Welcome to the private island home of Curtis Smith, billionaire owner of the worldwide Smith's Inns hotel chain. Here you will experience the story of Jack Smith, the nephew of Mr. Curtis Smith, disowned by his family for a particularly rebellious streak coupled with a desire to make it on his own instead of rely on his family. During this saga Jack returns to his Uncle's island home for the first time in five years since first exile, yet there are ulterior motives to this meeting. A group of eight individuals are stranded on the island due to a storm... but how many will be alive by the time the waters calm?
Oct. 25th Part 1: Arrival
Spoiler:
Back and forth, back and forth. That was all I could think as the small speedboat carried me far out to sea, to Uncle Curt’s island home. I never liked boats; always felt that they’re like to tip over at any moment. And my company didn’t help any, either. Driving the boat was a small old woman, her long white hair flying behind her as we increased in speed.
Looking at the old woman only brought up bad memories. Smith memories. I hadn’t considered myself a true Smith in over three years, and for good reason. Getting disowned by your entire family will do that to you.
It started when I was eighteen, just four years ago. I got good enough grades, and was expected to go to a very nice school. I could be considered a legacy in a dozen schools, because the Smith bloodline is so large, not to forget powerful. The power was all owned by my uncle, Curtis Smith, see. He, as the oldest child of Gary and Martha Smith, inherited billions in a fortune that came from the Smith’s Inns, hundreds of hotels found all over the world. Curtis also became the CEO, supervising the hotels, and managed to double the Smith fortune with wise investments and management, yes for all his good business sense the man is the cruelest creature to ever crawl into our world.
My name’s Jack, by the way. Jack Smith if you asked, just Jack if you didn’t. Continuing with the story, we were at me deciding which college to go to. Well, that’s the thing… I chose not to go to college, a decision no Smith would even consider making, because of the risk of upsetting old Curtis. I know it sounds bad, but I had my eyes set on fame, glory, and making my own fortune. That’s right: I went to Los Angeles to become a big shot Hollywood star. Curtis Smith was not pleased. The threat of revoking the steady flow of Smith cash was enough to get my parents to disown me. It was that easy, really. After it was made official, my mom came to me and said it was just on paper, that we could still talk. I told her that we had nothing to talk about, and I’ve been alone in LA ever since. How’s the dream going, you may ask? Eh… I’d rather you not. But there’s no turning back now.
In truth, the woman driving the boat right now was the first actual Smith I’ve talked to in years. Sylvia, the bitter little wife of Curtis Smith. Actually, a better term would be ex-wife, after old Curt was caught [&@%!] the gardener’s daughter. No, wait: that was the sweetest part. Sylvia is the widow of Curtis Smith. The old man died not last week, after tripping down the stairs at his private island mansion and breaking his slimy neck. The same mansion I was heading off to right now.
For whatever reason, I was called for one of the first to be present when he details what he left to whom, on a video recording. I never saw it coming, to say the least. Last I heard, Curtis Smith hates me. Now I’m here before my parents, or my other uncle and aunt, or anyone else. Me, and Aunty Sylvia, who always didn’t like me, but since four years ago hated me along with Uncle Smith.
The boat began to slow down as we approached the Smith private island: a pretty thing, really. It was a large white Victorian styled mansion with a small park-like yard with perfectly trimmed bushes and shrubs, apple trees and bird baths. Pretty, yes, but small. “Any idea why we’re here,” I ask Sylvia, once the boat slows enough so we could hear each other.
“I know why I’m here, I was Curtis’s wife for over forty years.” The small, heavily wrinkled woman muttered. Her large, emerald green eyes appraised me carefully. “You’re just a brat who doesn’t know what’s good for you,” She finished her thought.
”No, actually, I know better than anyone what’s good for me. I knew to do what I want with my life, not what your slime ball cheater of a husband tells me to do,” I snap. Sylvia was waiting for me at the coast, with the boat and a scowl on her face. It was obvious she didn’t want to pick me up, but Sylvia was ever-dutiful. She did what she was told, which is why she put up with Curtis for so long… until the gardener’s girl proved the tipping point.
“You’re young. You should know to listen to your elders,” Sylvia retorted. I just scoffed as my response. I wasn’t willing to go through my life obeying my uncle, or anyone else for that matter. I was and remain my own man… wherever that leads me.
The boat stopped at a small dock, where I helped Sylvia tie up the boat. “Help me out,” She commanded. I jumped out of the boat and took Sylvia’s hand. The little woman tentatively stepped out of the boat and straightened her coat. We were all told to wear black to the hearing of the will, and we both followed those instructions. Sylvia wore a long black dress with sleeves that almost covered her hands, and a small black fur coat. The colors were contrasted by her pale, wrinkled skin and straight white hair falling almost to her waist. It didn’t have that old lady scraggly look to it, I’ll give her that.
I wasn’t wearing anything special. I don’t own a suit, so I just wore black jeans and a black polo shirt with thin, blackish purple stripes. Along with that, a brown belt and black shoes accompanied me to the hearing.
I looked up. The clouds were moving through the sky rapidly, and indeed, the wind was blowing in my face, hard. I patted down my thick and curly black hair that some called a deflated afro, reaching above my ears. “Ready to see what we got?” I asked lightly. Sylvia scowled and proceeded to the stairs that lead up the rocky cliff to the island above the water. I followed her wordlessly… wasn’t much else I could do.
In all fairness, I couldn’t blame Sylvia for being mad right now. She has been married for almost fifty years, but only two months ago did Curtis Smith get caught in bed with his gardener’s twenty-something daughter. She left him faster than anyone predicted, leaving the old man alone during his last few weeks on Earth. But then again, she should have known. Curtis Smith was a horrible man, and she was just as bad for standing by with the rest of them and letting him bully everyone into disowning me.
Once we reached the top of the stairs, I could see a small group of people gathered in the park, the trees swaying in the wind around them. Sylvia offered me her arm, and I knew better than to refuse it, so we walked together to the rest of those gathered by Curtis Smith.
Once we got closer, I saw six others in the grass. I recognized some immediately from the vague descriptions given to me in the invitation. The balding man who looked to be little over five feet and had the pencil thin mustache was Hank Marston, Curtis’s lawyer who was the first to tell me my Uncle had died. I recognized two Smith workers: the sixty year old, square faced and white haired man in the black suit was Garth Kendall, Curtis’s butler. Then the younger, chubby black woman in the dark pantsuit I guessed to be Virginia Brown, the maid. The obese man in the black shirt and tweed jacket with the white collar was surely Father Anthony Raymond. God, the man looked so Italian he belongs in the mob. One man missing from the group was the gardener, an elderly Hispanic man. There was, however, a younger Hispanic woman who was at least a solid C-cup, and wore a short black dress. Finally, there was the youth of eighteen, pale and skinny, with neatly combed brown hair and useless legs sitting in a wheelchair. That was Marshall Smith, my cousin… Curtis Smith hated him even more than me.
As Sylvia and I arrived in the group, the little Hank Marston broke out in a gap-toothed smile and spread his hands out wide. “You're all here!” He exclaimed in a high-pitched voice. Marston was set apart from everyone else because he wore a grey suit with a green tie. “Welcome to the Smith Island.”
Marston was met only by silence and vacant stares. I looked around the group Curtis assembled. I knew for a fact that I didn't like Curtis, nor did Sylvia nor Marshall, and we Smiths have all heard the stories of Father Raymond, and Curtis’s son Jake’s 'interactions' with him. I didn't know about the Maid or the Butler, and the woman was a stranger to me. The question was nagging at the back of my head. Why us? Why invite us here?
I guess I could only find out.
Looking at the old woman only brought up bad memories. Smith memories. I hadn’t considered myself a true Smith in over three years, and for good reason. Getting disowned by your entire family will do that to you.
It started when I was eighteen, just four years ago. I got good enough grades, and was expected to go to a very nice school. I could be considered a legacy in a dozen schools, because the Smith bloodline is so large, not to forget powerful. The power was all owned by my uncle, Curtis Smith, see. He, as the oldest child of Gary and Martha Smith, inherited billions in a fortune that came from the Smith’s Inns, hundreds of hotels found all over the world. Curtis also became the CEO, supervising the hotels, and managed to double the Smith fortune with wise investments and management, yes for all his good business sense the man is the cruelest creature to ever crawl into our world.
My name’s Jack, by the way. Jack Smith if you asked, just Jack if you didn’t. Continuing with the story, we were at me deciding which college to go to. Well, that’s the thing… I chose not to go to college, a decision no Smith would even consider making, because of the risk of upsetting old Curtis. I know it sounds bad, but I had my eyes set on fame, glory, and making my own fortune. That’s right: I went to Los Angeles to become a big shot Hollywood star. Curtis Smith was not pleased. The threat of revoking the steady flow of Smith cash was enough to get my parents to disown me. It was that easy, really. After it was made official, my mom came to me and said it was just on paper, that we could still talk. I told her that we had nothing to talk about, and I’ve been alone in LA ever since. How’s the dream going, you may ask? Eh… I’d rather you not. But there’s no turning back now.
In truth, the woman driving the boat right now was the first actual Smith I’ve talked to in years. Sylvia, the bitter little wife of Curtis Smith. Actually, a better term would be ex-wife, after old Curt was caught [&@%!] the gardener’s daughter. No, wait: that was the sweetest part. Sylvia is the widow of Curtis Smith. The old man died not last week, after tripping down the stairs at his private island mansion and breaking his slimy neck. The same mansion I was heading off to right now.
For whatever reason, I was called for one of the first to be present when he details what he left to whom, on a video recording. I never saw it coming, to say the least. Last I heard, Curtis Smith hates me. Now I’m here before my parents, or my other uncle and aunt, or anyone else. Me, and Aunty Sylvia, who always didn’t like me, but since four years ago hated me along with Uncle Smith.
The boat began to slow down as we approached the Smith private island: a pretty thing, really. It was a large white Victorian styled mansion with a small park-like yard with perfectly trimmed bushes and shrubs, apple trees and bird baths. Pretty, yes, but small. “Any idea why we’re here,” I ask Sylvia, once the boat slows enough so we could hear each other.
“I know why I’m here, I was Curtis’s wife for over forty years.” The small, heavily wrinkled woman muttered. Her large, emerald green eyes appraised me carefully. “You’re just a brat who doesn’t know what’s good for you,” She finished her thought.
”No, actually, I know better than anyone what’s good for me. I knew to do what I want with my life, not what your slime ball cheater of a husband tells me to do,” I snap. Sylvia was waiting for me at the coast, with the boat and a scowl on her face. It was obvious she didn’t want to pick me up, but Sylvia was ever-dutiful. She did what she was told, which is why she put up with Curtis for so long… until the gardener’s girl proved the tipping point.
“You’re young. You should know to listen to your elders,” Sylvia retorted. I just scoffed as my response. I wasn’t willing to go through my life obeying my uncle, or anyone else for that matter. I was and remain my own man… wherever that leads me.
The boat stopped at a small dock, where I helped Sylvia tie up the boat. “Help me out,” She commanded. I jumped out of the boat and took Sylvia’s hand. The little woman tentatively stepped out of the boat and straightened her coat. We were all told to wear black to the hearing of the will, and we both followed those instructions. Sylvia wore a long black dress with sleeves that almost covered her hands, and a small black fur coat. The colors were contrasted by her pale, wrinkled skin and straight white hair falling almost to her waist. It didn’t have that old lady scraggly look to it, I’ll give her that.
I wasn’t wearing anything special. I don’t own a suit, so I just wore black jeans and a black polo shirt with thin, blackish purple stripes. Along with that, a brown belt and black shoes accompanied me to the hearing.
I looked up. The clouds were moving through the sky rapidly, and indeed, the wind was blowing in my face, hard. I patted down my thick and curly black hair that some called a deflated afro, reaching above my ears. “Ready to see what we got?” I asked lightly. Sylvia scowled and proceeded to the stairs that lead up the rocky cliff to the island above the water. I followed her wordlessly… wasn’t much else I could do.
In all fairness, I couldn’t blame Sylvia for being mad right now. She has been married for almost fifty years, but only two months ago did Curtis Smith get caught in bed with his gardener’s twenty-something daughter. She left him faster than anyone predicted, leaving the old man alone during his last few weeks on Earth. But then again, she should have known. Curtis Smith was a horrible man, and she was just as bad for standing by with the rest of them and letting him bully everyone into disowning me.
Once we reached the top of the stairs, I could see a small group of people gathered in the park, the trees swaying in the wind around them. Sylvia offered me her arm, and I knew better than to refuse it, so we walked together to the rest of those gathered by Curtis Smith.
Once we got closer, I saw six others in the grass. I recognized some immediately from the vague descriptions given to me in the invitation. The balding man who looked to be little over five feet and had the pencil thin mustache was Hank Marston, Curtis’s lawyer who was the first to tell me my Uncle had died. I recognized two Smith workers: the sixty year old, square faced and white haired man in the black suit was Garth Kendall, Curtis’s butler. Then the younger, chubby black woman in the dark pantsuit I guessed to be Virginia Brown, the maid. The obese man in the black shirt and tweed jacket with the white collar was surely Father Anthony Raymond. God, the man looked so Italian he belongs in the mob. One man missing from the group was the gardener, an elderly Hispanic man. There was, however, a younger Hispanic woman who was at least a solid C-cup, and wore a short black dress. Finally, there was the youth of eighteen, pale and skinny, with neatly combed brown hair and useless legs sitting in a wheelchair. That was Marshall Smith, my cousin… Curtis Smith hated him even more than me.
As Sylvia and I arrived in the group, the little Hank Marston broke out in a gap-toothed smile and spread his hands out wide. “You're all here!” He exclaimed in a high-pitched voice. Marston was set apart from everyone else because he wore a grey suit with a green tie. “Welcome to the Smith Island.”
Marston was met only by silence and vacant stares. I looked around the group Curtis assembled. I knew for a fact that I didn't like Curtis, nor did Sylvia nor Marshall, and we Smiths have all heard the stories of Father Raymond, and Curtis’s son Jake’s 'interactions' with him. I didn't know about the Maid or the Butler, and the woman was a stranger to me. The question was nagging at the back of my head. Why us? Why invite us here?
I guess I could only find out.
