A forgotten land, a lost heritage and a forbidden love lay in limbo, for over a century. A determined spirit has been waiting to reveal the ominous truth. A family is a out to release the unknown and give the liberations it yearns for. Vivian inherits a mysterious house from her demised mother. All family members with any relations to her have long since died, and so it seems there is no one to answer her many questions. As she begins the quest for knowledge, unsettling spirits will not let her rest. Her determination becomes a mission to unveil the truth of the past. She learns her Great Grandfather built the old mansion and hid many dark secrets between the walls. Shame, guilt and humiliation brought him to do the unthinkable. Slaves and relatives of the long ago past battle for freedom, only Vivian has the willpower to be unswerving and set them free. Could it be true, did it happen? The answer is yes, I am sure it did. It is a tale our ancestors did not want us to know, yours and mine. The names and the places may be different, but just the same, I am sure it probably happened this way. Relive the secrets that our ancestors buried in the past. A window of the present reveals a passage to the past.
HAUNTED SECRETS
By Sandra LaBruceAuthorHouse
Copyright © 2009 Sandra LaBruce
All right reserved.ISBN: 978-1-4490-3541-9Chapter One
The Evil Thing 1976 Dogwood Plantation John's Island, South Carolina
The old, white-haired black man crouched out of sight in the dense woods, watching the new residents move into the forbidden old plantation house. He rubbed his aching, stooped shoulders with gnarled fingers deformed by arthritis. His physique was frail and withered with age, but his mind was still strong and sharp filled with wisdom and raw determination. His soul revived both his spirit and body enough to carry out necessary duties. At eighty-years-old, pain was a daily part of his life. However, there was no way a little discomfort was going to sway him from his quest. The strength of his mind, coupled with the fear of anyone living in the long-abandoned mansion, provided enough incentive to withstand whatever necessary to see this through to the end.
He studied each member of the white family as they stepped out of their car; a man, a woman, and two children. Carrying boxes of personal possessions, they entered the house ..., the house that had instilled dread and horror in him since childhood.
Hidden amongst the branches of the pines, he patiently observed and listened, waiting for the high-pitched screams and thunderous banging on the walls. He waited for the spirits of the house to come alive, but nothing happened. All was quiet. Today is a peaceful day, he thought. The spirits are calm and although he worried about the unsuspecting, nave white folk, he dared not intrude. Even if they would welcome him, he would reject their invitation. He knew the haunted secret. He knew all the secrets that forbidden to be unleashed. He was old, but not stupid. He was the watcher, the protector, the only one left that carried the deep-rooted burden of his long ago ancestors.
As daylight slid silently into night, it was time to leave his post. His fatigued, aged body quietly disappeared into the darkness.
Before sunrise, the tired old man returned, lingering at the edge of the forest, watching for signs of life from inside the house. He paced back and forth, kicking his feet in the dust. From the windblown tree, he picked pine needles and nervously pulled them back and forth through his fingertips. Exhausted from his walk, he hunkered down on the damp ground, and leaned against the trunk of a tree, waiting. Waiting for what, he did not know, maybe nothing, but then again, maybe everything.
Hours had passed, the sun rose high in the sky. The tranquility of the house was quiet and dark. Distressed by the silence, anxiety pried its way into his mind, and blossomed into grim thoughts of disaster.
"Where's ev'rybody? Why ain't da lights be on, or da curtains be open? Why ain't dere no movement? Maybe I shoulda told 'em. Maybe I shoulda warn 'em. If anyting hap'n to 'em, it be my fault. It be all my fault jest like afore. I shoulda went inside and warn 'em. I knew some'em bad would hap'n, I jest knew it. I knew it and I ain't say nottin'. God, forgive me for keepin' my mouf shut, and please let'em be ahright, please? I gotta get a closer look. I gotta make sure deys be ahright."
He held onto the trunk of the pine tree and pulled his trembling body up. Peering through the thick woods, he took a step towards the dilapidated house. Leaving the security and shelter of the woods, he crept along the oak lined driveway scurrying from tree to tree, taking care to stay out of sight.
The elderly man cautiously hobbled up to the house. Sneaking around to the back, he nervously looked over both shoulders. He hesitantly reached out and touched the splintered boards; peeling white paint crumbled beneath his crooked ebony fingers.
"If only I could change what hap'n," he muttered in a faint, despondent voice.
A loud, mournful wail penetrated the walls vibrating the side of the house. Jerking his hand away, he lurched backwards. The sound sent chills through his body.
"Da house 'members me!" he cried, eyes wide with terror.
Unable to move, he took a deep breath, exhaled slowly, and then scolded himself, "Jesse calm down ya ole fool. Dat jest be crazy tinkin', jest crazy. Da house don't 'member ya. It jest be da wind howlin' down da chimney, dat's all. It jest be da wind. Stop actin' like a child!"
Collecting his courage, he stretched upward on his tiptoes and reached for the ominous, dark windowpanes. The glass released an unnatural, icy breeze, which created a burning sensation in his eyes.
"Aaah!" he screamed.
He reeled backwards, momentarily blinded by the pain. Hoping to regain his sight, he vigorously rubbed his stinging eyes. After a few seconds, his normal vision returned. With determination, he gritted his teeth and returned to his former position. Cupping his shaking hands around his eyes, he shielded them from the glare and peered inside.
Stacks of cardboard boxes littered the room blocking his view. He moved to the left, squinting, pressing his forehead to the frigid glass straining to see. He saw nothing at first, but then something caught his eye. There in that sunless corner something stirred, some evil thing, a profound immoral thing from his boyhood.
"No, no ..., it jest be my 'magination," he whispered trying to muster the courage necessary to continue. "Nothin's dere, I only saw boxes, jest boxes, dat be it, jest boxes."
He had not ventured into the plantation house since that terrible morning so many years ago. Painful memories of the tragedy, and his involvement in it tortured him day after day, decade after decade, causing relentless suffering for a span of over seventy years. No matter how hard he tried to forget his lifeless leg was a constant reminder.
"No, I ain't 'maginin' it! I know I ain't! And dere ain't no foolin' myself 'bout it. Dat ting's still in dere. It always been dere; restless, hateful, and lookin' for some'em, lookin' fo' me. No, not me, I dunno what it be lookin' fo', but, I know what it need ... peace, it be needin' peace. Dats what it be needin'. God knows dat be what I need, too. Maybe dis be my chance, maybe my last chance. I ain't goin' ta my grave wid dis. And dose little kids dat jest moved in, dey be next. It be takin' dem next. I ain't lettin' dat hap'n agin, not dis time. Dis time I be goin' in. I be goin' in to fight."
Carefully dragging his left leg, he made his way up the steps to the back door. He stood motionless; staring at the aged brass knob, contemplating what might lie in wait for him. Forcing himself to move, he raised his hand toward the door, just as his jittery fingers barely brushed the doorknob, it turned by itself. The rusty hinges creaked as the door slightly opened. The old man stepped back and paused for a minute.
He reached for the door a second time; it swung open slamming against the inside wall, then swinging back, stopping half open.
Feeble and weak, he stumbled backwards; then with a rigid spine and unblinking eyes, he leaned in, and scanned the dark entrance. The huge oak door abruptly swung open wider. He was petrified and wanted to run, but he was tired of running from this haunting thing. This thing had plagued him since he was a child, he had to continue this quest.
Bracing himself on the door casing, he bent forward, and craned his neck to get a better look. From the corner of his eye, he saw a shadow looming above his left shoulder. Jesse turned around; an icy gray cloud blanketed his head. Panic set in as he realized he was being suffocated. He began wildly pulling at his translucent attacker as he gasped for air; a coarse, inhuman voice whispered, "Jes-seee, Jes-seee." The phantom quickly released him, rose to the ceiling, and hovered menacingly while preparing for a second attack. As the evil entity began his descent, terror gripped Jesse's entire body.
Bitter-tasting bile rose in his throat as his stomach violently contracted. His heart raced, pounding erratically in his chest. Legs strangely weak, and wobbly, threatened to give way. Fear clawed at the fringes of his brain, as if some ferocious wild animal determined to tear its way in. The urge to flee welled up inside him. Uncontrolled, spasmodic breathing took over. Then, with a tremendous burst of energy, Jesse turned and hobbled down the steps, catching his lame foot at the bottom, causing him to tumble face-first to the ground. Frantically he grabbed at the grass trying to pull himself to his knees. His unsuccessful attempts resulted in pains shooting down his spine. He heard the entity behind him, still in the house, banging on the walls.
"It be watchin' me. I feels it," he whispered. "It tinks it won agin, but it ain't gonna win dis time."
Struggling to his feet he wheeled around, and faced the house.
"I ain't leavin'. Not dis time. Ya hear me! I ain't leavin'!" he shouted.
The banging ceased, and the house grew eerily silent. Confused, Jesse stood, shook his head, and took a sigh of relief. He clasped his hands and looked to the heavens.
"Lawd, I needs ya ta help me. Help me beat dis evil ting. My legs be weak, make me strong. I needs ya help, please help me, Lawd. Tank ya, Jesus."
Again, he willed himself to ascend the weathered treads of the stairs to the open back door. Pausing for a moment, leaning forward, he cautiously surveyed the entryway once more looking to the left, and then to the right. He did not see the vile thing, but he knew it lingered nearby. Reluctantly and against his better judgment, Jesse slipped inside.
Pressing his back against the wall the elderly man cringed as he scanned the room looking for the ghastly phantom. The thought of another encounter with this thing sent shivers down his frail spine. Jesse listened intently for any warning of the unearthly being, but heard nothing. He inched his way toward a long, black hallway, his hands flat against the wall, leaving behind the filtered sunlight that shone through the dirty windows. The darkness followed closely and crept slowly behind him. Feeling his way down the black corridor, terrified as to what may lie ahead; his mind constantly replayed the brutal attack. He felt his courage gradually diminishing. Should he retreat or forge ahead? Does he really need to confront his enemy?
Perspiration dripped from his brow, his hands felt cold and clammy, his chest tightened restricting his breathing. He grew light-headed and slumped heavily against the wall for assistance.
"Help me, Jesus," he whispered.
He stood erect, took a deep breath holding onto the wall, he tried to move forward. His breath was rapid, but shallow. He focused on what he could not see, he shuddered, and his anguish was terrible and bleak.
"Jes ... seee, Jes ... seee," a ghostly voice hissed. He staggered and fought pugnaciously while the thing enfolded itself around his head.
"Nooooo! Get off me! Oh Lawd, get dis ting off me!" he begged.
Jesse fought the invisible foe, arms flailing wildly he tripped, and fell to the floor. Rapidly he rolled onto his back to defend himself. Clawing at his face, his fingers became entangled in a sticky substance. It was stuck over his eye restricting his vision. He frantically pulled it away so he could see. The sticky substance clung to his hands. In a crazed state, he pulled at his fingers, he realized it was not the phantom. It was no more than a huge mass of spider webs.
Gales of laughter roared throughout the mansion. The old man froze with fear. His body shook. The laughter grew louder, ricocheting off the walls like a bouncing ball.
Still in darkness, he felt the eight-legged insects skitter down his arms. Panic set in, he slapped at the unseen creatures. The spiders scurried away to safety. Jesse pushed himself to his feet.
"I gotta get outa here! I-I-I jest can't do dis!" he exclaimed.
He stumbled back down the hall wobbling on his feet. The dim sunlight flickered in the distance leading him toward safety.
"Jest a few mo' feet and I be outa here," he said. "Jest a few mo' feet."
A dark shadow appeared in the doorway. Jesse stopped abruptly. Hovering in the air, blocking his path, the monstrous phantom was floating toward him. It let out a high-pitched screech. Jesse turned and retreated toward the open door at the other end of the dark hallway. It slammed shut, capturing him, preventing any escape. The shrill screech followed closely behind him. He ripped at the knob and rammed his shoulder into the heavy wood. Frantically he pounded with both fists, everything grew eerily quiet; Jesse was immobile.
Suddenly, he heard a sharp noise on the other side of the door. He leaned forward and pressed his ear to the cypress door, it was quiet. Then, the door creaked, and slowly began to open on its own. It was waiting for him; he could feel it. He peered around the door expecting to see the monster, but the room was empty. Cautiously stepping into the enormous foyer, a black mist sailed in front of his face almost hitting him. Jesse quickly jerked away and dodged the assailant.
An eerie chuckle reverberated throughout the house. The room began to shake sadistically. Jesse grabbed the stair railing to steady himself. Again, the wicked sounds echoed through the air; the laughter was somewhat hollow, but it was recognizable just the same.
Was all of this his imagination? He could not think clearly enough to discern whether the shadows and screams were real or not. They seemed to be real, but he wondered if it be possible? Fear followed the path of his blood trickling through his veins. Terror crawled down his nerve endings to the tips of his fingers. His hands throbbed as he stood clenching them too tightly.
The old man followed the familiar mirth into an adjoining room, hoping to confront his fears. He wanted nothing more than to put this thing to rest once and for all. The laughter faded away into the darkness, only to be replaced by a shallow, raspy breathing that deliberately crawled up the back of his neck. Jesse staggered around to protect himself, and saw the phantom dart away again. He could hear strange, heavy breathing, now coming from the opposite side of the room. His tenacious plan was to confront the entity; Jesse persisted and followed the horrible sounds. The ghostlike shadow always eluded him passing from room to room.
The old man surveyed every inch of the way. Moving faster and faster, the phantom lured Jesse around and around in circles. Adrenaline pushed his mind beyond its limits: every step was punishing. His old body struggled to keep up. Exerting himself, he clutched his chest, excruciating pain shot down his left arm. There was a vague hope that he would survive, he could go no further.
The thing taunted him draining the last of his energy. He had to stop before his heart gave out. Jesse did not want to die here. He was afraid his soul might get trapped with this evil entity forever, knowing that he was vulnerable, he had to stop to regain his strength.
The old man forced one foot in front of the other and eventually found himself in the foyer once more. He sat down on the bottom step of the staircase to compose himself. Head cupped in his hands, he moaned softly while massaging his left arm, he rocked back and forth. A tear seeped from the corner of his eye and slid down his dry, wrinkled cheek.
Slowly raising his head, Jesse whispered, "Ya ain't gonna win." Then he shouted, "Ya ain't gonna beat me. Ya be a coward. Ya hear me?" Regaining his strength, he shouted one more time, "I say youes a coward!"
A thundering noise shook the house. The panes of the windows rattled feverishly, and the shutters slapped wildly.
"I ain't be 'fraid of you," he shouted. "Sho' yo'sef!"
The apparition flew passed him. Startled, the old man jumped to his feet but, lost his balance, and fell to the floor. He watched, as this apparition began to take form. He stared in disbelief, eyes wide and bulging from the sockets.
"Oh, Lawdy," he cried.
The sounds of footsteps pounded on the steps in front of him. He waited for a monster to appear, but a small foot started to take shape instead. Then a leg began to materialize, followed by the rest of a little boy's body. Slowly the child floated up the staircase. The figure stopped on the fourth step, turning menacingly toward Jesse. The old man's crippled fingers dug into the hardwood floor as he pushed himself away. He threw his hand into the air, bowed his head, and closed his eyes.
"Youes be dead! I knows youes be dead! I sees ya die! Youes can't be real!" he hollers to affirm himself.
Hoping it was just a hallucination he cracked one eye open to get a glimpse. "Oh no!" he shouted. "Ya still be dere! Go 'way! Pleeease go 'way!"
(Continues...)
Excerpted from HAUNTED SECRETSby Sandra LaBruce Copyright © 2009 by Sandra LaBruce. Excerpted by permission.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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