I once visited the Fiereford’s château in Ireland. It is a baroque masterpiece, surrounded by sumptuous gardens. Still, there is something sinister lingering about the grounds, negative waves and energy. Lord Fiereford himself was rather burly, and, to be frank, neither welcoming nor pleasant.
Generations earlier, during the 18th century, his ancestor had come face to face with a beggar, a bohemian. She asked him for alms and charity. The Lord threw her violently out of his gardens. The beggar cursed the Lord, the effects of which were soon made clear.
Ever since, each Lord Fiereford has died before his eldest son reached the age of 21, the legal age of adulthood. Consequently, for more than ten generations, the line of succession has zigzagged from youngest son to the youngest son, or from cousin to cousin.
The Lord Fiereford who received us had decided to escape this curse. Upon the birth of his son, he simply threw the child from the house and refused to have his name spoken. It was a neighbor who, rightfully horrified, took in the boy and raised him as his own. Lord Fiereford didn’t want him spoken of either.
So, the boy grew up. On the day of his 21st birthday, the man who had taken him in, his surrogate father, went for a drive. A terrible wind blew through the countryside, causing significant damage. A tree was uprooted and crashed down upon the car the man was driving, killing him instantly. The curse was of such power that it had been carried out against the man who had assumed the role of father. As for the true, biological father, who was never much of a father at all, he is still living.