You are a descendant of none other than Isaac Grossman.

Sadly enough.

As long as you can remember, you've known about the family curse, handed down through the generations.

That damn jack-in-the-box.

Your whole family has been bound for 9 generations and 215 years to that box and that clown.

Apparently, you're each making up for what Isaac did.

But regardless, you're bound. Laughing Jack doesn't like it and neither does any of your family.

Only the generation who owns the box can see him, interact with him, any of that.

Last time it was your mother and your two uncles.

Now it's passed down to you and any siblings you have.

Both your uncles died years ago, and your mother's recent passing marks the end of her era, and the beginning of yours.

Which is why you weren't surprised when the box showed up at your house.

Sitting on the table, you watched as the crank began to turn on its own. Black smoke spilled out from under the lid, filling the room with the scent of stale candy and rust. The song 'Pop Goes the Weasel' played from the box, until-

There he is, just...sitting there in all his tall, monochrome glory.

The Laughing Jack.

Stretching out and yawning, he gets up, cracks his back, sighs, and rolls his eyes.

"Ah, this again? Ugh, and just when I thought maybe you idiots had stopped reproducing and I could finally stop having to come back here every time one of you croaks."