man for a college project, but the story of the man's heritage is slightly stranger than he could've anticipated.

      Sam gulped the last two sips of coffee in his cup, then turned it upside down looking inside to see if it was worth getting the last couple of sugary liquid drops. It wasn't. He leaned back in his chair and folded his hands over his stomach as he listened to the raggedy man on the other side of the table talk. He wasn't particularly interested in this man, but he had to interview someone he had met on the street about his or her ancestry, for an Anthropology class. He chose this man, Tom, to talk to over some food in a nearby cheap dinner, because Tom was homeless. Sam figured that if he had to pry into someone's history it might as well be someone who would be grateful for the hot food on his plate.

       Tom continued to talk through mouthfuls of ketchup-covered hash browns, occasionally ripping an end off a strip of bacon. Sam was confident that recording this conversation was a good move. Tom had long answers for every question Sam could ask him about his Irish and Scottish heritage.

      When he had finished speaking, Tom drank the last of his soda and began dabbing at the sides of his face with a napkin. He was a middle-aged man with short hair and a surprisingly trim beard speckled with Grey around the edges. Tom leaned back as well and asked, “Anything else you'd like to know Sam?”

       “Just one thing, and then I think were good,” Sam said, scanning the paper he'd left on the table.   “Are there any legends or tall tales from your ancestry that strike you as interesting?”

       “Ahh, that's a good question. I loved all of the stories my parents would tell me, but you know there is one that I find really interesting,” Tom looked off into the distance as if combining the satisfaction of the meal and simultaneously trying to remember a story to tell a child. “This story spans the decades, and I've heard updates that say these things still happen today, this is an active folk-lore. It spans years all the way back to my most ancient ancestors and before.” Once long ago it was established that every ten years two people in the world were being born that were, … different from everyone else.”

       “What do you mean different? Sorry, I just want to have the maximum amount of detail, for the paper,” Sam said, genuinely curious.

       “Well, that's where things begin to get complicated. Say you could do amazing things, things you would have never thought remotely possible. But in order to do these amazing things you had to give up a piece of yourself, or more accurately all of yourself for a period of time. You would live out your life as a god on earth... until the price was demanded to be paid. In order to unlock your full potential, you would have to give up years at the end of your life depending on how much power you would want. The more power you gain, the more years you lose,” as he spoke he appeared to be completely engrossed in the story.

       “What do you mean lose years, like you die before you're supposed to?” Sam asked, putting his thumb and forefinger around his chin, as he often did when trying to think.

       “Not exactly, I believe death is probably what you would wish for in those years. The legends describe every one of these people as being chosen. Chosen by whom varies from culture to culture and time period to time period, it's mostly god's or a god of some sort. All the people chosen were seen to use their abilities only in the benefit of others and they all had strong moral codes, but for those years they gave up, a great evil takes hold of their heart. Some say demons, some say it's evil spirits but no one knows what it really is, just that it's evil and has position of the chosen abilities.

       There was a famous legend of one such man who was forced to use his ability to stop some kind of massive battle that would've left the world in ruin. He used the full extent of his abilities thereby giving up all the life he had left, but he was too noble to allow himself to be taken over.” Tom paused as the waitress handed him a refilled glass of soda, and eagerly drank half of it before continuing, “So he poisoned himself before tapping his potential and thereby saved us from his own future wrath. From then on it was said to be common practice to poison themselves with a specially developed poison that would kill them before they turned.”

       “So what do they use their powers for if they are all generally good people, and they are so powerful, who do they fight?” Sam asked.

       “No one presently, many of them are said to go through their lives without even knowing who they are. Sometimes evil raises it's head but it's quickly stamped out by one of these individuals. Then they take the poison and move on with their lives. There is only one who knows who they are usually, and that's just in case something terrible happens, so that he can recruit the others,” Tom finished, leaned back in his chair and yawned, covering his mouth with a closed fist.

        “Thank you for sharing that, that's probably the most interesting thing that ill be able to write about this semester. Just one more question, which side of you're family did you hear that from, or more accurately what background?” Sam asked, beginning to pack up the supplies he had brought with him.

       “Well, you know that's why I find that story more interesting than most folk-lore I've heard. I heard it from both sides of my family.”

       “Hmm that's pretty cool. Well, I have plenty to write on for my class now,” Sam said motioning for the waitress to bring him the check. Once Sam had paid, him and Tom began making their way through the rows of tables, and out the front door. As soon as they crossed the threshold, Sam took a deep breath of the cool, spring air and sighed. “Well, Tom it was a pleasure meeting you and thank you again for allowing me to interview you,” He said hooking the left strap of his backpack over his shoulder.

      “On the contrary, my dear boy, thank you for the meal and the pleasure is mine,” Tom replied vigorously shaking Sam's hand. Sam began walking in the direction of his dorm when he turned his first corner and noticed that Tom hadn't moved from the front of the diner. The overhead light made him look ominous. Sam supposed he wasn't in much of a rush to get back to his nearby alley.

      Sam looked down at his watch. Was it already eight? Sam wasn't looking forward to the looming possibility of an all-niter. But he went to the diner fairly often, so he knew that it only took ten minutes to walk home. As he passed the white house with pink flamingos on the lawn that meant he was about halfway home, he began chastising himself for doing this interview so last minute. Then he heard it. There was someone walking behind him. He could hear the distinct crunch that sand, rocks, and gravel make under someone's feet.

       Sam always got nervous when people were behind him at night: He had been jumped in the eight grade, and had barely made it out of that situation. The fact that the last couple of times he had heard footsteps, while walking home, if he turned his head no one would be behind him, unsettled him. This time when he turned his head there were two people following him, both wearing black hooded cloaks that covered their faces and cast long shadows in the streetlights.

      Are people wearing cloaks again? Sam wondered to himself. Still this was weird and he didn't want to take any chances, so he increased his walking speed. Just enough to make him feel better but not enough that he thought anyone would notice. Suddenly, he felt a hand grab his left shoulder and he began to turn around when something grabbed his throat and pushed him into the fence he had been walking by. It was so fast he couldn’t even process what had happened. Sam tried to speak and began to ask, “Wha-”

      His windpipe was being squeezed. He couldn't say anymore. He mentally gathered himself long enough to realize one of the cloaked men was lifting him off the ground with one black gloved hand around Sam's neck. The man noticed Sam's gaze and seemed to stick his Jaw out in his direction. Sam tried to look into the hood of the cloak. There was a barely visible gray light coming from under the hood. Teeth. Sharp ones. Now Sam was running out of air and terrified. He began to bang on the arm of the figure holding him, but to no avail.

      Just before Sam lost consciousness, something changed. The pressure on his neck was released. There was too much noise and sound happening too quickly for him to follow. The two cloaked figures were both flat on their backs, pavement cracked underneath their bodies. Standing rigid looking down at them was Tom, a ferocity in his eyes that Sam didn't recognize. Sam coughed and tried to talk, “What the hell is going--”

       “Later,” Tom said, with a commanding air.

        “But, how the hell did you just--” Sam began again.

Without looking up, Tom interrupted, “By giving ten years of my life to something evil a long time ago,” he said pulling up his left sleeve revealing a tally mark tattoo. The first line was glowing strangely. Now, Tom looked Sam in the eye and said, “I'm sorry to say, you may have to as well.”

Author's Note

A story i wrote a while ago, still an early draft. Not my favorite story, but it adds diversity to my work on this site. As always, any opinions welcome.

Reviews

[Marie]

Not too bad. But not as good as you are capable of. Again, I have to leave before I can read any further. But I will later.

[NoblePariah]

This was actually an old story that I just found on my computer and spontaneously decided to post. It's certainly not my favorite piece, but I took a few elements of it for some of my other work and figured it was worth adding. Once again, thank you for the review and for continuing to read my work.

[Marie]

Your ideas are very good, vey imaginative. You need to work on their framing.

[NoblePariah]

Thank you, I'm currently attending courses which should help on that front.