House of Braddock

By David Gearing

Rumor has it that the old plantation, the Braddock House, was cursed since 1862.

They say the fire that destroyed Saraday, South Carolina came from that house. That ghosts wander the halls. That the trees are alive.

Rumor has it, anyway.

Today, the twins Ethan and Eve Braddock, the only surivivors of the Braddock family, call it their home. Away from strangers. Away from their neighbors.

However, a new threat lurks at the front door as Ethan is haunted by visions of the past he has never lived.

• Language: English
• Publisher: David Gearing
• Release date: Jun 2, 2015
• ISBN: 9781513061610

David Gearing

David Gearing is a recent transplant from the harsh Arizona deserts to the green forests of the Pacific Northwest. He plots, he games, he pretends to be his own living room rockstar when no one is looking. His other books range from various genres from thrillers to gothic horror and beyond. You can find him at his webpage DavidGearingBooks.com or at his publisher's website AkusaiPublishing.com

Book preview

CHAPTER 1

Behind me, a Gothic Revival house burns to the ground—my sister is still inside, clutching her dead husband’s clothes nice and tight.

Eve always did have a hard time letting go.

Embers from the fire land at my feet. Embers from the fire land at my feet. They flare up and into the nighttime air, fluttering like burning doves and fizzling out into pitch black ashes.

I step over them in fast steps, in case they can still catch me on fire. The white paint turns brown, then black as it fizzles out into ash and sputters to the floor. Wood crackles behind me. The white door, etched into six panels with thin windows on each side, it goes up into flames faster than the original house.

Some people would call this arson. It’s really saving lives.

I couldn’t go back in to save my sister if I wanted to.

Some people would call that murder, or homicide. I’m really saving lives.

The fire started at the library, where Trevor Devereaux is sitting in a chair, also burning. I’ve found that humans make the best kindling for a fire after you get them started.

The library sat in the front of the house, to the right of the door. The sunken living room was turned into a library sometime in the early twentieth century, I’m told. My great, great, great grandfather was a firm believer in learning through books, not through school.

He died when he was forty. They all died around the ripe old age of forty.

This house was a faerie tale. An urban legend. If you visited Saraday, South Carolina this would be the first story you would hear at the local bar or Little Teapot Café.

The story of the husband-killer. The story of the arsonist.

The nigger killer.

The witches and their spells.

The pagans and their curses.

The hauntings of Braddock House. These are the modern faerie tales that would make the Brothers Grimm proud. Now, they are burning into the ground, into the oral history of the town forever.

The house was passed down in my family for one hundred and fifty years. Give or take. The family heirloom, it is about to be cinders, burning wood, flaming pages and furniture.

Not that the house itself was every truly ours, but everything inside once belonged to someone in my family.

My sister and I inherited the miserable dwelling from my parents when they died fifteen years ago.

I didn’t kill them.

We made it our home, but it wasn’t ever really ours to begin with.

Still, we Braddocks shoved our shit in the house and made it our home. There were rumors that it wasn’t ours to take, but we got it fair and square—we bought it.

Behind me, everything that was left of my family is now oxidizing into thin air. Literally going up in smoke.

The fire must have reached Eve by now. My sister’s screams have silenced and only the crackling, popping, and hissing of the boiling water in the wooden structure creates the music of the night.

My steps take me further and further away from the blaze. I don’t bother to run. I don’t really even bother to skip or jog. The waves of November winds carry the heat past my sides, making my back sweat.

I turn around to feel the last flash of heat against my face before the front porch collapses into the ground.

Is everything okay in there? a voice asks me.

I turn around. No. It’s on fire, I say.

A local villager holds his hands across his mouth. His name is Robert, and I only remember that because I sold him carrots. Robert’s eyes almost look like he is about to cry, little bits of water in his eye sockets reflect the brilliance of the fire.

Did anyone call the 911? he asks.

I shrug and say, Not yet. We’re across the street. The flame completely engulfs the second floor. The southern pointed arch—the one facing me—collapses under the fire onto the floor below.

My grandfather, my Grampy, Landon Braddock inherited this house from his father when he was only fifteen. His wife died mysteriously after they had married. Landon stayed in the house until his very last days. That’s when it passed down into his son, Kenneth. Except, he had the intelligence and common sense to leave.

Kenneth, my father, married young and, for some stupid reason, came back to the house with his wife. That’s when both of them died, too, leaving my sister alone for years.

If you look back at the history of the house, only one person was really allowed to live there at a time. The house always wanted it that way.

Call 911! he screams to the nearby houses. A group, all in their bathrobes or sweat pants and t-shirts congregate around us. They hold the same stares as my fellow observer. Some cover their mouths. Others gape in awe, mouths open wide. Some panic and say Oh god, oh god over and over again.

I want to tell them that God has nothing to do with this fire. God won’t put it out.

Hell, God wouldn’t even start it. This is beyond God.

How did this happen? asks Robert. His maroon terrycloth robe barely covers his bare legs. Robert shoves his hands into his side pockets and fidgets, his hands like blenders moving around and around. Is this your house? he asks. Is this some sort of insurance fraud? he asks.

Nope, I tell him. I know the owner though.

Dear God, he’s going to lose his house, says a newcomer, some girl I’ve never seen around before.

It’s already gone, I say. The truth is, urban legends never die. Faerie tales will always have sets of eager ears to listen to them and be wowed. An audience to receive them.

The crowd’s collective faces turn to me in one giant flesh-toned wave. The girl ignores me. She has a cell phone in her hands. I knock it out of her hand and stare her down. Leave it alone, I say.

Did you just hit her? the maroon terrycloth robe says. He steps up to me and sizes me up. I’ve been to jail once; I’m not looking forward to going back again.

No.

You liar! she screams. You just smacked the phone out my hand! She points her acrylic nail from her index finger at me and her eyes get wide. Her mouth shrinks into a wrinkled red circle.

Leave the house alone. Let it burn down, I say.

That’s just not Christian-like, the bathrobe man says.

No, it’s not, I say. Turn the other cheek, only to gossip into someone else’s ear.

The cross gable at the top of the house is now completely engulfed. The black steep pitched roof glows red from the fire. I stand on my tip toes to see the large, dead elm tree in the back. The tree towers over near everything in the town of Saraday. That evil tree, it’s still not on fire. Really, that’s what I really wanted to catch on fire. Instead, it just sits and observes, watching the consumption.

I should have started with the tree, I say.

What did you just say? says bathrobe man. He is trying to get into my eyesight, but the top of his head barely comes up to my nose. Still, he tries to stare me down, to try to threaten me. I’m not really a tall person, but in this town, I’m the Empire State Building in a city of two story department stores.

I set the fire, I say. There is a long pause between words as I stare at the glorious blaze in front of me. Two more of the eight gables burns completely and collapses into what used to be the breakfast area.

I really can’t think of a better way to tell these hicks to leave it alone. Now let it burn.

You did this? bathrobe man says. I’m calling the police.

I nod. He looks at me, then at the orange blaze. His cell phone stays steady in his hands. His thumb rolls over the buttons 9 and 1 over and over again. He shoves the phone back into his pocket.

I couldn’t do it, he says under his breath, but thank God someone finally got rid of this place. He doesn’t know I know, but I know he said it.

Amen to that, I say.

CHAPTER 2

The house wasn’t always on fire. It had once been a home to my sister, then later to me.

Weeks before the fire, the bell on the door to the Little Teapot Café rang like Christmas bells through the front of the restaurant. The inside of the room looks like someone decorated with mustard, with blue and orange paintings hanging on the walls. The paintings aren’t of anything in particular, and they hurt my eyes to stare at them.

I wasn’t used to this kind of sensory overload, living in a six-by-six room with gray brick and mortar for walls.

The café was only a few thousand square feet, including the kitchen. The large window that faced the street let in enough light that there wasn’t any use for anything from the ceiling. A woman wearing a blue and white checkered uniform approached me and smiled a big, toothy grin. One? she asked, taking a laminated menu from the wooden booth.

I’m meeting someone, I said. She smiled and nodded at me. Her neck was really thin, barely able to keep her head up. Honestly, she looked like a chicken, dressed up and ready to serve meals to hungry customers.

Well then, she said with a smile that just screamed Southern Hospitality, come on in and see if you can’t find her. She turned her back to me and disappeared behind the wooden counters.

The truth of the matter was, I didn’t know what I was looking for. I hadn’t seen my sister for fifteen years. I was…away, I suppose you could say.

I looked around the room to see if I could find someone who looked like me, but with longer hair and a little softer. Eve, my sister, sat in the back of the diner. Her hands gripped packets of fake sugar and flapped them back and forth across the top of her coffee cup. Eve had emptied the cup earlier and waited for someone to come by and give her a refill.

Her hazel eyes and pale round face turned to me when I stood next to the booth. Hi, I said.

She smiled and stood up. Her hands extended in front of her and pressed my shoulders to hers in a big bear hug. It’s so good to see you! she said.

I promised myself I wouldn’t cry, but Eve apparently didn’t. She wiped away a tear. Her face was red, looking more like a tomato than a human being.

I didn’t say anything to her greeting.

So, she says. How are you?

A little shocked. So much has changed in fifteen years.

She nodded. Tell me about it. The fake sugar packets emptied their contents into the coffee cup. The granules turned brown from the leftover puddle of coffee still in the bottom of the cup.

Do you need a refill? I ask. Eve only nodded and looked down at the cup again.

I raised my hand and wave over to the nearest blue-and-white wearing woman I could find. Marilee, a smallish woman with bouncy light blond hair came over and took out her pad and pen. What can I help y’all with? she asked.

My sister needs more coffee, I said. I motion over to the cup and bring it closer to the edge of the table. Exhibit A.

You certainly do, she said. She looked over to me and smiled. She returned later with the glass carafe and filled the cup only halfway.

That was weird, I said to Eve. She sipped on the coffee and raised her eyebrows. Are they always like this? I asked.

Yes, she said. She set the cup back on the table. It’s been like this for a few years now.

She wouldn’t even look at you. She only paid attention to me.

You did just get out of jail, she said.

It’s not like I look like it, I told her. When you get out of jail, they don’t let you leave with those little orange jumpsuits on. Instead, you are allowed to get back into the same clothes you came in with.

I was fifteen when I went in, though, so they had to bring me a few pairs of jeans and a t-shirt and underwear and socks. The shoes, miraculously, still fit.

It’s a small town, Ethan, she said. You remember what Saraday was like when we came to visit Grampy.

When we were younger, our parents would drag us into town for the holidays. My father was in the United States Army, trying to protect the United States from the Communist Russia until the middle of the 90s. We barely had any time with the extended family, so we had to travel to them every holiday.

Christmases, Thanksgivings, and even Labor Day weekends were spent in Saraday, South Carolina. Not exactly a Podunk little town, but still the kind of place that’s too small to breathe. This kind of small town could suffocate a little boy who was only used to the cities and military bases.

When we arrived into town, we always came to the Teapot Café and had breakfast. It was tradition. For lunch, we’d come here on the last day before we left. I always had chicken nuggets and a pickle. Grampy had shown me this trick of packing the thin pickle sandwich slices on top of the chicken nugget like cheese on a cracker. To this day it’s still one of my favorite foods.

When my sister and I arrived, Grampy’s friends welcomed us with chocolate milk and cookies. They would shower us with praise about how big we were getting or how smart we were. It was great to the self-esteem, being around old people who missed their childhoods.

I hate small towns, I said. Marilee the Waitress still hadn’t come back to take my order. As we sat there, very few people even walked around us. The women in the café hushed their children who pointed at us. The men told their wives to stop gossiping and eat up.

The groups of women meeting for their daily coffee fix, well, they kibitzed like normal.

It’s not so bad, Eve said. She caught my paranoid eyes looking around café, looking for some sign of life. Eve moved her head into my direct line of sight, What are you doing? It’s perfectly all right.

This place is so big.

Yes, it is. It’s grown so much in the past fifteen years.

We have two whole grocery stores and a Subway now. She sipped her coffee. We’re moving on up.

Tired of waiting for someone to not pay attention to us, I raised my hand and snapped a few times, loud clicks to tell the rest of the restaurant that I was hungry. Can I please get some food here?

Marilee was speaking to another waitress behind the bar when she looked my way. I know she heard me. The other waitress puts up her pad of paper between me and her mouth, saying something about us, no doubt. Marilee stepped in further to catch everything the other woman said.

I snapped again. I know she heard me.

Finally, Marilee responded to my call. Marilee flipped through her notebook and looked at me and only me. What can I get you? Her demeanor had changed from before, a bit more abrasive and angry.

Scrambled eggs, a side of bacon, orange juice, and a side of ham, if you would, please. I folded the menu back up and offered it up to her. Marilee, the one waitress I thought was nice in this place, has gone to stone cold witch in one conversation. She refused the menu and turns around and marches to the bar, where she hung the paper on a small metal clip and spun it around to the cooks.

Jesus it’s hard to get anything in this town. When did it go to hell? I asked.

Excuse me. A woman, still in her Sunday best, turned around. I have young ears right here. I would appreciate it if you could lower your voice and not use the Lord’s name in vain. She turned around, poking her boy on the shoulder. Don’t you ever talk like that, you hear?

This town has changed, I said.

You’re just seeing it through different, grown eyes, she said. This place has always been a hole. Her butt shifted in the vinyl-padded bench. A comfortable hole.

My eggs arrived faster than I thought it would and no sooner than I was able to shovel the first piece of bacon into my mouth, Eve stared at me. Her pale face grew paler by the second. Can I ask you a question?

Shoot, I said.

How did it happen? Eve asked. What happened to Mom and Dad?

I set the fork down and look her in the eyes. She had been planning for this for a while, I can tell. She waited for the right time to ask me this question.

They died, I said. The bacon crunched in my mouth.

Why do you have to be so difficult? The sugar swirled around in Eve’s coffee.

Why is it so difficult to understand? I walked in, I saw them, I called the cops. I got in trouble. I went to jail for fifteen years. I stabbed my fork into the eggs and flung the pieces into my mouth.

Maybe if I finish the meal real quick we can get out of here and not have this conversation.

I just want to know. All these years, I’ve wondered.

They died, Eve. They died. That’s what happened.

I’m ready to go, she said.

I raised my hand once again. Check please!

CHAPTER 3

I had to suffer a lot of bruises and a concussion to carve out a life on my own. What I attempted to make my own always somehow turned into ours—my sister’s and mine.

The problem with being born only two minutes and thirty-four seconds apart is that your relatives usually try to make you one and the same. Our first five years were filled with the same shirts, the same pants, the same colors, the same toys. It was my parents’ way of making us feel like we were loved the same.

Some people would call this identity theft.

Never mind the fact that I was a boy.

Never mind that she was a girl.

On our fifth birthday party, as everyone sang the birthday song, her name came first. We sliced into the cake and my sister and I forgot the forks and spoons and ate with our hands. We had frosting all over our faces and our hair. It made the table greasy and slick. The chairs, they were covered in brown frosting in places that I don’t remember putting my hands.

Our parents and grandparents bought us clothes and toys. The toys were exactly the same—when she opened her present that was exactly the same size and shape, I knew I didn’t have to open mine. When she took off the shiny silver and blue starred wrapping paper and unwrapped a stuffed animal, an Elmo doll. I knew I got the same Elmo doll.

I suppose it saved me lots of time in the long run. Who needed to open presents? Who needed to rush under the tree in Christmas morning? For me, I had to look at Eve’s stuff to know what mine was.

Hers stayed on the bed. Mine ended up becoming target practice with all of my Nerf guns later that evening.

We were dressed up and put in the same classes for the first three years of grade school. For kindergarten to second grade Eve and I shared the same teachers. The same homework. The same classrooms.

When I turned eight, I demanded that my parents put me with a different teacher. It’s not fair, I told them. After the first fight in school, my mother asked me, Why did you do this? I looked at the wall and shrugged.

He made fun of me, I said.

Three months later, I got into another fight. The boy had called Eve a dog. Said that she had cooties. Called her dirty and nasty.

I looked just like her.

The insults, they were really for me, but she got them instead.

The truth is, I put my fist into that boy’s face and was marched right to the office when he tattled on me. When the principal saw the mess I had made, she called my parents. The principal, she said that I had smashed in another boy’s face. My parents, they said that I was normally a good little boy and never hit anyone before in my life.

The principal asked me, Why did you do it?

My mom asked me, What has gotten into you?

My dad asked me, Did you win?

My sister was being picked on, I told them. I wanted to defend her since she was just a girl. Yes, I won the fight since he never hit me.

The next month, it happened again. The same conversation happened once more and my mom was called into the office again. She left my dad at home, saying that he wasn’t helping. He wasn’t needed this time. She could handle it.

My sister was being picked on again. I needed to help her out, I told them. Yes, I think I won this fight, too.

On the way home, I asked my mom, Can I move to another school?

My mom looked at me in the rear view mirror of our minivan. Her eyes narrowed, her eyebrows were pulled down. The bridge of her nose pulled upwards and wrinkled. No.

Can I go to another classroom? I asked.

My mom’s face relaxed, and even lightened a little bit. Maybe, she said.

The next day, I picked another fight. When we went into the office, the principal called in my parents before she even spoke to me. Do you know what suspension is? she asked me.

I shook my head. No.

My mom came into the room and grabbed my hand. With one smooth move, she sat into the chair and pulled me next to her. Stand right here, she said.

The boy was pulled into the room. His face was bruised and puffy. A white and black and blue puffy marshmallow.

Now say you are sorry, they told me. Tell him you are sorry you hit him.

I pulled my head down and looked at the floor. I was ashamed.

I lied.

I’m sorry, I said just under my breath. Yes, I knew what lying was. Yes, I know that’s what they wanted. I extended a hand to the young boy. Friends? I asked.

The boy pulled his hands behind his back. No, he said. I hate you. I hate your sister.

When the boy left, I was taken to the counselor’s office. The room was small, but had a round table where we both sat. Bright and colorful posters hung from the walls, with a smiling horse, a cat hanging from a tree. There were pictures of Garfield the orange cat. Penguins on a glacier, one of them wearing glasses and swimming trunks.

Don’t be afraid to smile.

Hang in there.

Read.

Dare to be different.

The posters were the counselor’s little way of telling me that it was okay for me to be what I wanted to be. For me to express myself.

The counselor, she was the first person ever to ask me, What do you want?

I want to be myself, I told her. I want to be in another classroom. Away from my sister.

After Christmas, I was taken to the emergency room by paramedics, and I think my parents. When I awoke, my parents were standing over me. My mom was crying. I had been out of it for a few minutes after I arrived. I was asleep. After the fight with the other kid, I think they were afraid that I was in a coma. Really, I just hit my head.

We thought you were really hurt, said my dad.

My sister stood next to them. You’re a jerk.

They put me into Mrs. McCarthy’s second grade class. I sat at the front of the class and I didn’t hit anyone else. I didn’t have to.

I got As and Bs. My grades were better. I was a better student.

My sister, however, had a difficult time getting her school work done. With me gone, she had a hard time keeping herself together.

At the age of eight, Eve started cutting her clothes in class. She came home at least every other day with small incisions in her shirts. Cuts along the knees of her pants. A slice in her skirts. My mom gave her teacher written instructions to keep her away from the scissors. If she had to cut something in class, Mom said, let someone else cut it for her.

Eve had no friends in elementary school after we stopped having the same classes. Every day in lunch, she sat at the stairs that led to the basketball court and read her books. She read Jurassic Park, Ender’s Game. She gradually moved to The Red Pony and The Invisible Man. Eve never went out during the weekends.

I went to the movies on Friday nights when I was twelve. I went to the mall to hang out with friends. Eve stayed at home and watched the television lineup on the Disney Channel. She went to the backyard and sat under a tree and wrote poetry.

This is how her life went.

We were really twins in birthday only. We never really had much in common. We like to read. We had the same mom. Same dad. We lived under the same house.

There are some twins who know what the other twin is thinking. There are some who finish the other’s sentences.

We weren’t that kind of twin. Looking into the Eve’s face, I could see that she felt detached from the rest of the world. She related to people through paper and ink. She related to things, not to people.

She would have made an amazing engineer and took after my father.

I would have made a better psychologist and took