Cigars

A local myth has some light shed on it.

Theres a large house on a hill in Washington. The house is surrounded by wide open land. The land all belonged to the owner of the house. At the base of the hill there is a field for animals to come and go as they please, but obviously no animal has been there in years. The grass was patchy and brown. All the bushes have dried up and become brittle. The hedges running along side of the pathway leading to the house have over grown. They haven’t been tended to in years. Wood panels stuck out of the house and the porch. The paint withered away. Running up the house were thick green vines, the only green plant on the property. 

The local kids told legends of the house. “There was a huge cult that committed a mass sucide there” “No! Thats not true a demon possesses that house and nobody can live there without dying” “That’s wrong too! A serial killer lives up there and takes all his victims heads up there!” They would play a game called “Guess Who’s Chicken” where they would send up a group of kids and guess who will get the closest to the house. One kid, (who is now a God on the playground) Jimmy Jenkins, actually rang the doorbell. Nobody else has ever gotten that far before. 

Of course all of that wasn’t true. There were no suicides, demons, or serial killers in the house on the hill. There was however a man in the house. He reeked of cigars. As did his house, the smoke spread throughout the empty house. He lived alone. Nothing in the large house on the hill but him and his cuban cigars. His fingers permenately smell of tobacco, his teeth stained from the smoke passing through them. No mail from relatives or friends, just bills. He had nothing to look forward to but his cuban cigars. There was once a lovely young lady he knew. When she was around the house smelled of flowers and fruit. His teeth were white and his hands had no smell. He wore ties and put deodorant on. But now she is gone. So he smoked Cuban Cigars.