The property is unremarkable by early-period standards: a simple log design with a stone fireplace, a granite slope gently sloping toward the lake, and a subterranean basement carved into the rock, used to store frescoes painted in the summer in the Ozark Mountains.
It is true that the Barrow complex would not be worth a visit if it were not for its reputation.
Patriarch Josiah Barrow was known to the people as a man of special and deep religious piety.
During his travels, he often spoke in biblical tones about the corruption of modern society and the sanctity that must be preserved within the family, protecting it from global contamination.
The merchants and villagers learned not to start an argument with him, simply doing business by abandoning the car and saving themselves in the woods.
His wife had fallen ill a few years earlier in circumstances where she had been in contact with the virus, and after her death, Josiah’s visits to the village became rarer.
Elizabeth and Mave’s daughters also visited him, though less often than their father.
When he appeared, usually for a robe or lamp oil, he moved through the city like a ghost, dressed in identical clothes and canvas glasses, with an expressionless face and downcast eyes.
“If you can’t handle my world, go home,” my daughter-in-law said, laughing in front of everyone. I smiled and said, “Alright.” They laughed harder, thinking I had finally been put in my place.
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My wife stayed awake for two nights, preparing 38 dishes for 75 relatives at our granddaughter’s birthday celebration.
My husband looked me in the eye and said, “Your parents are your problem. Your money is yours, and my money is mine.” So I smiled, accepted his rule, and immediately stopped sending his family $2,500 every month. Thirty days later, they were all panicking.
