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The original was posted on /r/nosleep by /u/latebutstillearly1 on 2024-10-20 08:15:57+00:00.
On my twenty-fifth birthday, my dad told me about a unique family tradition passed down all the way from the 17th century.
“Our family has a book that's been passed down many generations,” he began.
“The first entry was written by your twelfth great-grandfather Edward in 1655. When Edward was thirty years old, he hand-wrote a long, detailed book of wisdom and life learnings for his eldest son, your eleventh great-grandfather William, and gave it to him to read at the age of twenty-five. After William finished reading, Edward then instructed William to write his own life learnings in the next pages before he turned thirty, then hand it down to his oldest son when he turned twenty-five with the same instructions. William’s oldest son Harold, your tenth great grandfather, did the same.”
I listened in awe.
“Over time the collective wisdom of the books from each first-born sons of our ancestors were passed down through the generations,” He continued. “When the book was damaged during the Napoleonic war, your sixth great grandfather diligently restored the book to the best of his ability. By the time of the first world war, the pages were so worn that your great-great grandfather recreated it with a typewriter before passing the new copy down. When your grandfather passed it to me, that copy was falling apart, so I copied it into a Google Doc.”
He paused. Comically tech savvy, but efficient, I thought.
“Now that you’ve turned twenty-five, I’ll be sending it to you.”
“Wow, that’s mind blowing!” I exclaimed, “What other family has something like that?”
“Right? No family like us.” He smiled and patted me on the back, as he sent me an email from his laptop. “Read it carefully. It contains the wonderful experiences and wisdom from the youths of our past grandfathers. To carry on the tradition, you’ve got five years to write your own message to pass onto your oldest son, along with the rest of them. Might as well start thinking about it early.”
“Wait, I can’t write stuff in it after I turn thirty?”
“Afraid not,” dad shook his head, “Not sure why, that’s how the tradition goes. Each entry is an account of youth, written between the ages of twenty-five to thirty. We must respect it.”
“Fair enough.”
I opened the email with the link to the Google doc that dad had transcribed, containing thirteen generations of wisdom. The entries were fascinating and emotional. That night, I stayed up until dawn reading.
Edward, my twelfth great-grandfather who started our book, was a wealthy estate owner who lived through the English Civil War. I was impressed by his writing, even though I had to try and decipher some of the old English.
To quote, “I commence this tome to chronicle the youths of mine sons. As long as they draw breath, I shall not meet my end.”
I was sure my future grandsons would be disappointed at my entry after reading a banger like that.
His eldest son William, my eleventh great-grandfather, was similarly a hard-working tradesman. One of his gems of wisdom: "A man’s worth is not measured by his fortune, but by his steadfastness when the world shifts beneath his feet."
His son Harold, a soldier who fought during the War of Spanish Succession, seemed like the total opposite type to his dad and grandad. “My dear son and grandsons, to charm a lady and shoot a pistol are but two arts of precision; both require a steady hand and a heart unflinching. For while bullets may fly true, it is the spark in her eye that captures a man's soul.”
He must’ve gotten all the ladies, I thought. Unfortunately, it seems like I never inherited any of those pickup genes.
Each entry was as captivating as the last. It was as if I could envision the spirited youths of my grandfathers standing in front of me, speaking to me directly. In their stories, I discerned reflections of my own character and glimpses of their shared essence within one another. It was an emotional experience – they were all well written and captured the highest highs and lowest lows of their lives.
Well, all except for one. I was left confused by my fourth great-grandfather’s entry.
All my other grandfathers, my dad included, had written dozens of pages, full of stories, teachings and advice. But my fourth great-grandfather had only written one page. I couldn’t even understand the meaning of his entry.
“He is the whisper that directs you to verity. Is it sagacity or artifice that you discern in his utterances? Not all connections possess the strength they purport, nor the sincerity. Your heart perceives more than your eyes are willing to acknowledge. Father-hood is a role most sacred. When the stars align, fate weaves its intricate design. You are the author of your own unfolding tale, brave and unyielding. Turn your gaze to the horizon, where dreams dance on the edge of dawn. Thirty echoes with the laughter of youth, yet whispers of wisdom draw near. You must delve deeper, beyond the well-known façade. Are you prepared for what lies hidden beneath? Next arrives the instant when your destiny shall reveal.”
Perhaps he was trying to write a poem, I thought. I asked dad, but he had no idea what it meant either. He suggested the war made my fourth grandfather go mad, and perhaps those were his ramblings.
For the next two years, I periodically opened up the Google Doc and read through the entries, while thinking of what I would write in my own. I couldn’t stop thinking about my fourth great-grandfather’s entry. Like my dad, I concluded that it was most likely gibberish. Either he was trying to sound overly artistic, or he had really gone mad during the war. PTSD was no joke. However, my fifth great-grandad’s entry about his son, and my third great-grandfather’s entry about his father, my fourth great-grandfather, were both bothersome to me.
According to the context, my fifth great-grandfather finished his entry at the age of twenty nine, and had my fourth great-grandfather, his first son at the age of nineteen. He describes his oldest son:
“As I observe my ten-year-old son, a quiet lad with a contemplative brow, I am continually astounded by the brilliance that resides within him. Though he speaks little, his mind dances with the complexities of numbers, effortlessly unraveling the most intricate mathematical conundrums that baffle even seasoned minds. His remarkable ability to discern subtleties in behavior and read the hearts of those around him fills me with confidence that he shall one day be a genius of great renown. I cannot help but envision a future where he is celebrated not merely for his intellect, but for the profound understanding he brings to the world—a light among many, illuminating paths previously obscured.”
Basically, he clearly thought his son was exceptionally intelligent as a boy. Having read that description, I couldn’t help but think there was a deeper meaning to my fourth great-grandfather’s book entry, which seemed nonsensical at first glance.
My third great-grandfather describes how as a child, he witnessed his father, my fourth great-grandfather, trying to take his own life several times. A notable quote reads:
“As an eight-year-old, the memory is etched into my mind like a scar that time cannot heal. I recall the day vividly, the sombre atmosphere hanging heavy in the air, as I witnessed my father, a man of strength and resolve, grappling with a darkness I could not comprehend. His actions, born of despair, unfurled before my young eyes like a cruel nightmare, shattering the innocence of my childhood in an instant. In that moment, I felt a chilling blend of fear and confusion, a child's heart struggling to understand how the very anchor of our family could be so lost, leaving an indelible mark on my soul that would forever shape my understanding of sorrow.”
I deciphered from the rest of his entry that my fourth great-grandfather would have been about twenty-six at the time this happened.
After much consideration, I eventually came to the conclusion that the PTSD theory seemed to fit – perhaps he was a highly intelligent man struggling mentally around the time he wrote his entry, so it made little sense. But I could never shake the feeling that my fourth great-grandfather was trying to convey something deeper.
For the past five years, I had taken extensive notes about my most important life experiences and was finally ready to gather them into prose to complete my chapter of the family book. I took a vacation from work to visit my parents at their house, and to complete my entry, something I had now considered was to be one of the most important events of my life.
Dad came downstairs to find me typing away on my MacBook in the morning.
“Hard at work leaving your legacy,” he beamed, as he sat on the couch with his morning coffee.
“They’re gonna love this,” I smiled, eyes fixed on the screen. “It’s gotta be my oldest son I give this to, right?”
“That’s correct.”
“Well, what if I never have a son?” I asked nonchalantly. I wasn’t even married.
“Oh, you will.” He smiled.
I raised an eyebrow.
“Okay... lot of confidence you’ve got in me there.”
I took a break from typing to flick back up through the Google Doc for inspiration and found myself staring at my fourth great-grandfather’s entry again. I stared for a couple of minutes in deep thought, until the words were floating into each other across the screen.
My eyes started scanning the first word of each sentence.
“He Is Not Your Father When ...
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