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HAUNTED SECRETS

AuthorHouse

Chapter One

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...